New Year's Wishing...

     The topic of Christmas Letters has come up several times in conversations recently. It used to be that the practice of sending out a typed letter to friends at the holidays was frowned upon, considered gauche, uncultured, and impersonal. I find it fascinating that during the last couple of decades, the Christmas Letter has become a welcomed tradition. Dozens of colorful letters from a variety of friends and family carry delightful annual stories into my home. I truly look forward to receiving them and enjoy catching up with everyone's adventures, challenges, and accomplishments via their words and photos. 
     I began writing my own holiday missives when we all moved to Northern California twenty-two years ago and left so many dear friends behind. It seemed like the perfect way to carry on relationships that might otherwise have slipped away. Over the years, I've kept a copy of each annual letter, and last year, at Dean's suggestion, I put them all together in a binder. It has become a great conversation starter, two decades in review.
     Following is my 2010 letter... a greeting meant to be part nostalgic reflection and part blessing sent your way...

Dearest Family and Friends,

     As I pulled off the freeway in Grass Valley the other day, I was greeted by a fleeting and beautiful winter weather phenomenon. Behind me, to the south, the sky was crystal clear and blue. The late afternoon sun was low in the sky, casting blinding golden rays into the eyes of the drivers headed that direction. Ahead of me, to the north, the sky was made black by a wall of tall storm clouds sweeping towards the mountains. The sky was cut exactly in two, one half clear blue, the other ominous black. Between me and that black wall swirled a fine golden mist, a silken veil of fog illuminated by slanting sunbeams. The gold fog descended on the roadway and enveloped my car, separating itself into its individual snowflakes, sparkling gold and silver. The first flakes were small and swirling, but soon huge quarter-sized flakes began to float out of the mist and stick on the car and the pavement. Within minutes, the ground was white and the sun was gone. The Magic of the Season is upon us!
     At this point in my holiday letter, I usually lament the speed at which the year has passed. However, this year, I must lament the passing of THREE years! My last letter went out in 2007. I had such good intentions the last two Decembers, but the Fates conspired against me… against us, really. December 2008 saw my dad, Wally, in the hospital recovering from a heart attack. In December 2009, it was my mom Louise’s turn. She spent a couple of months in the hospital fighting off an infection in her heart. “Recovering” and “fighting off” being the operative words in those sentences! They are both still alive and kicking and have promised to let me get my annual letter out this year. Much has happened in three years. Though I promise not to recount it all, there are some highlights to pass on.
     Dean is currently in the third year of a PhD program in the Communications Department at Stanford. He is taking classes, teaching, researching, and generally wallowing in the academic environs he so enjoys. He is also studying in the Statistics Department. For the last several months he has been working in the research lab at Facebook’s Palo Alto campus.
     Dean’s girlfriend, Kat (Katrina), is in law school at UC Hastings in “the city”, while Dean continues to live in Palo Alto. Though she graduated from Placer High, right down the road from here, Kat and Dean didn’t meet until they had both graduated from Stanford, and she answered an ad for a roommate! (Ironic.) Over the summer, they traveled to Spain and Turkey for a couple weeks of sightseeing, relaxation, and lots of pictures. Prior to that, over spring break, Dean traveled with long time friend, Chris, and others to Peru, a trip that included hiking and “luxury camping” in the Andes Mountains and more photography. And somewhere in between, he combined business with pleasure and traveled to Denmark and the Netherlands. Previously, there were multiple trips to Finland for Nokia, his former employer, and fun excursions to Florence, Venice, Paris, and closer to home, Yosemite and Napa.
     Dean enjoys an active lifestyle. He bikes almost everywhere and runs for fun. This year’s huge Sierra snowfall is a skier’s siren call. Oh, to be young and soooooo energetic. He also visits “home” several times each year and is really good about staying in touch with his grandparents. There are plans in the works to do some video interviewing of Grandma and Grandpa. (Check out his blog “Ready to Hand” at deaneckles.com/blog if you’re interested in what he’s thinking about and working on.)
     I celebrated the completion of my twentieth year of teaching last year, two decades – unbelievable! I continue to enjoy teaching English Language Arts to 7th and 8th graders in Colfax. Adolescents are fun and enthusiastic beings who keep me laughing and energized. Despite all the negative news you hear about the state of public education, I assure you, teaching and learning are alive and well in our neck of the woods. I have an awesome group of kids this year (as every year), who teach me something new everyday.
     In addition, I am trying something new in education. I am team-teaching a pair of online university courses, guiding students from the birth of their master’s projects in September to the publication and presentation of their final written theses in May. The courses are part of the MA Contemplative Education program that I, myself, completed two summers ago at Naropa University in Boulder, Colorado. It’s both fun and challenging to be on the other side of the virtual table, participating in threaded conversations about current topics in education and helping others through a life-changing process that I so recently completed myself.
     I have not done the kind of world traveling that Dean has enjoyed, but I have taken shorter trips in recent years: twice to DC and NYC with my students, Boulder and the Colorado Rockies with Naropa friends, retreats to beautiful Point Reyes, and fun in Encinitas. I also traveled to DC to attend the Mind and Life Institute and be inspired by the Dalai Lama, and to Thich Nhat Hanh’s Deer Park in Southern California for a lovely retreat. I enjoy tasting the local wines with friends at the sweet little wineries right here in the Sierra Foothills, and try to get out to do some local hiking, too. (Read my blog “It’s Dawning On Me” at itsdawningonme.blogspot.com to check in on what I’m thinking and doing.)
     My folks, Louise and Wally, are no longer able to participate in the kinds of adventures we used to take, but we get together almost every week. I drive up and we share dinner; sometimes I cook, sometimes we go out. Mom still gets in a few bridge outings a month, but Dad has gotten out of the bridge loop these days. What has been a fun hobby for all of us has been a new interest in genealogy. We have been doing extensive research online, with the help of Ancestry.com. We have dug out all the old boxes of pictures, letters, and other documents that have been hidden away for a long time. We have traced a dozen family strands back to the 1600s, thanks to those Quaker ancestors who were very good bookkeepers, cataloging everyone’s movements in great detail. But there are several intriguing mysteries yet to be solved, one of which includes a mysterious oil well!

Whew! That was three years in a nutshell!

I am blessed to number you among my beloved family and friends.

Your places in my life are sacred and bring me great happiness.

My inclusion in yours enriches me.

Wishing you all love, life, truth, beauty, abundance, and peace in 2011.

May all beings be free from suffering.

May all beings find love and happiness.

Namaste’

Miscellany...

The junk drawer...
     Mine's in the kitchen, and it's the repository for all things miscellaneous, varied, random, homeless. Opening the drawer reveals a motley mosaic of entangled forms. Some inhabitants are obviously useful, functional, the quickly located goal of frequent or regular searches, things one wants to keep ready to hand. Others, equally useful, but rarely needed, end up relegated to the back of the drawer and require a fair amount to rummaging to find their way to the surface. A third group, saved for no apparent practical reason, having but limited purpose, yet it seems a wasteful shame to actually throw them away. They're the kind of thing that sells by the dozen, when you only ever need two or three at a time, and the next time comes again only after several years.

The junk drawer? 

Full of various and sundry things, 

Diverse and heterogeneous, 

An assorted conglomerate,

A haphazard assortment,

Scrambled and mingled, 

Jumbled and unmatched.

A drawer of miscellany.

• Scissors with yellow handles
• Blue-handled adjustable pliers
• Needle-nosed pliers
• Philips-head screwdriver
• Slender orange plastic-handled razor cutter, with safety catch
• Rubber bands: big blue ones, removed from fresh vegetables before cooking (15), small red ones (21), and a HUGE tan one
• A small tub of Crazy Glue, more than half used
• Six sheets of red twist ties, still clinging together, unseparated
• Scotch brand invisible 3/4 inch tape in a dispenser
• Blue masking tape, 1-1/2 inch wide roll
  
• Red electrical tape, 1/2 inch wide roll
• Master padlock with one key
• Four random keys, definitely NOT front door or car keys
• Marks-a-lot brand permanent marker, bold tip, black
• Five push pins in rainbow colors
• A dozen nails in a variety of sizes and colors
• Three long slender bolts, and a score of small bolts and screws
• Three white drawer pulls, removed from kitchen drawers, replaced over five years ago
• One walkie-talkie, partner lost years ago
• Twenty-five foot retractable metal measuring tape
• Three meter retractable metal measuring tape
• Two small flashlights, neither working, with dead AA batteries
• Energizer AA batteries (3), Duracell C batteries (2)
• Scripto brand butane BBQ lighter, with long wand handle
• Bic butane lighter
• S-hooks (3), cup hooks (4), cotter pins with rings (2)
• One small box wooden strike-anywhere matches, scattered
• Matchbooks (2)
• Suction-cup hook (2)
• Magnets (2)
• O-ring, small (1), large (1)
• Shelf brackets, metal (3 in plastic bag), plastic (2)
• Wall mirror brackets, plastic (3)
• One tube of lip balm

What's your drawer look like? Where's it located? What treasures does it contain? or hide? Come on, fess up. You have one, too. It keeps the rest of the place clean, if you have a place to shove the miscellany!

Heroine Out of the Blue...

Christmas, 1961.
     Santa Claus never wrapped the presents he left at our house. Instead, they were arrayed invitingly on the hearth, those meant for me on one side, my sister's on the other. Christmas '61, I discovered to my delight a beautiful hardbound book, Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O'Dell. The cover was splashed with brushstrokes in shades of blue, suggesting the rising, swirling waters of the Pacific, and the face of a beautiful Indian girl with eyes as deep as the sea. A gold seal announced its celebrity as that year's the Newbery Award Winner.

     I had spend many happy hours at our small town's well-stocked library, reverently touching and holding books, before choosing the weekly allotment. And I had spent even more hours curled up with those treasures in my favorite chair consuming them. Choosing crisp new paperbacks from Scholastic's monthly book orders, an American schoolhouse tradition for decades, was a privilege I delighted in. I had also been the lucky recipient of a sizable hand-me-down collection of Nancy Drew Mysteries, books savored repeatedly.

     But this was different. This was the very, very, very first brand new hardback book that I had ever owned! I picked up Santa's gift and was awed by it. It felt substantial in my hands. Watercolor art adorned the dust jacket that protected the treasure from damage. Taking a deep breath, I reverently opened the cover to read the words on the jacket's flaps, words that proclaimed Island of the Blue Dolphins a masterpiece. As I flipped though the pages, up rose the delightfully sweet new-book aroma unique to hardbounds.
     I do not remember anything else about that Christmas morning, absolutely nothing. I know all the presents under the tree were unwrapped, and I'm sure my mother made coffee and my father whipped up one of his traditional holiday breakfasts, but I can recall none of that. What I do recall is having to wait, and wait, and wait until things had calmed down enough for me to curl up in my favorite chair to begin reading this new story.

     The main character in Island of the Blue Dolphins is Karana, a young Indian girl marooned alone on an island with her little brother, when all the other members of her tribe are moved to a new home. A variety of challenges face the two children as they try to survive on their own. Karana fights off wild animals, learns to hunt and fish for food, builds a shelter and makes clothing, but despite her amazing efforts to protect him, the little boy eventually dies. Karana continues to live and even thrive on the island for a long time by herself, until she is finally rescued. Karana's story of survival and heroism is a true adventure story that took place on San Nicholas Island off the coast of Southern California during the days of the Spanish Missions.
     I LOVED that book. I fell in LOVE Karana. Certainly a classic heroic literary figure, she became my own personal heroine. Filled with love, she risked her life for her brother. She faced perilous challenges with courage and difficult problems with creative optimism. Faced with the loneliness of extreme isolation, she determinedly made a comfortable home for herself. What might have been an island paradise, was at first, a deadly trap. Through her Herculean efforts, she made it into a paradise.
     I wanted to be strong and brave and smart and independent just like Karana. I wondered, if I was faced with those kinds of threatening challenges, would I have her courage and strength?

Summer, 1964
     Television commercials announced the upcoming release of the movie, Island of the Blue Dolphins, with Celia Kaye playing the role of Karana. I am filled with excited anticipation, eager to see my heroine on the giant screen. In my eagerness, I reread the book for the third time, marking in my mind's eye exactly the countenance and mannerisms of each person, especially Karana and her brother. Again, I envisioned the island setting, with its sandy beaches and rocky cliffs, reminding myself of each and every detail of the plot as it unfolded. I wanted to see on the big screen what, until now, I had vividly been able to see only in miniature inside my head.
     Opening weekend found me with my friends in line at the glass ticket window in front of the Center Theater, in San Fernando, well before the movie was to begin. The ticket cost me fifty cents, a snack of popcorn and soda another fifty cents. We found perfect seats, halfway back and dead center, and sank into the red cushions. The popcorn was nearly gone by the time the deep red velvet curtain ascended to expose the giant movie screen. The auditorium full of kids grew silent as the lights dimmed to black and the music began.

     I discovered that day in that theater an important rule: The movie is NEVER as good as the book!

     I was soooooooooo disappointed to discover that the movie on the screen wasn't at all like the movie I had expected to see! The movie's Karana didn't look like MY Karana! The island didn't look like MY island! Did the director and I even read the same book? Huge parts of the story were missing entirely, and others were out of order or totally wrong! They ruined it! Ruined the movie! Innocently, I had believed the images that formed in my mind when I read O'Dell's words, were the same images that appeared in other readers' minds. I had expected those who made the movie to be faithful to the author's words and, therefore, to my imagery. The fact that others perceived "reality" differently than I did came as quite a shock!
     For a long while, even the book was ruined for me. Not for another twenty-five years did I reread what had been my favorite tale. Not until my son Dean was nine and in the fourth grade did I rediscover Island of the Blue Dolphins. We drove south from our home in Northern California, towards Ventura, the town of his birth, to visit friends. Dubbed our "California History Adventure Trip," along the way we visited museums and historical sites, including several California Missions. As I drove, Dean read aloud the story of Karana and the Island of the Blue Dolphins. In my mind's eye flowed, resurrected and untarnished, my original version of the movie, and my heroine, Karana, was reborn.

     While doing a bit of Google/Wikipedia research, to make sure I had all my dates and details correct, I was reminded that the original Karana had lived completely alone on San Nicholas Island, which is the Channel Island farthest from the coast, west of Ventura, for 18 long years. When she was "found" by a sea captain in 1853, she was taken to Santa Barbara and "christened" Juana Maria. The last living member of her tribe, the Nicoleno, she died seven weeks later, unable to survive her exposure to "civilization" the way she had survived, even thrived, for nearly two decades alone on her island home.

Where, Oh, Where?

     My writing today is based on the poem "Where I'm From" by George Ella Lyon, a poem used frequently as a model for teaching poetry with both adults and adolescents. My students' final draft poems are due tomorrow. The parts of them I have seen so far are absolutely phenomenal, so full of personal insight, such a result of real self-reflection and self-knowledge. I thought it only fair that I "turned mine in" too. I think it fits with the essence of this blog.

Where I'm From

I am Joan Margaret Griffin

I am from two queens, one Greek, one English,
And a Hebrew “Gift from God.”
I am from myths: A lion with head and wings of an eagle,
Who collects and guards golden treasure.

I am from England, Wales, and Germany,
From devote Quakers with black hats and white bonnets,
Early colonists who came on small ships.
I am from New England whaling captains, Southern backwoods hillbillies,
And hard-working Midwest farmers.

I am from SoCal, from “The Valley,”
From an “oops!” mistake, and “We choose you!” at LA County adoption.
I am from skates with keys, tree houses, kickball on Newton Street, forts in the vacant lot,
And “Be home before the streetlights come on!”

I am from swimming pools, with black stripes and starting blocks,
And from hair turned green from chlorine.
From jump-rope and jacks, black-and-white TV and Barbie dolls.

I am from homework done at the dining room table, and books consumed under the covers,
From The Beatles and The Monkees, Gilligan’s Island and Leave It To Beaver.
I am from road trips in the station wagon and 8mm family movies.

I am from lasagna made from scratch, and homemade meatloaf with instant mashed potatoes.
From ice cream cakes, Mom’s famous Lemon Snow Pie,
And Dad’s silver-dollar-sized pancakes, only on Sunday mornings.

I am from Spartans and Bruins, and football games at the Rose Bowl,
From sun, sand, and sailboats, wetsuits, and zinc oxide,
Freckles and sunburn that blisters and peels.

On one side, I am from strong silent adventuring men,
On the other, from wild and worrying women.
I am granddaughter, daughter,
I am Joan Margaret Griffin

Spiralling Through Space...

     Smooth, rounded river rocks, ranging in size from golf balls to softballs, are carefully lined up along the ground. The outlines of a large mandala emerge from the golden earth... a walking labyrinth. One enters on the south side and follows the stone-lined path round and round, sometimes back-tracking along an arch, as the path bends back on itself before circling round to the other side.

     Stopping momentarily at the entrance, I silently thank those who created and continue to maintain this gift to the community. I breathe slowly and deeply, three times, then step onto the path before me. Placing one foot in front of the other, I feel each step as it connects me to the strength and stability of the earth. I consciously follow the sense of solidity and support moving up my leg, from the pad of my foot, through my leg bones and joints to my hips and spine. Then I step again, and again, and again.
     Walking slowly, mindfully, I am greeted by the wide and spacious center in about ten minutes. A pause, in this circle within the circle, to savor the silent energy of the whole space, precedes my return walk. Half of the larger circle is shaded graciously by huge overhanging branches of the surrounding trees. The coolness of the air, a breeze perhaps, moves over my skin. My body whispers its gratitude and my steps slow subtly to savor the cool air I am moving through. The other half of the mandala's path sits under the brilliant summer sun. My skin warms under its influence, and I am grateful to my hat. As I follow the path's turning pattern, I move in and out of the sun, in and out of the shade, passing from one tactile sense of gratitude to another.
     A labyrinth is designed to be a walking prayer, a physical meditation. My steps are accompanied by my personal walking mantra, its eight-step chant perfected on the John Muir Trail a few years ago, "Love, life, truth, beauty, abundance, and peace." I find repeating those words over and over adds an additional calming and inspiring energy to that already provided by the path of the labyrinth. It's like a Maitri or Metta chant, a prayer for all beings to be happy, healthy, and at peace.

     Tucked away in the Sierra foothills, hidden in Alta Sierra, this simple, sweet walking labyrinth is a part of Alta Sierra Biblical Gardens, located just off Highway 49, between Auburn and Grass Valley, on Auburn Street. The lush gardens lie along a small, rushing creek on the west side of the highway. Painstakingly and lovingly created three decades ago, the gardens are on private property and beautifully maintained by the family who live there. If you take the path to the left, after leaving the parking area, it winds along and over the creek, looping back to the starting place. The cool, shady path is lined with statues of figures and signs with verses from the Bible, that many visitors find deeply inspiring.
     If you turn right on the path from the parking area, it takes you away from the creek and delivers you, instead, to the walking labyrinth... my favorite of the Garden's offerings. The labyrinth's design is a very traditional one, based on the medieval labyrinth at Chartres Cathedral in France. It was created here in 1998.
     At the parking area are several shaded picnic tables, a delightful place to enjoy a book and a snack. The Gardens are open most days until dusk or 7pm (which ever is earlier). The family that owns and maintains this hidden little paradise request only three things of visitors: behave with quiet respect, remove any trash, and leave a small donation for upkeep.
     I would encourage you to visit this treasure that sits hidden "in our own backyard." Use the link above to find a map and directions. The photo above is from the Biblical Gardens website. If you don't live "in the neighborhood," you can use this link to locate a labyrinth in your area.

Fresh and Mindful...

     Dozens of local (and some not quite as local) growers gather near Old Town Auburn each Saturday morning, their tables piled high with freshly picked fruits and vegetables. The Farmers Market offerings vary with the seasons, each season ushered in with its own unique colors and aromas. Gone now are the mandarins that dominated the Market just a couple months ago, replaced by summer's near-blinding bounty.

     This weekend, there are plums arranged in a palette of seven distinct colors. Did you realize there were seven plum colors? There are a shade of green somewhere between lime and ripe honeydew, two shades of red-violet, deep purple, nearly black, and golden... and a magical hue that I am struggling here to describe... I can see it clearly in my eye's memory... but my eye and my verbal cortex are struggling to communicate... so I/we are going to resort to metaphor, a story, and see if that works...

     There is a plum tree orchard that is home to a pair of very creative and very artistic fairies. It is their job to fly about painting the plums as they ripen, adjusting their palette each day as the plums swell and grow sweeter. There are an odd number of trees in the orchard, so the tree in the center has always been a point of contention for them. Armed with their teeny-tiny paint brushes, the two fairies approach the tree, each hoping to get there first and claim the tree as her own. This year, they arrived at exactly the same moment, so decided to share the task of painting the plums. One used golden yellow, the color of butter; the other, a deep violet with only the barest hint of red. As a result, each and every plum, painted with the finest, most delicate of brush strokes, is a wondrous swirl of gold and purple.

     Of course, the plums are but one of scores of different fruits and vegetables on display at the Farmers Market. Mounds of peaches, plums, melons, strawberries, and blackberries call to passersby with their silent aromas. Nearby, tomatoes of every shape and size, glow brilliantly as though lit from within, deep reds, from fire engine to burgundy, tangerine orange, golden rod, lemon yellow, and others that sport patterns of stripes and spots. Farther down are five kinds of cucumbers, some tiny, some long and slender, others grown into great curls, and of course, adorable lemon cucs. Across the way are summer squash and zuchinni in baby sizes: solid colors, stripes, spots, and half-and-half designs. There are cilantro, basil, parsley, and more herbs I don't know. Oh, and potatoes in three colors and shapes; onions, red, white, and green; and garlic.

   Whenever Saturday finds us both in town, Janiene and I meet for coffee and then head for the Farmers Market together. For a small sum, our cloth bags are filled to the brim. This weekly ritual is a wonderful jaunt, a festive stroll in the morning sun. It's like going to the fair (with out the rollercoaster and the screaming).

     All week, my colorful and flavorful Saturday purchases find their way into my menu and my mouth. A salad made with lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, and cilantro I bought at the "fair." For lunch, a giant artichoke. Tomorrow, I may steam potatoes with garlic and onions, and enjoy another salad. Almost as fresh as if I had raised them in my own garden, but lots less work and lots more fun!

This food is a gift of the Universe.

The earth, the sky, numerous living beings,

and much hard work contributed to its creation.

May I eat with mindfulness and gratitude,

so as to be worthy to receive it.

May I keep my compassion alive by eating in such a way

as to reduce the suffering of living beings

and preserve our planet. 

                                                (Adapted from Deer Park Monastery "songbook")

     There are Farmers Markets all around, almost everyday finds the traveling farmers in one of the little towns around here. The locations of the Auburn area Markets can be found here. Grass Valley area markets here.

Ode to Teachers...

     The first day of school is fast approaching (three weeks and counting). As I begin to think about preparing my classroom for the new students who will enter it, I find my mind traveling back to the teachers in my own early life who inspired me and influenced who I would become. There are many teachers and classrooms I remember clearly; three stand out from my days at Christian Day School in San Fernando, way back in the 1960's.

     Mrs. Reid, slender, dark-haired, gentle-voiced, and very strict, taught me to read in first grade, using the famous (or infamous) Reading with Dick and Jane series. I can vividly see and even hear the first pages of those books. I loved Dick, Jane, Sally, and of course, Spot.

Look.

Look, look.

Oh, look.

See Spot.

See Spot run.

Run, Spot, run!

I had come to first grade with a powerful desire to learn the mystery of reading, and Mrs. Reid granted that wish. (Don't you just love the irony of her name?) I am forever grateful to her. I can see that wide room, cool and dark, filled with wood-topped desks, rubbed deep-brown and satin-smooth from years of eager use. Mrs. Reid would pass around a bin full of small, square, yellow letter tiles from which we would take great handfuls, then quietly create words on our desktops. I felt a sense of magic in that activity: I had the power to make words that others could read and understand!

     In fourth grade, I basked in the radiance of Mrs. Hart (again, a name so like her being!) She was round and warm and constantly smiling; she oozed love. Her classroom was brightly lit and full of colors. Students' papers smiled proudly from the walls. I know we studied math and science and California history, complete with the standard Mission Model, but my most powerful memory is of the books Mrs. Hart kept on a special shelf at the back of the room. A series of biographies of famous Americans written especially for children, we were allowed to borrow them to read during free time or when we had finished an assignment. A contest developed: who could read the most books from this vast collection before the year was over? I loved those books, especially those about famous female Americans like Betsy Ross and Abigail Adams. Every spare moment I could squeeze out of the day, I spent reading those books. There were about fifty, I think, and I read most, though not all, of them. My interest in strong female characters has stayed with me; I find the life stories of women like Harriet Tubman, Amelia Earhart, and Eleanor Roosevelt to be powerful influences on my own life and character.

     Mr. Fesler made my sixth grade year amazing, utterly amazing. Tall and slender, dressed in shirt and tie, Mr. Fesler was a commanding figure. He was brilliant; he seemed to know everything about everything. And he was artistic and creative, too. Oh, Mr. Fesler held us up to the highest standards, pushed us academically, then rewarded us with his attention and compliments. I started the year with four lovely spiral notebooks, each a different pastel color. I had never before possessed a spiral notebook; they seemed so adult and I felt so grownup using them. I remember taking notes and drawing careful and detailed illustrations with colored pencils in those books: Ra the Sun God, a map of the Nile, a neuron and a muscle cell, the digestive system. For an art project, I remember using pastel chalks in vibrant colors (again, soooo adult!) to create a beautiful scene of ocean waves and sky on a huge piece of construction paper, pictures which were eventually suspended from the classroom ceiling. We did Algebra, too, that year. (How grownup is that!) I learned about X and Y and equations and fell in love with them all. Math is black and white; answers are right or wrong. And, if they're wrong, you can confidently go back and fix them. Every afternoon that year, I came home from school, and immediately sat down at the dining room table to do my homework, always starting with math. To this day, if you look closely at that table in my parents' dining room, you can clearly see equations impressed deeply into its surface in my handwriting.

     As the first day of school year 2010-2011 approaches, I aspire to share with my eighth graders my love for, and the power of, words and reading. I aspire to create a space and a community so that we can all learn and grow, be inspired, and develop our characters.

(In preparing this blog, I googled Christian Day School in San Fernando, hoping to link to a photo or two, old or new... only to find that it doesn't exist any longer... using google's surface street view on Kewen Street, I can't even find the buildings... and the only school listed in the directory is a Headstart Preschool... so if you have access to photos, let me know, please!)