There Will Be A Map
The year winds down. Only a few weeks, a handful of days, left. I’m specifically not counting , but this year’s Tracks class is keeping count in a way that others haven’t. “Is this the last day I play the rhythm,” one asks. I force myself to think. Ada answers, though. She seems better equipped to think of the bittersweet in the beginning/endings, thankfully.
Cliff of Doom (The Gifts of Awe and Wonder)
Wonder and awe. These are gifts that will stand for us. They are the things that will bring us comfort and settle us during times we feel stuck and at a loss for how to proceed.
Sugar Sand
Hands too small to even begin to hold a pencil or pen, delicately pinch tiny bits of sand, measured in grains. Fingers of one hand seek out bits of tiny colored gravel and pebbles, picking these up just so, to collect as treasures in the palm of the other. Sitting at a table and holding pencil will never match time spent “cooking” sand.
Grandmother Snake
I know the power of story, coming and going. The following week, he told me that whenever he is worried he just picks up a worry stone and it takes care of itself. He told me this with the knowledge and skill that this was his very own story. I didn’t tell it, he did.
On Bad Moms
It happens too many days a week to count; a mother, having just brushed aside a loose piece of their child's hair, weighted down by discarded backpacks, holding animal leashes or items for dinner or tiny colorful rainboots will smile and confide "I'm a bad mom".