The Theres

Here is a fact about the "Theres":
there is always one here or one over there;
but they're quite amusing, really,
as a matter of fact.
In fact, just yesterday,
we paused to chat as
I sat over there
(in a quite fancy chair),
while they sat in theirs.

Oh, they're quite the pair.
They are, after all, the Theres!

The Night before my last day of classes

Here I am working. It's not too late.
The water is boiling.
Tea is nearly made.

My homework is dull. Can't focus at all.
My frustration is booming.
My stomach is all gall.

The baby is crying.
His diaper is full.
and I'm sitting here typing

with no luck at all.
Can't somebody help me
with an line or two

on how bloom and gardner
fit into this all?

So far....so good?

We are two weeks into November and the business has surprised me. The next three weeks of school will be even more busy. I have major assignments that are due, lessons to plan and a lot of reflecting.

It is not so much that these assignments are long and difficult, but that the material and content is new for me. As a student in the Faculty of Arts, I had the choice. I had an array of classes and topics to choose from. I moulded my degree to what I wanted it to be. So, I became an English Major who minored in Religious Studies with a concentration in Creative Writing.

Now that I am an Education student, things are a bit different. My classes are picked out for me. My semester is arranged into tidy little classes with an internship here, some field work there, an entire practicum semester over there. My choice is gone and, although it irritates me somewhat, I also enjoy the structure.

My first semester as an education student has been thus far, at least for me as an after-degree student, about learning the education lingo. For example: outcomes and indicators, inquiry learning, classroom management, targets, assessment and evaluation, lesson planning, adaptive dimension, multiple intelligences and blooms taxonomy.  Now, after learning only some of the terminology I have a better idea of what this is about but I still have nagging questions, lingering questions and, worse, doubts about myself as a future teacher.

Can I really do this?

I must admit, I was terrified walking into my field placement that first day back in October. I took the bus to Glen Elm school in the east end, walked a block over with each step bringing me closer to these real students and teachers that I've never met before. It would no longer be theory. It would no longer be something I read about and planned for. I wanted to turn around. But, instead, I walked in to that school, found the staff room and my co-operating teacher and went on with the rest of my day.

It wasn't so bad. In fact, so far, so good.

On the Beth Jacob Tour for EREL 300

My trip to the Synagogue was a very edifying experience. First, it is a Conservative Egalitarian synagogue-it is not Orthodox. That means you won't see the black garments that ultra-orthodox Jews will wear and there is no separation between men and women (except, of course, for the bathrooms). The building itself is a renovated school with learning areas, two kosher kitchens, a small shop where one can purchase menoras, skull caps, wine, prayer shawls and mezuzahs, walls adorned with framed art and even walls that are visually and spatially dedicated to deceased members of their Jewish community. The sense of community that I felt from just visiting there was quite profound.

It is one thing to learn about another religion; and it is an entirely different thing to see it for yourself. The synagogue at Beth Jacob is architecturally similar to the original temple that was destroyed in 70 AD. The Torah scrolls they have are over 100 years old. We were allowed to look at a section from Genesis...dark brown wooden scrolls with parchment paper, Hebrew lettering handwritten with black ink by a learned Rabbinical Scribe, smudges from the oils left behind by many fingertips over time. All this, I know, is only a small inkling of the sense of history and community that they cherish so much. I have such a deep respect for the Jewish people, their sense of community and their history-and it is a respect I hope to view more closely by one day visiting Israel.

May God bless me with that opportunity someday.

Coffee & Homework

There is a chill to the air in my town home this morning.

It's not quite cold enough to turn on the heat.

I've made a pot of coffee,

listened to the gurgling of the machine,

the drips of dark liquid filling the glass carafe,

the silence when the pot is filled,

and think of hand-written notes

jotted down on lined paper

while listening to professors lecture on our dreams

in the silence of student-filled classrooms.

A New Thing

This fall I started the first semester of a two year after-degree program in Education. I consider this the start of a new thing and I welcome it with open arms. Two years, after all, isn't that long. I've had three children and have been pregnant for a combined total of 27 months. If I can endure that, I can surely make it through the next two years of life as an Education student.

And, so, I will start filling the pages of my blog again--this time with renewed purpose and vision. I plan to chronicle my journey towards becoming a teacher. It will be the story of me. I will strive to be brutally honest in this story, no matter how hard it is to be so. Why? Because, I think, if I can at least know my truth, won't that set me free?

Things Life Taught Me!

When I was in Grade 12 and ready to graduate, I was given some bad news. I was told that because I needed to take two summer classes to complete my requirements, I would not be allowed to graduate with my classmates. I went home and cried at the loss of my graduation experience.

Years have passed since then. I've been married, I've had children and I went to university.

Now, as an adult, I have had another major decision to make. After completing all my requirements for graduation, I was expecting to convocate on June 7th 2012. Life, however, took me another way.

Surprise, I'm pregnant! (It was the hidden inspiration for one of my previous blogs "The Mind is the Womb.") I am due on July 1st. I figured, at first, that I could make it to convocation and take the walk with others from my faculty. However, the last  couple months were quite physically tough on me and, so, a few weeks ago I made the decision (not without tears) to willingly cancel my participation in June's convocation ceremony.

This is where I've learned a few things. While at first I had felt that I missed out on not one but two major life events, I've realized that there is something special in these circumstances. What is life teaching me?

To be humble?  Do I really need a graduation ceremony to prove my worth, to prove that I "did it"? I know that I've accomplished things. I've earned my degree. But that's not the most important thing in my life.

My children, my husband, the people I love ~ these are the most important things in my life. And especially the new life that is growing within me, waiting to be born.

I ask myself, what do I want to do with my life? I've always known that I want to write and even though things have turned out a bit differently than I imagined, I can still write.

I can write in the stillness of my life,
                  in the wreckage, in the leftovers, in the beauty, in everything and in every way.

My voice as a writer....as a person

A couple years ago a professor (English 212) had asked me to read a poem written by a First Nation's person. The only problem is she asked me to read it by saying, in front of the whole class, "...because of your beautiful Indian accent."

A lot of classmates told me how shocked they were. I didn't think I had that much of an "Indian accent."
Just this semester, however, a fellow student in a different class asked me if I was "native." She wondered if I was native because of my accent, apparently, and not because of my appearance.

Not that I feel ashamed, but I do feel shy about it.

I don't have an eloquent speaking voice. Which is why I write. It's the voice I wish I had.

Writing puts me into context. Writing delivers me from the stereotypes I feel that I sometimes receive from my appearance and my voice.

Yes, writing, for me, is deliverance.

It's repentance, its penance, its forgiveness and reconciliation, all mixed up together. Its the destination and the journey, the desire and the fulfillment of desire, the mourning and the celebration.

Children's stories

I really appreciated Courtney and Jessie's presentation's last week. Original fairy tale narratives are definitely a lot more intersting than today's toned down versions! Furthermore, I, for one, am also a parent who appreciates that children's writing has a lot of things that only parents would understand.

Lately, I've been reading Milne's "The House at Pooh Corner" to my daughters....a chapter each night. They are 4 and 6 and they actually enjoy it. I had thought they might be disinterested in the book because it has very minimal pictures, which are black and white at that.

But I found that the story itself is very  interesting to them. And I think it is more valuable to read them Milne's original story rather than some of the more disnified versions we see today. I'm going to find some more "originals" to read them. On my list is E B White's "Charlotte's Web," and perhaps some Rudyard Kipling, etc, etc. Then I"ll move on to some more recent authors!

The Mind is the Womb

Just now I have the urge to write this. If the mind is the womb for our words, then we have no choice but to wait for our words to mature. By this I mean, we all have a writer inside of us, developing and growing. What are we doing, in the meantime, to nurture that development?

I have to admit, I am sometimes scared of the words I give birth to. Is what I write really okay? My portfolio story kind of just fell out of me. those are the exact words that came to mind when I finished typing the last page. I thought, wow, that just fell out of me! I think it was a story that was developing for a long time, and  I was just finally able to write it. But now, I am unsure about it. I know its not a mutant baby, or anything like that, but I'm scared of what came out of me, if that makes any sense at all!

Lord help me!

Writing as Art, Literally!

This is something I always found amazing. Right now, I am taking Japanese 101 and have discovered something very cool.

The Japanese verb for "to write" (i.e to write a letter) is the same verb that they use to indicate that an artist is "painting or drawing" art. There is no difference. I absolutely love that.

For me, it indicates how the Japanese culture equates writing with drawing, how writing is actually the act of an artist. This is something that can be plainly seen when you look at their writing system--hiragana, katana, kanji--they are all written with particular stroke orders, stops and hooks and, in my opinion, are very beautiful. When I am writing in hiragana, katakana and especially in kanji, I do get the sense that writing, for the Japanese, is, quite literally, art!!

The Epistolary Novel!

After researching for this weeks presentation, I found what is considered the first  Epistolary Novel: "Pamela" by Samuel Richardson.

This novel was immensely popular when it was published in 1741, and even led to a "Pamela" craze!The novel is written in the form of letters, written from Pamela to her parents--long and sometimes dull letters, if it weren't for all the drama contained in them.

Pamela is a fifteen year old servant girl who is very beautiful and virtuous. In fact, she manages to maintain her virtue (hint: virginity) throughout an ordeal that includes the  unwanted sexual advances of her master Mr. B. In fact this man goes so far as to spy on her, read her letters, fondle her, attempt to force himself on her, kidnap her, speak roughly to her, etc, etc, etc--which, by the way, we learn from her own hand, as she is the one writing these details in long letters to her poor frightened parents.

Finally, she marries him. How did that happen? I thought charges and an arrest might be in order after the way Mr. B acted. Sigh, I guess its only 1741, after all. And in Pamela's own words, she was but a "poor weak girl" who also happens to be a "dutiful daughter" and a virtuous girl!

Thankfully, we have Eliza Haywood, who wrote the satirical response to Richardson's story of virtue--"Anti-Pamela; or, Feigned Innocence Detected," which chronicles the lives of a mother/daughter con artist team who make attempts to trick men into marrying the beautiful daughter, Syrena Tricksy, so that they might be able to secure a wealthy financial future for themselves.

This leads me to think, however, what a true epistolary form would like in the 21st century--a series of texts, tweets, emails and sticky note letters? Hardly anyone writes letters to one another nowadays. At least not in the form that Pamela wrote them.

That brings me to "The Best of Betty" which is a contemporary take on the epistolary novel, obviously a shorter version, in the form of letters to an advice columnist who has her own style of giving advice (maybe Anti-Dear Abby)?

Until tomorrow,

Jaa Mata!!

~Night~

Writing publicly

Writing publicly...what does it mean, really? As an Aboriginal person I want to focus the majority of my writing on Aboriginal issues. This is an area that is very important to me. And by Aboriginal issues I don't mean to limit myself to only the larger issues but I want to bring attention to the seemingly smaller things. One of these things is the division between traditional First Nation's people and those First Nation's people who choose to follow the Christian faith.  For Aboriginal people, due to experiences with the residential school system, there are strong connotations of hatred associated with Christianity.  Christianity was responsibile for the systematic rape, murder, abuse and assimilation of our people, our culture and our children. So why on earth would any First Nation's person convert to Christianity?  Yet, it has happened and, now, Aboriginal Christians are often regarded as traitors to their own culture and people. Now, to be sure, there is some understanding--but often, there remains strong tension between a traditional First Nation's person and an Aboriginal Christian.

This is a very difficult topic. How do I write it? How do I write it for a public audience?  How would the public receive it? And, more importantly, how do I write it truthfully and objectively, while respecting both sides?

Writing badly

Inspired by my classmate Jessie's link to "writing uninspirations," I've decided to come up with some of my own writing uninspirations:

1. The sun rose up into the sky as though it were climbing a ladder of clouds.
2. She danced fiercly. The porridge, meanwhile, burned on the stove, also fiercely.
3. Hitherto, I was unaware of any form pressing itself against the lens of my livelihood. That is, until it shattered the glass, turning my exuberance into the pinnacle of my despondancy.
4. Joe walked up the stairs in silence, the betrayal of his lovesick heart beating in rhythm with each ascending step he took.
5. Like a metaphorical knife in my back symbolizes betrayal, the real knife in my back also symbolizes betrayal.

Well, there you go. Jessie's link reminded me of various literary contests to write the worst sentence. They are often called "Bad Writing Contests" and "Worst Sentence Contests." I've searched and found a link here:

                                                http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/2009.htm

Happy writing!

Finding my own style....

In my creative writing, that is, the writing that I am currently writing for my class--I cannot, as of yet, find the finished pieces I am looking for. That is, even though I have written a complete five page story, something still seems to lack.

All my life, I wanted to write. The only difference now is that I really want to write. Not just emotions. I don't want to skim the surface--I want to dive in. I want to find my own style.

And I'm finding the process of discovering that style a bit painful. It certainly doesn't come easy.

For example, assignment # 3 felt both forced and natural. Some parts came easily. I couldn't stop typing. Other parts were the result of a determined effort to write about something I wasn't very familar with. Nevertheless, the process was worth it. Even if the end product is something  that showed only the beginnings of the kind of writer I hope to be.

Now, back to studying....

Jaa Mata (See you later!)

Writing a Character is like....

I had a lot of fun creating a character for my first story this semester. I remember thinking about his home, his interests, his dislikes, his quirkiness. I enjoyed creating something unique. And it was my creation. I made him.

So, I think, writing a character is like.....

an act of creation.

But what if I needed to write sadness or darkness or death? What if I had to kill my character or watch him die with a few words? A part of me would die with him...even though he is only a character--only words on paper, a fragment of my creativity.

Is it wierd that I feel attached to my writing in this way?

Reading All Summer

Tonight, a little boy told me that he read all summer, instead of playing games. Now, he says, he is a very good reader. I believe him.

When I was ten years old, I became vividly interested in reading. Even though I always loved books, this was the time when my love of reading really started to blossom. I read, of course, from my mother's collection of novels and magazines. My selection included authors like Stephen King, George Orwell, Farley Mowat and the Omni magazines. From the school's library, I brought home books almost every week--books like R.L Stine's Goosebumps and Fear Street.

I once spent a whole summer reading Stephen King. I finished "It," "Christine," "The Tommyknockers" and "Four Past Midnight" before I turned eleven.  Once I started reading, I could not bare to stop the story until I finished it. My mouth sometimes tumbled over difficult words; my mind, equally frazzled, sometimes tumbled over the  images that King's words procured in my mind. But my mind had to have it.

At that young age, it seems, I discovered the seductive power of language, of stories and of imagination. I hope, that I can also bring to life the imagination of a child with stories, with words, with language. Maybe not with horror stories, though?

A Sunday Walk

A small blue heart I spotted, lying on the ground. It was actually a turquoise pendant, the missing piece to a necklace. I found it in my front yard. And, actually, its the missing piece to one of my necklaces. Its quite alright, though--I gave it to my daughter so she could use it for "treasure."

 My daughters, walking slightly ahead of me. I love this neighbourhood. I love the way the trees form a canopy over top of the houses, the street.

 One of three houses that are up for sale on our block.

 Poor little creature. I saw this bird as I was walking by a street corner. My daughters asked me why I was taking a picture of a dead bird. Because it was sad, I told them. But, I don't really know why. I just needed to take the picture--how do I explain that, even to myself?

 A streetpost. Should I go into further detail?

  Just some tall grass, a few flowers. I thought it would make a nice picture.

  A small shoeprint in the cement.  A future fossil, perhaps?

  My daughter found a ladybug. It was a quick little fellow. But we managed to snap his picture before he flew away.

  You can see these everywhere.  A tree just can't simply be a tree anymore.

 There is beauty everywhere. This is just down the street from where I live. An organic health food store. The entrance has a red picnic table to the left, a bench with peeling white paint, just to the left. The sunflowers were already starting to dry out. Still, bees continued to hover around what remained, gathering what was left of the summer's bounty.