Sometimes I still manage to write a bit in between things at school. One of these I wrote last fall, and the other I wrote last week. Consider this scrapbooking for me.
I browse my thoughts
like books in a library
Familiar yet aloof
from the cascade of words
neatly constrained behind bindings.
I pause and absentmindedly reach for one
if anyone else notices the pattern of
fluorescent lights on the glossy hallway tile
or the window on the way to my classroom that is daily inspiring,
an over-sized post-modern terrarium, containing only
what I see (squirrels, moths, rain on leaves)
while simultaneously containing nothing
because I am the one inside the glass.
I slide the musing back onto the shelf and walk away.
If I could only figure out
if the books are all written
or if the words appear as I read.
I am beyond the current deluge of weariness, complaints, and chaos.
I will not be struck down
without rising again.
My eyes will not see the negativity of today,
but will instead sharpen the hope of tomorrow.
I will accept my shortcomings and see them
as rungs leading to an ever-increasing perspective.
I will choose to keep my heart soft
and my hands open to embrace others
to embrace what I am given.
I will remind myself to be thankful.
I will remind myself to be thoughtful.
I will remind myself how precious and painful and wonderful growing up is
and love my students beyond what they choose to show me.