Today, I sat down with my first graders in a circle and prayed.
For them.
Bust mostly, for me.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
the bus
Who is this woman sitting across from me on the bus? She weighs about 125 lbs, pregnant, and has a tattoo on her neck. Of a name. Propobly a lover. Maybe the father? Her face, pointy, and beautiful. Do you know what I mean? Perfect skin, that pulls tight against her little skull, filled with some kind of ideas. She's ghetto or something. I get the feeling she's ghetto. A ghetto princess, riding on this bus, her chariot, everyone is looking at her, staring at her, because she is like a vision. Well at least I am staring at her. I wish I could be her, or be with her, or become her.
She has these three tear drops tattoed near her right eye. She's crying. Forever. Imagine yourself crying forever.I want to hold her.I want to make her stop crying .
Is that normal, is that normal that I want to follow this woman I don't know at all off the bus and ask her who made her pregant? What if she knew that some flighty 20 something was talking about her weeks after seeing her?
Crying forever.
Maybe there is a reason we should all be crying forever. Life hurts, it hurts sometimes. And even it doesn't hurt us in the moment, somewhere, somewhere in the world someone is hurting. Maybe she's crying for them.
She has these three tear drops tattoed near her right eye. She's crying. Forever. Imagine yourself crying forever.I want to hold her.I want to make her stop crying .
Is that normal, is that normal that I want to follow this woman I don't know at all off the bus and ask her who made her pregant? What if she knew that some flighty 20 something was talking about her weeks after seeing her?
Crying forever.
Maybe there is a reason we should all be crying forever. Life hurts, it hurts sometimes. And even it doesn't hurt us in the moment, somewhere, somewhere in the world someone is hurting. Maybe she's crying for them.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
The Smell of Poverty
This afternoon, Lance Briggs, a line backer for the Chicago Bears came to my school.
Kevin, one of our second graders, has leukemia. Briggs was there to see him.
The kids were very excited. I was excited for them.
I got Briggs' autograph, and stuffed it in my pocket.
On the bus ride home from work, a young boy, about 11 years old, sat next to me.
He smelled poor.
He had a Bears' jacket on, two sizes to big, and very old.
I didn't think.
I took the autograph out of my pocket and presented it to him.
# 55? I said.
He nodded.
He came to my school today, one of my students has cancer.
Do you want the autograph?
I gave it to him.
He stared at it the entire bus ride, almost in awe, almost expecting me to take it back, his mother and younger brother asleep on the seat in front of his.
I folded my eyes and sat silently.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
"This little light of mine..."
This Sunday, I was asked by Amate House to go and speak at St. James' church, encouraging their parishioners, to donate food to our 25 Ton Food Drive.
I went over to the mass with my roommate Ryan, expecting this to be a typical mass, a typical congregation, a group of people falling asleep as I gave my inspiring five minute talk about my students, the work I did, and how we needed their help to reach our goals.
We were greeted outside the door by Father Edward, a middle aged priest with an inviting smile. He introduced us to a church organizer, a young African immigrant, who enthusiastically helped us to set up the food bags and pamphlets to be given out after mass.
Inside, the church was beautiful. It had a large lobby area that looked like a European courtyard, and gorgeous white pillars and decorations flying high into the top of the building. The choir was practicing, a mosaic of young and old parishioners, of all different races and backgrounds, singing gracefully to the lead of their young and handsome music director. One choir member was playing the bongo drums in the background.
I looked around me and noticed a tapestry of different cultures. Their were African Americans, Indians, Hispanics, Asians, Italians, Irish, Immigrants, young, old, families, singles, poor, wealthy. I looked around and saw an actual picture of Christ's face.
A young girl with blond hair, about four years old, danced to the choir, while her father looked on. As the mass began, her and her friends, took the bible to the back of the church with their Sunday school instructor to learn about the readings.
An older woman, with an Obama pin on her jacket, warmly smiled at me.
In front of me sat a young deacon, with an alter boy, intently focused on the mass.
The homily was a strong presentation about letting your worry go, and about voting for the person that you believed in your heart was the best person to lead our country. To not be bullied by Christians telling you there was a right answer. The right answer was your own.
The music was like angels singing, the smiles and warm hellos astounding.
During the Lord's prayer the entire church held hands, and came to the middle together.
At the end of mass, the Priest announced a "Celebration of Light," a special program welcoming the Indian members of the church, in which Indian dancing, music, and food would be part of the celebration.
When I went up to give my talk, I was overcome with joy. I told the people of the church that this was a special place, with a sincere and welcoming energy.
They all clapped.
As we passed out bags, many people came up to me to thank me for my words, encoring me to come back, and even to join the choir.
As Ryan and I laughed with smiles on our faces, we noticed a Cricket game going on across the street, with people of varying backgrounds playing together.
My heart truly sang.
I believed I had truly found my place of faith.
I went over to the mass with my roommate Ryan, expecting this to be a typical mass, a typical congregation, a group of people falling asleep as I gave my inspiring five minute talk about my students, the work I did, and how we needed their help to reach our goals.
We were greeted outside the door by Father Edward, a middle aged priest with an inviting smile. He introduced us to a church organizer, a young African immigrant, who enthusiastically helped us to set up the food bags and pamphlets to be given out after mass.
Inside, the church was beautiful. It had a large lobby area that looked like a European courtyard, and gorgeous white pillars and decorations flying high into the top of the building. The choir was practicing, a mosaic of young and old parishioners, of all different races and backgrounds, singing gracefully to the lead of their young and handsome music director. One choir member was playing the bongo drums in the background.
I looked around me and noticed a tapestry of different cultures. Their were African Americans, Indians, Hispanics, Asians, Italians, Irish, Immigrants, young, old, families, singles, poor, wealthy. I looked around and saw an actual picture of Christ's face.
A young girl with blond hair, about four years old, danced to the choir, while her father looked on. As the mass began, her and her friends, took the bible to the back of the church with their Sunday school instructor to learn about the readings.
An older woman, with an Obama pin on her jacket, warmly smiled at me.
In front of me sat a young deacon, with an alter boy, intently focused on the mass.
The homily was a strong presentation about letting your worry go, and about voting for the person that you believed in your heart was the best person to lead our country. To not be bullied by Christians telling you there was a right answer. The right answer was your own.
The music was like angels singing, the smiles and warm hellos astounding.
During the Lord's prayer the entire church held hands, and came to the middle together.
At the end of mass, the Priest announced a "Celebration of Light," a special program welcoming the Indian members of the church, in which Indian dancing, music, and food would be part of the celebration.
When I went up to give my talk, I was overcome with joy. I told the people of the church that this was a special place, with a sincere and welcoming energy.
They all clapped.
As we passed out bags, many people came up to me to thank me for my words, encoring me to come back, and even to join the choir.
As Ryan and I laughed with smiles on our faces, we noticed a Cricket game going on across the street, with people of varying backgrounds playing together.
My heart truly sang.
I believed I had truly found my place of faith.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Obama Rama and a Lost Passport
I went downtown to vote today.
To vote for Barack Obama.
It was a grace period voting sessions for all new Illinois residences.
The energy inside the voting room was inspiring.
People from all walks of life had come to participate in our elections.
Something about the room made me feel a real equalization of humanity,
at least in that moment.
Something in that room made me believe in America again,
at least in that moment.
On my train ride home, an older man, African American, sat down next to me.
"St. Ignatian?"
he read from my jacket.
Yes, I went to a Jesuit school.
"Where are you from," he asked.
I told him, and we started talking.
He handed me a booklet about the mistreatment of Mexican workers in America.
We talked about Europe, how I felt more alive there.
He said his best friend, a man from Greece, had a daughter my age who felt the same way.
We talked about how we worried about the future of our country, worried about our leaders, hoping they could find the strength to bring us to a better place.
He was so happy to find out I was an art teacher, telling me art truly taught people acceptance. That our children needed to learn about love and expression.
I felt alive to be near this man.
When my stop came up, he tipped his hat to me.
I hoped I'd see him again.
Later that day....
Although I was planning on heading to the North side of the city to watch my students play soccer this Saturday, I realized I probably would not make it on time.
Instead, I asked a few of my roommates to accompany me to an art walk happening a little ways down the road.
I did not feel like carrying a bag, so instead, I took out the hot pink muff that the costume designer at the O'Neill gave to me as a present this summer.
Upon reaching a large warehouse, we soon discovered that the art walk was not happening, and instead, there was a large warehouse sale of primitive art, as well as complimentary refreshments and a man dj'ing the event with some odd rhythmic beats. He sat near a collection of Asian woodwork, tapping his feet enthusiastically.
As we began to bore of the smell of maple and dust, we began a trek to a local coffee shop.
My roommate Angi and I found ourselves behind the others, chatting and taking in the odd Halloween decorations of our neighborhood. I was kind of dressed, oddly, and we wondered if people may think her and I were part of a "Professionals and Prostitutes" program.
About half a block of our destination I stopped and screamed.
"MY PASSPORT!!!!!"
"Laura, why do you have your passport in a muff with no pockets?"
"I DON'T HAVE IT IT's GONE! ANd so are my credit cards, and identification card."
Yes. that's right. I dropped my entire idenity, and anything someone might need to become me, on a sidewalk in the south side of Chicago.
Angi and I turned around and began to walk back, looking for my lost item. I wasn't really that worried, as this sort of thing happened to me bi-weekly, but none the less, I hoped that we'd find my items.
Four blocks down, I noticed a small spanish man in his 40's holding my passport.
"Are you Laura?" he asked in broken English.
"Yes! Thank you Thank you!" I said.
He didn't seemed that convinced, and slowly handed me the passport. I noticed that the credit cards and id card were not inside of it and gave him a hard look.
"Ok. Here."
He slowly opened up his pocket and gave me the rest of my items.
I thanked him again and turned to walk away.
"If you ever need anything, this is my house, you come by!" He said.
"Uh huh."
"Do you want to smoke weed???"
"No thanks."
I kept walking, amazed that my passport had been returned, wondering if he expected some sort of reward, or worse, if he would have walked right passed me, had I not already noticed the passport in his hand.
Just as we began our journey back down the street, a few men jumped out of the backseat of a car.
"Here, this is the way to heaven." one of them said, handing me a yellow piece of paper, with some sort of map on it, and a few bible scriptures. I could not help but giggle. I turned to my left and noticed a sign on the door of an apartment building that said "HardScrabble," and the name Sebastian written below it.
I stopped at the door and yelled in "Sebestian!"
A man immedietly appeared at the door. "Yes?"
I just sat there hysterically laughing, wondering why such odd happenings seemed to follow me around.
I promised to sew a pocket in my muff that evening, maybe even with a zipper.
To vote for Barack Obama.
It was a grace period voting sessions for all new Illinois residences.
The energy inside the voting room was inspiring.
People from all walks of life had come to participate in our elections.
Something about the room made me feel a real equalization of humanity,
at least in that moment.
Something in that room made me believe in America again,
at least in that moment.
On my train ride home, an older man, African American, sat down next to me.
"St. Ignatian?"
he read from my jacket.
Yes, I went to a Jesuit school.
"Where are you from," he asked.
I told him, and we started talking.
He handed me a booklet about the mistreatment of Mexican workers in America.
We talked about Europe, how I felt more alive there.
He said his best friend, a man from Greece, had a daughter my age who felt the same way.
We talked about how we worried about the future of our country, worried about our leaders, hoping they could find the strength to bring us to a better place.
He was so happy to find out I was an art teacher, telling me art truly taught people acceptance. That our children needed to learn about love and expression.
I felt alive to be near this man.
When my stop came up, he tipped his hat to me.
I hoped I'd see him again.
Later that day....
Although I was planning on heading to the North side of the city to watch my students play soccer this Saturday, I realized I probably would not make it on time.
Instead, I asked a few of my roommates to accompany me to an art walk happening a little ways down the road.
I did not feel like carrying a bag, so instead, I took out the hot pink muff that the costume designer at the O'Neill gave to me as a present this summer.
Upon reaching a large warehouse, we soon discovered that the art walk was not happening, and instead, there was a large warehouse sale of primitive art, as well as complimentary refreshments and a man dj'ing the event with some odd rhythmic beats. He sat near a collection of Asian woodwork, tapping his feet enthusiastically.
As we began to bore of the smell of maple and dust, we began a trek to a local coffee shop.
My roommate Angi and I found ourselves behind the others, chatting and taking in the odd Halloween decorations of our neighborhood. I was kind of dressed, oddly, and we wondered if people may think her and I were part of a "Professionals and Prostitutes" program.
About half a block of our destination I stopped and screamed.
"MY PASSPORT!!!!!"
"Laura, why do you have your passport in a muff with no pockets?"
"I DON'T HAVE IT IT's GONE! ANd so are my credit cards, and identification card."
Yes. that's right. I dropped my entire idenity, and anything someone might need to become me, on a sidewalk in the south side of Chicago.
Angi and I turned around and began to walk back, looking for my lost item. I wasn't really that worried, as this sort of thing happened to me bi-weekly, but none the less, I hoped that we'd find my items.
Four blocks down, I noticed a small spanish man in his 40's holding my passport.
"Are you Laura?" he asked in broken English.
"Yes! Thank you Thank you!" I said.
He didn't seemed that convinced, and slowly handed me the passport. I noticed that the credit cards and id card were not inside of it and gave him a hard look.
"Ok. Here."
He slowly opened up his pocket and gave me the rest of my items.
I thanked him again and turned to walk away.
"If you ever need anything, this is my house, you come by!" He said.
"Uh huh."
"Do you want to smoke weed???"
"No thanks."
I kept walking, amazed that my passport had been returned, wondering if he expected some sort of reward, or worse, if he would have walked right passed me, had I not already noticed the passport in his hand.
Just as we began our journey back down the street, a few men jumped out of the backseat of a car.
"Here, this is the way to heaven." one of them said, handing me a yellow piece of paper, with some sort of map on it, and a few bible scriptures. I could not help but giggle. I turned to my left and noticed a sign on the door of an apartment building that said "HardScrabble," and the name Sebastian written below it.
I stopped at the door and yelled in "Sebestian!"
A man immedietly appeared at the door. "Yes?"
I just sat there hysterically laughing, wondering why such odd happenings seemed to follow me around.
I promised to sew a pocket in my muff that evening, maybe even with a zipper.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
"My face is going to hurt because i'm smiling so much"
While watching third grade for the afternoon, one young girl came up to me with a curious look on her face.
"Ms. Laura, do you think I'm fat?"
I must have seemed startled by the question, because it took me a moment to respond.
"No, why do you say that?" I managed.
"Because when I look in the mirror, I see fat."
I tried to race in my mind back to when I was eight years old. Did I think about being fat? Was that the year that my doctor told me to stop eating too much peanut butter? Was that the year my best friend told me I wasn't as pretty as I thought I was ? I couldn't remember.
"How old are you, Casey?"
"Eight."
"Casey, I want you to know that you are beautiful. You have so much growing up to do, and you should eat the foods that you love that are good for you, and play outside with your friends, and be happy!"
"I don't eat any junk food, Ms. Laura."
"It's o.k. to eat junk food sometimes! It's o.k. to have fun!"
"Thanks Ms. Laura."
I carried a heavy heart for the rest of the afternoon, even heavier than when I discovered my eighth grade boys had found a nude artistic magazine in my classroom, or when my favorite sixth grader told me he thought his father hated him.
I was going to go home early and figure out some of these feelings, but I decided to stay after school and help with the 2nd grade movement class.
The first grade teacher and I encouraged all the students to walk around the stage barefoot. We started to float to the music, interpretive dance, and sing out loud.
The children were giggly at first, but soon they grew right into their expressive souls.
"My face is going to hurt because I'm smiling so much!" one second grader yelled.
This magic, this art, this is what these girls needs. They don't need Miley Cyrus telling them they have to be a size two. They need their art teacher crawling on the ground to Irish music and laughing with them. They need to know they are beautiful.
And they are. So. very.
Monday, October 6, 2008
!9 Dollars
While I was walking by the office, I saw one of my favorite second grader's bouncy brown hair fly past me.
"Brianna!" I called out.
She stopped, turned around, and I noticed a red bump on her forehead.
"Sydney hit me with the broom by accident."
I quickly went to the freezer to get Brianna some ice for her head, and to sit and chat with her for awhile.
I asked her what she did this weekend.
"Well, Saturday we went to a birthday party for my brother Michael, umm Miguel's, friend's baby. There was a jumpy thing, but while all the kids was jumping in it a dog ran in and it got a hole in it and then we had to blow it back up and patch it and then we kept going. And then Sunday we went to church we seen my Aunt (the woman I wrote about a few posts down) but my Mom called to her and she didn't answer and they've been fighting for awhile cause Auntie got Grandpa's house, and he and my grandma had to go back to Mexico but my mom wants to sell the house cause she only has 19 dollars for the rest of the month."
Brianna is one of seven children.
I tried to hold it together as Brianna asked me what I did for the weekend. I told her I went on a retreat to learn about simple living and not spending more money than I had to, and being a good steward of resources to help the world....to help her family, and my family, and all the people at St. Ann school, and all over.
I told her it was very important that she learn as much as she could because no one can ever take away her mind. They can take away her clothes, her house, her money, but not her mind. This was what my grandfather, a child of the Great Depression, told me when I was very young.
I told her she was lucky to have a mom who loved her so much, and that she should always remember that she is beautiful and unique and that with the love of her family, things would be ok..even when they were hard.
"Brianna!" I called out.
She stopped, turned around, and I noticed a red bump on her forehead.
"Sydney hit me with the broom by accident."
I quickly went to the freezer to get Brianna some ice for her head, and to sit and chat with her for awhile.
I asked her what she did this weekend.
"Well, Saturday we went to a birthday party for my brother Michael, umm Miguel's, friend's baby. There was a jumpy thing, but while all the kids was jumping in it a dog ran in and it got a hole in it and then we had to blow it back up and patch it and then we kept going. And then Sunday we went to church we seen my Aunt (the woman I wrote about a few posts down) but my Mom called to her and she didn't answer and they've been fighting for awhile cause Auntie got Grandpa's house, and he and my grandma had to go back to Mexico but my mom wants to sell the house cause she only has 19 dollars for the rest of the month."
Brianna is one of seven children.
I tried to hold it together as Brianna asked me what I did for the weekend. I told her I went on a retreat to learn about simple living and not spending more money than I had to, and being a good steward of resources to help the world....to help her family, and my family, and all the people at St. Ann school, and all over.
I told her it was very important that she learn as much as she could because no one can ever take away her mind. They can take away her clothes, her house, her money, but not her mind. This was what my grandfather, a child of the Great Depression, told me when I was very young.
I told her she was lucky to have a mom who loved her so much, and that she should always remember that she is beautiful and unique and that with the love of her family, things would be ok..even when they were hard.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Communion
A Friday Morning Mass at St. Ann School, a celebration of the Feast of the Guardian Angel.
The Kindergarten class holds the hands of the eight grade class, participating in the motions of our faith.
Tears stream down my face as David, a rambunctious fourth grade student, smiles at me after receiving the host.
I am thankful for his life.
The Kindergarten class holds the hands of the eight grade class, participating in the motions of our faith.
Tears stream down my face as David, a rambunctious fourth grade student, smiles at me after receiving the host.
I am thankful for his life.
a new deal
Yesterday afternoon, I lay on my bed, and looked out the window.
The leaky rainy roof the convent covered the immediate landscape with a gray crystallized sheen, and the cross at the fore front of the building outlined the cloudy sky ahead.
I was tired. Tired of thinking, of feeling, of being, of living.
Since the day of my birth, I have never stopped living, nor stopped dieing.
It is a constant existence, and the struggle never goes away, the nature of it simply changes.
It is a joyous existence, sprinkled with true light, and the realization that happy things really do make you cry, as the F lamming Lips once reminded us.
In the last few days, I had been thinking about the country I was born in, how the reality of the greater existence of government and policy had always indirectly effected me, but never actually touched me or moved me, especially as a young child.
Was the government around me even important at all? Was it not my mother's hands, my father's heart, and God that had kept me this long?
I smiled and frowned at the memories of my childhood that slipped in front of my mind's eye, and then gasped at the sight of three balloons , one red, one white, and one blue, floating above the cross outside my window.
Faith, country, nature.
Faith, a cross that exists sturdy on the outside of our houses, silently blessing us, encouraging us along when the screams and cries inside become overwhelming, when psychological, financial ,or emotional problems become to overwhelming. When we need something to thank for the small miracles that happen in our living rooms but are too proud to thank one another, or moreover, ourselves!
Country, a vision passing by our windows, perhaps holding us together, but never participating in the love and passion that existed within our homes. A presence that oversaw, but did not convince, or change, a distant hand, even when it was right in our mailboxes asking for our hard earned dollars.
Nature, the sky that framed the cross, the wind that pushed the vision, the breathe in our lungs, the reason we were there at all.
A simple picture outside my window that brought meaning to me, a young woman falling asleep after a long day of living and dieing.
The leaky rainy roof the convent covered the immediate landscape with a gray crystallized sheen, and the cross at the fore front of the building outlined the cloudy sky ahead.
I was tired. Tired of thinking, of feeling, of being, of living.
Since the day of my birth, I have never stopped living, nor stopped dieing.
It is a constant existence, and the struggle never goes away, the nature of it simply changes.
It is a joyous existence, sprinkled with true light, and the realization that happy things really do make you cry, as the F lamming Lips once reminded us.
In the last few days, I had been thinking about the country I was born in, how the reality of the greater existence of government and policy had always indirectly effected me, but never actually touched me or moved me, especially as a young child.
Was the government around me even important at all? Was it not my mother's hands, my father's heart, and God that had kept me this long?
I smiled and frowned at the memories of my childhood that slipped in front of my mind's eye, and then gasped at the sight of three balloons , one red, one white, and one blue, floating above the cross outside my window.
Faith, country, nature.
Faith, a cross that exists sturdy on the outside of our houses, silently blessing us, encouraging us along when the screams and cries inside become overwhelming, when psychological, financial ,or emotional problems become to overwhelming. When we need something to thank for the small miracles that happen in our living rooms but are too proud to thank one another, or moreover, ourselves!
Country, a vision passing by our windows, perhaps holding us together, but never participating in the love and passion that existed within our homes. A presence that oversaw, but did not convince, or change, a distant hand, even when it was right in our mailboxes asking for our hard earned dollars.
Nature, the sky that framed the cross, the wind that pushed the vision, the breathe in our lungs, the reason we were there at all.
A simple picture outside my window that brought meaning to me, a young woman falling asleep after a long day of living and dieing.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Democracy?
This is what I feel about this year's election
I use to want to let Alessandra, the four year old I babysat for, dress herself in whatever way she felt like. Her mother would say, no Laura, that will cause confusion. Put to outfits on the bed for her, one's you approve of, and let her pick from those two. That way she will think she has a choice, but really, you are making the choice for her.....
The logic behind Mrs. Grambs' idea was this...
When you allow a child to dress himself in the morning, you give him a choice between the red shirt and the blue shirt. This way, you create an illusion that he is allowed to dress himself, but in actuality, you have controlled his choice so he won't get out of hand, ending up with a mismatched outfit that was the result of his creative choosing.....
who is to say his creative outfit is wrong? You are. the power to be. Who is the reason more parties have not been able to formulate in this country?
think about that....
and while you are at, think about becoming a socialist...
I use to want to let Alessandra, the four year old I babysat for, dress herself in whatever way she felt like. Her mother would say, no Laura, that will cause confusion. Put to outfits on the bed for her, one's you approve of, and let her pick from those two. That way she will think she has a choice, but really, you are making the choice for her.....
The logic behind Mrs. Grambs' idea was this...
When you allow a child to dress himself in the morning, you give him a choice between the red shirt and the blue shirt. This way, you create an illusion that he is allowed to dress himself, but in actuality, you have controlled his choice so he won't get out of hand, ending up with a mismatched outfit that was the result of his creative choosing.....
who is to say his creative outfit is wrong? You are. the power to be. Who is the reason more parties have not been able to formulate in this country?
think about that....
and while you are at, think about becoming a socialist...
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Imagine all the boys, and the girls, and the strings, and the drummmmmmmms
What a specifically marvelous week...and it's only Wednesday!!!
Monday- Meet with Spiritual Companion at hole in the wall, yet enchanting, Mexican cafe for dinner. Have an arousing conversation about graffiti as an art form, teaching art in Chicago, and the multiple reasons it may be time to get off the grid and run into the wilderness...Wonder into Harrison Park Field House after dinner...find swimmers, boxers, gymnists, and a flyer for a new Art school opening in September 2009....put it in my backpack..
Tuesday- Track practice with the girls. Tell them about the little dramas of my life, and get insightful pre-teen advice on major problems. Run a good mile and half. Witness a pretty serious car accident while we are running. Stop to say a prayer and watch the sun come out beyond the rain clouds...
Wednesday- Have a good morning with 7th and 8th grade art classes, as they continue to design sport centers....Mention the Art HS to Arturo, a student with extreme artistic ability, but also a learning disability...find out he is very much interested and wants to work with me on his portfolio...realize this is a challenge considering my limited background, but know I can find him the help he needs.....end the day with 6th grade, all of which are sad when they leave my class because it was "so much fun!" Realize God put me in the right place...
: )
Monday- Meet with Spiritual Companion at hole in the wall, yet enchanting, Mexican cafe for dinner. Have an arousing conversation about graffiti as an art form, teaching art in Chicago, and the multiple reasons it may be time to get off the grid and run into the wilderness...Wonder into Harrison Park Field House after dinner...find swimmers, boxers, gymnists, and a flyer for a new Art school opening in September 2009....put it in my backpack..
Tuesday- Track practice with the girls. Tell them about the little dramas of my life, and get insightful pre-teen advice on major problems. Run a good mile and half. Witness a pretty serious car accident while we are running. Stop to say a prayer and watch the sun come out beyond the rain clouds...
Wednesday- Have a good morning with 7th and 8th grade art classes, as they continue to design sport centers....Mention the Art HS to Arturo, a student with extreme artistic ability, but also a learning disability...find out he is very much interested and wants to work with me on his portfolio...realize this is a challenge considering my limited background, but know I can find him the help he needs.....end the day with 6th grade, all of which are sad when they leave my class because it was "so much fun!" Realize God put me in the right place...
: )
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