Writing With Abandon

Reflections and ramblings about life as an educator, writer, reader, knitter, and over-thinker. Trying to do the writing only I can do.

Category: Uncategorized

  • My Water Bottle

    My Water Bottle

    My water bottle is covered in stickers. The students love to look at them, and so do I. Each one brings me joy.

    Side 1

    Side 1:

    • Iris Tattoo and Piercing flower from my third and fourth holes I got in 2023
    • A llama from the cultural carnival last year, representing my love of knitting
    • A hint of a pink tulips sticker, also from the carnival, for my family friends in Holland
    • “invisible string” and “Karma” stickers #Swiftie
    Side 2

    Side 2:

    • evermore album sticker #Swiftie
    • “Forgive Me!” sticker. My college friend/fellow writer, Bob, created a podcast and I got this sticker as a token for supporting their GoFundMe. I believe it was illustrated by his wife!
    Side 3

    Side 3:

    • Cobscook Institute sticker from where the Quoddy Writing Retreat took place; I also love its LGBTQIA+ flag in the background
    • London sticker, also from last year’s cultural carnival, for my London boy
    • Leslie Knope sticker — my absolute fave — from my student M.

    I was stumped for what to write this morning, and then I looked at my water bottle and saw the Leslie Knope sticker with the quote, “I am super chill all the time!”

    It made me laugh as I remembered my PMS-induced outburst on Monday when I was helping some tired and reluctant students (not my best moment). It’s a good reminder to not take myself too seriously.

  • A Lesson in Abandoning Books

    “Your hold at the Miami Public Library is ready to borrow,” my Libby notification popped up, with a small photo of Onyx Storm.

    Yesssss! I whisper screamed, then remembered I was only 35% through Family Lore by Elizabeth Acevedo. I love Acevedo’s YA, and I was very excited to start her first novel for adults. But I hadn’t been feeling too thrilled about reading it lately. It’s not that I didn’t like the book, but there are a lot of characters and jumping back and forth through time, so I was always a bit confused as I read. The worst part: I never wanted to go back to it, and I was always having to reorient.

    I’ll have to just dedicate more time to reading this week so I can finish it and be able to start Onyx Storm, I thought, and then I caught myself.

    Why?

    Why would I force myself to dedicate more time to a book that I’m not enjoying? Isn’t The Storygraph’s motto “Because life’s too short for a book you’re not in the mood for”? Didn’t I teach a lesson about abandoning books earlier in the year?

    What were the guidelines we came up with together?

    • Choose wisely (read the blurb; do you know the author?; do you think you’ll be interested?). — Okay, I did this.
    • Give the book a real try, at least 80 pages. — Check.
    • Read it every day for at least 3 days to see if you get in the flow. — I tried! I’ve been reading every day for over a week!
    • If you still aren’t into it, you can abandon it, but you have to journal a quick reason why. — You don’t need to tell me twice! That’s a slice!

    I’m no better or worse if I finish or don’t finish this book, I reminded myself. But I’ll be a whole lot happier if I just give myself permission to abandon it and crack open the third book in a fantasy series that I know I’ll enjoy.

    The next day, at school, we introduced the Engagement Continuum to our students during morning meeting. As we had them self-assess for math, investigations, and read aloud, I realized something.

    “Your temperature check has me thinking,” I said out loud. “Do we need to abandon our read aloud?”

    Their eyes widened in that did-she-really-just-say-that way that my students tend to do when I say something out of their scope of things-teachers-say.

    I shared with them my own personal debacle with Family Lore over the weekend.

    “Here’s what I’m noticing: Many of you are disengaging, some of you are interested, but the energy is low. We’ve already read about 100 pages. And honestly, it’s not very fun for Ms. Kim and I to read to you, because we can tell you’re checked out!” I looked around at the nodding heads. “So… what do you say?”

    It was an emphatic yes.

    “Wait,” M said. “Can we still read one of the ones from our list?”

    I laughed and initially responded with playful sarcasm. Then I told them we’d be starting Refugee. Cue the cheers.

    And that’s how I abandoned two books this week, replacing them with ones I know I’ll love.

  • Post-Traumatic Lice

    Disclaimer: I apologize for any psychosomatic itching that occurs upon reading this post.

    It’s Monday evening and I’m standing over the sink, a metal comb in my hand, iPad propped on the closed toilet seat as it plays mindless episodes of Love is Blind.

    I’ve been here before, many times.

    Combing my hair out to check for lice.

    You see, I’ve had lice now a confirmed 3 or 4 times, only one of which was during my youth, as a teenager; every other time, I’ve been a teacher.

    I don’t have lice now, or at least I don’t think I do, as I comb out the same small inch of hair from a third angle, scrutinizing the comb for any trace of nits or live louse.

    Because I know well what they look like.

    The first time I had lice I was 14 and had just come back from a youth travel and service bike trip with my camp. 12 of us, boys and girls, biking 30-40 miles a day in Vermont, Massachusetts, and upstate New York. Stopping every few days to settle in at a different campground, completing service projects in the area, then picking up and moving onto the next. Helmets, tents, and lots and lots of hugging and sharing of things, as 14-year-olds tend to do.

    I remember the last week or so of the trip, my scalp itched incessantly. I’d crave a scalding hot shower to burn away the itch on my scalp. I’d lower my head back into the stream of water in relief, only for the itch to come back when I’d get on with my day.

    At camp, they’d do lice checks at the beginning and end of summer. They found lice on Zoe, but the rest of us were free. Or so we thought.

    I came back to New York in late August, scratching, but telling my mom proudly, “I’m lice free, they checked me!” whenever she would question me with an eyebrow raised.

    Fast forward to the first week of sophomore year, and my mom had had enough. In my memory, she tackles me to the floor to check my head, and proclaims, “You have a city of lice living on your head!”

    So began one of the more traumatic experiences of my life: sitting through painstaking hours of lice and nit removal at the top of our stairs-that-led-to-nowhere (it had the best light, seeing as it was closest to the ceiling) while I tried to make sense of my AP European History textbook; my mom getting lice from me; my dad coming into my room one night, telling me, “If you can’t get rid of this, I’m shaving your head;” and the black licorice-scented treatment that our professional de-louser gave us when my mom finally caved and paid for us to both get treated.

    I got very familiar with lice during that experience. After all, I had a whole city living on my head! They migrated to my mom’s head! I remember I could see the nits in my sideburns, for goodness sake!

    The second time I got lice was in 2018 as a third-year teacher, around my birthday. I knew the itch, the familiar heat spreading behind my ears. I went to a professional this time to check me and they stated I simply had dandruff. A few nights later, scratching madly, I found my old comb after a night out, scraped it under the nape of my neck and said hello to 3 bugs that fell out into the sink.

    (By the way, I’m sorry if you’re itching as you read this; I sure am!)

    Mayhem. I cried, bagged everything up that couldn’t be washed, and hauled 4 loads of laundry down to the laundry room. I didn’t trust the professionals, nor anyone else, so I treated and de-loused myself. Luckily, I succeeded, thanks to my perfectionism. I would not have another city moving in.

    The third time was three years later, also on my birthday, this time most definitely from a student. It wasn’t as bad, and I treated it quickly.

    But every time after that, if I got a hint of an itch, or heard of a student with lice, I didn’t hesitate: I’d treat, comb, and get ahead of it regardless.

    I’ve probably done said “preventative treatment” three or four times since then. Which is what leads me to now, standing at the sink, rolling my eyes at this ridiculous reality TV show that still has us all wrapped around its finger (what season is it, anyway? I don’t even like reality TV, but this one I’ll come back to). Two of my students have lice, and I am not taking any chances. So I stand here, combing the same strands one way and another, watching my hair fill the sink, but luckily no bugs.

    “No lice. No nits,” I say proudly after an hour of combing. I texted the same to Kim.

    Needless to say, I’ll be keeping my hair up for the rest of the year.

  • “Let everything happen to you”

    Over the weekend, P and I watched Jojo Rabbit. We’d both seen it once before, and have been in somewhat of a historical film marathon, so it fit right in with the rest (although a much more — is “lighthearted” the word? — take). Taika Waititi’s film is funny and heartfelt and soul-filling, despite its serious content.

    At the end of the film, this quote from Rilke appears on the screen, and it was like a punch to the gut for me:

    In the midst of a lot going on in our personal lives right now, this quote was a reminder to me of the impermanence of every moment, bad and good. A reminder that storms pass, and to soak up good weather while you have it. P and I looked at each other and a whole conversation passed between our eyes without saying a word.

    A hunt for a screenshot of the quote led me to this wonderful blog post with some other gut-punching quotes from Rainer Maria Rilke. Nishtha’s reflections on Rilke’s life and words are beautifully written, and will surely give you some inspiration if you find yourself in need today.

    Until then, a reminder to dance, even (and maybe especially) in the ruins.

    Jojo and Elsa dancing in the street after he brings her outside for the first time.

  • A Proper Workstation

    When I moved into my studio apartment last year, I didn’t have enough space for a dining table nor a desk. Instead, the large kitchen counter served as my everything station: meal prep, dining table, workstation.

    When we moved into our new apartment this August, we bought a second-hand table from a lovely couple and set it up underneath the ceiling lamp fixture. It felt so nice to be able to sit across from one another as we ate, instead of only side-by-side at the bar or in front of the TV.

    The corner behind the table, though, has been in transition since our move: first, it was a place to hold the boxes we had yet to unpack; then, a place to set up the blow-up mattress when we had a little guest; next, we brought in the empty metal shelving unit from outside to hold my computer and some books and knitting things so they wouldn’t take up so much space on the dining table (even though they still often did).

    Last week, as I was hunched over, leaning and squinting to see my laptop screen, frustrated with the wobble and incessant tap-tap-tap of my old Apple keyboard whenever I typed anything, Patrick finally convinced me to just do it: get a desk, a monitor, the works.

    So that night I perused Amazon and found a cute new Bluetooth keyboard and mouse and a standing desk. On Saturday, the desk arrived, and within 30 minutes our space had transformed.

    From this…
    …to this!

    I still need to get a monitor and a desk chair, and maybe some more art to fill the blank wall above, but it feels SO GOOD to have a defined space to put everything.

    A proper workstation.

  • Full-Cup Feeling

    Light sears through the edges of the blackout curtain, illuminating the room. The noise machine whirs and rises, then quiets — wave sounds. Our new air purifier hums softly, clearing allergens as we sleep. Phoebe lies between us, curled into the crook of your elbow, her nose breathing air out onto my face as we make eye contact.

    I love these weekend mornings when I wake up before you and we have nowhere to be, nowhere to rush to. “Hurkle durkl’ing,” we call it. I sliced about it last year.

    I pull out my phone to type this, still wrapped up in the full-cup-feeling after drinks and dinner with three friends last night. The four of us squeezed at a small round table at Café La Trova, sharing bites and venting, sipping our drinks and laughing. Four hours, watching a Friday night in Little Havana unfold. Live music playing loud, making us lean forward to yell, then yelling again after the inevitable “What??”

    These ladies are a big part of what has made this place home for me since moving here four years ago, even though Miami fits like a shirt I don’t really like, not my style, with the tag sticking out. When I’m with them, I know I was meant to be here — at least for now.

    Because Lizzie is moving away in a couple of months, building a new home in a new state. And two of us hope to leave within the next few years.

    I fill my cup, and fill it again, holding onto this moment and these strong, brave, beautiful women who I can’t imagine my life without.

    Love on a coaster.

  • Stretching with Phoebe

    I roll out my yoga mat and begin to reach skyward, leaning to one side as I stretch my arm overhead. I fold down, bending my knees and rolling back up slowly, vertebrate by vertebrate.

    When I stretch up a second time, I hear the pitter patter of her paws, the sound dampening as I lean to the other side, which means she’s on the mat with me now.

    As I fold down, I see her stretching, too. Downward dog, her front legs long and her rear sticking up. As I roll up, she changes position, stretching out her back legs now as she pulls herself forward, nose sticking up in the air.

    I get down on my knees, sitting on my heels to stretch the bottoms of my feet. I roll out my right wrist, and she nibbles at my fingers. I roll out the left and she starts her simple 2-stretch routine again: first the front legs, then the back.

    I transition to child’s pose and the nibbles continue.

    When I move to cat-cow, she’s on her 2-stretch routine again.

    She rolls onto her back as I change positions, interrupting my routine for some belly rubs. I shake my head and grab my phone, the first words of the slice already forming in my head, faster than my fingers can open the Jetpack app and keep up.

    Now she sits as I type this short slice again. I go to take a photo—and she moves!

    “No, get back here!” I grab her. I need this photo to illustrate the slice! “Sit. Lay down.”

    But she does one better: her downward-dog stretch. I snap it. Thank goodness for live photos.

    Phoebe ❤️

  • The TikTok House, Advent Adventure, and Wave-Crashing Escape

    I have very vivid dreams. Very strange dreams, yet very vivid.

    “Last night I dreamt that we went to visit an apartment in Amsterdam that had two huge labrador retrievers, and there was this whole other side with an indoor balcony and a pool and arcade games! Oh, and it was also attached to a school, so if you turned one corner in the house, it would become the hallway of the entrance with kids walking around,” I tell you. “We were going to rent it for the summer because I was supposed to work at my summer camp, even though that’s in Massachusetts… anyway! Later, everyone from TikTok who was looking at the apartment was ravenous for it, and the guy who owned it ended up being killed?? But somehow his agent gave us the key code… anyway, his whole family was gone, even his two curly-headed sons. But then fast forward years later, and they were trying to woo my student to exact revenge!”

    Every time I share one of these dreams with you, you laugh, marveling at the strange inner workings of my brain.

    “You’re my favorite weirdo,” you tell me. And you’re mine.

    Last night I woke up from a no-less-vivid but much-more-intense dream.

    It started out in Miami, but some lush green area outside of the center, where one of the teachers at our school had just moved to. The buildings looked old, castle or university vibes, like they belonged in England. I went into one and joined a spin class, then waited for everyone to arrive so class could begin. A girl from my middle school arrived, said some odd things that didn’t make sense, and then sort of blasted off into the ceiling. From there, the dream turned into an adventure: a live-action advent calendar. (I know.) I opened the presents, which each had presents within, and realized, “Hey, this toy would be good for my niece and nephew, and this one is good for Phoebe.”

    “That’s the point,” my sister Tillie (in the dream), said. A rush of love filled me as I realized she had set up this level of the advent calendar for me so that I could essentially regift the gifts to everyone in my life.

    The advent-adventure led us to Málaga, only it was like Roosevelt Island, long and skinny, with water on both sides, and had some skyscrapers like a mini-Manhattan. We flew over, I pointed out where Emma lived, and then touched down. We stopped at a grocery store, and noticed Trump and Vance sitting with their wives at a table outside in the parking lot. We walked over and it was like they were playing themselves on SNL:

    “I’m the con man,” Trump said, smug and proud.

    “And I’m the head of the mafia,” said Vance.

    They all giggled, the women acting like, “oh, you guys,” and you and I shared a look, disgusted. Let’s get out of here.

    We hopped in the car, and I looked back at the table. Just beyond them, I saw it: a VW Bus! In blue!

    “Look, babe, it’s a blue VW Bus!”

    As you looked, we saw a wave starting to rise up on the other side of the road.

    “That looks really big, no?” I asked.

    It was. It came crashing down, causing an accident on the road.

    Shit, shit, shit. “Let’s go!” I cried.

    You hit the gas and headed north, waves coming up and crashing down from our side as well. I hoped our old car would hold up. I held my arms over my head just in case. Things were flying around in the sky, raining down at us in opposite intervals to the waves.

    “Go, go, go!”

    Somehow, we miraculously avoided damage, but I don’t know how the scene ended, because of course, I woke up.

    “You won’t believe the dream I just had,” I started forming the words in my head. But I kept my mouth shut because I noticed the clock: 4:15. Ugh.

    I got up to go to the bathroom, came back to bed, then scribbled blindly the key details of the dream in my bedside notebook. I got under the covers, pulled my eye mask down, and held your hand.

    Then I tossed, and turned, and tossed and turned again.

    Another insomnia morning. Better get up and just write this slice!

    It’s actually pretty amazing that I can write legibly in the dark! My notes upon return from the bathroom, describing the vivid dream.

  • 6 Minutes

    Another morning of me lying in bed, heavy with exhaustion, hugging a pillow to my chest. I wake up desperate to pee, go to the bathroom, come back, see Phoebe is in my spot.

    “Oh, no you don’t,” I say, lifting her up and placing her back in her bed beneath the night stand.

    I peek at the clock.

    5:00.

    Maybe I can fall back asleep for that last hour before my alarm shakes me awake.

    Hopeless hoping.

    I lie in bed and feel my emotions running through my body. I’m still frustrated from the past few days, irritated over things small and big. A customer service phone call where I tried my best to be kind, but got quite exasperated by the end. The behavior of our fifth graders, the switch that’s been flipped developmentally at this point in the year, the countdown we inevitably start to tick through in our heads. A tough therapy session over the weekend that gave me some realizations I’m grieving, some that I’m angry with.

    I’m angry, I’m irritated, everything inside of me feels tight.

    And I certainly won’t be able to fall back asleep like this.

    I tap my thighs lightly, let the veil of rapid eye movement begin under my lids, start the words she’s told me to say even if it’s not that bad:

    “I’m panicking. I’m panicking. I’m panicking.”

    My heart rate slows.

    “I’m angry. I’m angry. I’m angry.”

    My heart softens.

    “I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired.”

    I roll onto my side, hugging the pillow tighter. Maybe in this position I’ll find those last few sweet minutes of sleep.

    My stomach grumbles.

    It’s no use.

    I kick off the comforter, grab my phone and my water, and decide to set a 6-minute timer like Amanda and some others before her and write this slice. I’m left with just enough time to try her one-minute post-writing clean-up.

  • Collapsed Distance

    “Reading this makes me want to stop using my phone,” sighs A, “but then I don’t know, because my phone is so fun!”

    We’re reading an excerpt from the end of Kelly Yang’s book Finally Heard: “Essential Research on Social Media and Kids.” We finished watching Yang’s hilarious and informative video yesterday, and are adding more to our notes, like how 95% of teens ages 13-17 and 40% of kids ages 8-12 use social media. We’ve learned about oxytocin and the dopamine loop, the upward comparison that leads so many — especially young girls — to have anxiety and depression, and the meaning of the word “vulnerability.”

    But that duality that A feels is so real.

    **

    It got me thinking about all my own mixed feelings around technology and the absolute chokehold it has on us today. I’m disgusted by my daily screen time some days, feel the real highs and lows of sending funny memes and doomscrolling, and yet…

    With WhatsApp, I can chat and listen to voice notes from my best friends who live across the world — Ariel in Tel Aviv, Giada in Madrid, Emma in Málaga, Reeta in Manchester.

    With FaceTime, I can see my niece and nephew hold my newest niece, Lucy, for the first time, experience their first fight about it: “You got to hold her already, it’s my turn!” “No, it’s mine!”

    With Instagram, I can find inspiring knitting patterns and teaching ideas, see videos from a friend’s wedding that I couldn’t attend at the last minute.

    With WordPress, I can write and read in community with so many incredible writers, including 18 (!!!!!) from my school.

    How do we find the balance in this duality? Lauren’s slice got me thinking more about the positives, the excitement that comes with the ability to connect with our friends and family even when we’re far.

    **

    Our data visualization maps, plus student quotes and notes.

    I started putting up the documentation for our project last week. Data visualization of the “collapsed distance” we learned about: a map of Miami, with all of the students’ locations pinned, white strings connecting them to each other based on who they speak to via devices when they’re at home, and turquoise strings connecting all of them back to our school. Ale helped us put it together and came up with the reflection question students answered after.

    “No matter where you are, you can still stay in contact,” M wrote.

    E realized: “We’re far from each other but we’re still connected.”

    I don’t have all the answers to A’s dilemma, but I guess part of finding that balance is remembering the original reason we’re all using our devices: to stay tied to one another.

    And I am so grateful for that.