Gathering From Our Spaces

 We don't often notice, truly notice, the spaces we inhabit. Or is that just me? 

My spaces are to-do lists to me. My home is a constant reminder of the laundry that needs to be done and the dinner that never cooks itself and the dust that is accumulating on the framed photos I love so much. 

My barn (which I also love) houses the weights that aren't going to lift themselves. And there's always something out there that needs to be cleaned or shelved or decluttered. 

Even my backyard, one of my favorite spaces has so much work that needs to be done to it that relaxing in the space isn't relaxing at all after I begin to fixate on something that could be or needs to be done to the fence or the patio or the fire pit.

But today my assignment is to simply think about my spaces, not the tasks associated, and gather something lovely from one of them. 

I'm going to write about my current space: my classroom. 

It is a nice space. I work to make sure that it is inviting and calming and yet organized and dare I say even academic. It is a space full of bookshelves busting with books. And better yet, bookshelves with spaces where books have obviously been removed. But none of those books and none of those shelves are what I want to gather today. 

What I want to focus on today, rather, are the paper-chain links that scallop the walls. It is our book chain, and I love that chain. Right now, during my conference period, I have the overhead lights off and the floor lamp is the only light. It makes the chain along one wall look beautiful (and let's face it, paper chains aren't usually beautiful). 

When my students finish a book, they put the title of the book on a link, sign their name, and add the link to the chain. It's a silly tradition to have for high school students, but we love it. We all celebrate the reader (and the chain), and when we reach our goal, I feed them. That's really what they love about it. The food.

I, on the other hand, love the chain. And the reading. I love that they are reading.

Juan told me last year that he had never read a whole book before. He was a freshman in high school (should have been a sophomore) and had just finished a Diary of a Wimpy Kid book. Diary of a Wimpy Kid. And he was so proud of himself. As was I.

I now have a fairly large collection of Diary books. Juan and his friends couldn't get enough of them last year. The year before that I had a group of students obsessed with the I Survived books. I don't really care what they're reading. I don't care about the level or if they've read it five times already. 

Just read. 

This year it's Goosebumps. I can't buy them fast enough, and I certainly can't keep them on the shelves.

I get goosebumps looking at and thinking about that chain. See what I did there? Goosebumps.

Gathering the Goodness From Within

"Part of following the thread of goodness is seeing that you--the person who noticed and gathered these good things--are part of the story. You are an artist, a collector of memories and words and good sounds and smells and tastes. You are not only the hard things. You are not the endless to-do lists. You are this creature of curiosity and delight."

I love this notion, but it's a tall order. I'm not great about looking in when I write. I am more of an observer. A recorder of sorts. I write about what is happening around me and, more often than not, put a humorous spin on it. 

But looking within? That's tough. 

I admire writers who do it. Joan Didion was a master. 

I am not.

What are the good, joyful, bright, deep, or funny things about you? What do you like about your personality? About yourself? What are some golden things about you?

I try to be thoughtful. Performing small acts of kindness, especially anonymous ones, makes me happy. I love to pay for someone's meal and to send anonymous flowers. These things bring me joy.

I am smart. I am funny. And, in general, I think I give myself a thumbs up.

I'm doing OK in trying to leave the world a better place than I found it. 

Follow a Thread of Goodness

 I recently began reading Ross Gay's Book of Delights, and true to its title, it is delightful. I keep it tucked away in my purse, pulling it out to savor a short essay-ette, as Gay calls them, when I wait for a tire to be changed or for a doctor to call my name. I marvel at the way Gay relishes the small things that bring him joy and wonder while also acknowledging that some things hurt, and sometimes life is just hard. The book is filled with a balance of both. Gay gave himself permission to find joy all around him and, in return, reminded me to find more in my own daily life. 

The book is a reminder of exactly what I have always loved about writing, the sense of discovery. The joy in uncovering and exploring the beauty and even the anguish inherent in life.

As I work my way through week one of the "Following the Thread" course, I am thinking more and more about the concept of gathering. It fits so perfectly with Gay's work. He gathered the delights around him. 

I love this line from today's instructional notes: "One of the ideas that makes gathering rich for me is that these moments are mine forever and ever, and I honor them by writing about them."

So...

Let's gather.

Think of moments when you were in between childhood and adulthood. Moments when you were learning about who you were.

I was sulking in my room when he came in. I don't know exactly how old I was, but the fact that my room was my brother's old room (the only bedroom on the left side of the hall) tells me that I was at least a tweenager. Based on the sulk, most likely a full-blown teen with all the hormones and attitude that come with that age. 

I don't remember dad traveling much for work, but I remember that he had been out of town for a brief time and had returned this day. He came into my room and gave me a dancing flower that he had picked up for me on his trip. It was a plastic flower in a plastic pot, and when you turned it on, music played and it wiggled and danced. I think the flower was wearing headphones. I don't remember the song that played, but I can see it dancing in my mind.

I didn't let it show in that moment, but I loved that flower. I wish I still had it. I wish that I had told him or, better yet, shown him how much I loved that flower. But the teenager in me was unable to muster more than a simple thank you as I rolled over to face the wall again. Oh, how I wish I had done more.

I love the memory of that flower. 

It brings me joy.

It brings delight.