Believe it or not: teacher planning meeting

"Shall we have a walking meeting outside today, or stay in?" E. asked after exchanging greetings at the school gate early in the morning. It was still dark outside. The trees had lost their leaves weeks ago, and now the wind kept pulling down twigs and rolling them on the ground.
"It's windy but doesn't rain," I stated the obvious and suggested, "We could walk. It's not too cold. I have gloves, a warm jacket and fall boots."
"Yes, I am properly dressed too. It's a walking weather," E. agreed and opened the school door.
It sounded like a good plan for the third period of a day.

"We're going to have a walking meeting today," we informed S. as we passed her in the hallway.
"Or we could have tea. I have something for you. You'll see," she smiled with a hint of mystery.

After two lessons and an outside break we sent the kids off to specialist lessons, and gathered in S.'s classroom. She lifted a gray totem bag to a table. E. and I waited with anticipation.
S. first pulled out a jar of honey, then a shiny black bag of tea, and finally a ceramic white tea pot with painted scene of tea pickers on it.
Warmth welled up in us. Tea time meeting!

We fetched our cups, got milk, spoons and hot water from the teacher's lounge, went to my classroom, and put everything on an oval coffee table.
"The tea is black tea with turmeric and I bought it from London, " S. explained and spooned some tea into the tea pot.
"And the teapot?" I asked.
"My husband brought it from China," she answered as she poured the hot water over the tea.
S. and I sat on green armchairs and E. on a blue sofa in my reading corner. With bookshelves next to us, blue woven carpet and patterned cushions on the windowsill, and ignoring the residue of morning learning after kids escaped the classroom in a hurry, we could forget we were at school at all.

We talked about holiday memories, about plans and projects, about inspiration and habits, about choices and energy, about possible ways to support each other. We sipped tea with honey and milk wishing the clock would stop moving so fast.

We filled our cups.
Thankful Tuesday.

Gathering energy

Empty. This is how I felt last week when I wished to write my slice. Many fascinating things had happened the week before - opera, movie, art auction, visiting a fashion designer with my class, experimenting in a science lab, vision conference Estonia 2035, seeing an old friend, multiple cups of tea with colleagues - plenty to write about, but I had no energy, no words. I had nothing to say. I was ready to crawl into my bed and stay there for a week. Too much happening, not enough sleep. Good things happening, but still, not enough rest. The only thing giving me energy to get out of the bed the next mornings and keep going was the promise of Spring Break starting on Friday.

Friday arrived with sunshine and a trip to a countryside.

I took my camera and went looking for spring. The spring hadn't arrived in full glory, yet. I found a little patch of wood anemone next to a rock, few blue anemones under a spruce hedge, two tulips and five daffodils in a flower bed, tiny buds on lilacs and birches, and a yellow butterfly dancing around in the garden. Not much. Plenty to make me smile.

Flowers, sea, fresh air, family, good food. I started to feel like a human being again.

Spring- photos only

slice of life

"Say your name and what you did today" is a simple and reasonable introduction for a second round of a writing course with some new members in it.*

"My name is Terje. I had meetings all day, and I came from a dentist, my left cheek is completely numb and I can't smile no matter how hard I try," was probably not the best first impression. I should have added that I might have had a concussion from the hammering the dentist did inside my mouth, making me feel as if my scull would shatter to thousand pieces, making me ready to spill all the undercover spy secrets if I had any, and making "this is a bit uncomfortable" into a massive understatement. It would have been a sensible thing to go home after the dentist. That would have meant sitting and feeling sorry for myself for the rest of the evening. Being in a lovely bookshop, reading and writing, even with some aftermath of dental procedures, promised a positive end to a rather long day.

We finished the introduction rounds and the teacher was giving out a poem to read, when I heard familiar voices in the gallery passage behind the bookstore windows. I peeked over my shoulder.

My boss and two school visitors from a morning meeting walked by. They did not look in through the window, so they did not see me sitting behind a large square table, with a journal and a poem in front of me, and a slightly awkward look on my face.  Slice of my life.


*Almost a month ago I thought my writing lessons were finished for good.
Since the interest was really high, the teacher decided to have five more lessons with us.

my first ever animation

"It's hopeless," I mumble after trying to figure out how RoughAnimator app works. "I'm hopeless" is what I think. Technology! So many buttons and yet no "help" or "instructions" button. I try one button and many others, not sure sure what some of the features mean, and end up creating some flashing blobs, without really knowing how I did it.  Part of me is already doubting whether the purchase was right. I make a plan to search for youtube tutorials before the next lesson. I never get to the plan.

"Ms. Terje, come and see what I made," R. (9) calls me at the start of the next lesson. He shows me a short animation with a green ball rolling across the screen.
"How did you do this?" I am genuinely curious. And amazed.
"Oh, let me show you," he makes room on the sofa, and shows me first, second, then, and if you want this, then that.
I try and create a speedily growing little flower with partially missing parts.
"You might want to change your frame rate to 6.1  and  when you use the onion skin you have to draw everything not just the new parts," R. patiently explains to me.
I try again. This time I draw a cat. I draw once, fill it in with black, add eyes and a nose. Next frame. Repeat with little changes. And again, and again, and again. And then click play.
"I made a running cat!" I cheer out loud. My excitement makes me feel as if I was nine years old.
It doesn't matter that the cat has funny legs, it's nose color changes, the ears are different sizes, and the tail comes off. I am super proud. I created an animation. My first ever animation!

The distance of a whisper*

Inspired by: Two Hundred Fifty Things an Architect Should Know


Some things a mother of  a teenager daughter should know during the fall break:

1. The speed of words per minute when friends come over
2. What's for lunch
3. Who is the cutest guy in musically
4. Why teachers are evil
5. Which teachers are ok
6. The number of snapchat streaks
7. What's for snack
8. How many pages to read for history homework
9. Why sprint is better than mini-marathon
10. The shortness of the break
11. How not to open a closed door
12. The volume of voice in playing board games
13. The amount of laughter that can fill a room
14. The best colors of jackets
15. The worst colors of jackets
16. The best shoes
17. The worst shoes
18. Why pizza is better than vegetables
19. The importance of smiling
20. How to say "no" so it's accepted
21. The variable of "yes" in equations
22. The square meters of the apartment
23. The thickness of walls
24. How to be invisible
25. How to be available
26. How to curate your words
27. How to bite your tongue
28. Reasons for not saying anything
29. Ways to be non-judgmental
30. Which century you were born
31. Memory of your own teenage years
32. The history of friendship
33. The parent do-s and do not-s
34. The need for cash 
35. The need for ice-cream
36. The need for loud music
37. Where snacks are stacked
38. The amount of energy needed for charging phones
39. Who follows whom on Instagram
40. The basic of filters
41. The basic of hashtags
42. What's for dinner
43. How to fit three girls to have a sleepover in a small room
44. What's for midnight snack
45. The rule of staying up very late
46. What it feels to be 13 or 14 and stay in PJs in the morning
47. And  wrap yourself in a blanket and sit on a kitchen floor
48. To drink cocoa and eat chicken nuggets for breakfast
49. The power of breath
50. The distance of a whisper*

*borrowed directly from the mentor text

writers at an art exhibition

"What can we learn as writers from an artist?" was the question to guide our writing workshop. Getting ready for the workshop I set the Learner Profile on the board and asked which attributes would help us the best on our visit to an art exhibition.

Open-minded, inquirer, thinker and reflective stood out from the list to most students. With intentions set we headed for our fourth writing workshops out of school.
Since the destination was less than 30 minutes of walking distance, we walked. The sun cheered to us on the walk to the national library.  The summer like weather made us feel like tourist on a casual city tour. Riding an old fashioned elevator to the sixth floor of the library added some time travel excitement to the whole experience.

On Wednesday at 11 o'clock the exhibition room was empty and seemed as if reserved for a private visit. We had plenty of time and space for exploration. At first the kids wanted to start taking pictures immediately. I advised to start with eyes first, to look closely, and later decide what to capture on the photos.
"Look what I found."
"This looks awesome."
"Wow. Did you see this?'
"Did you notice?"
"Come here and take a look."
The kids were not the target audience of Asko Künnap's book and CD cover design exhibition, yet they were able to admire the dedication, the creativity, and the attention to detail the artist showed. They saw the sketchbooks and designs and the variety of styles the artist had experimented with.

I hadn't planned the trip when I did my weekly planning on the weekend. On Monday after our cognitive coaching workshop my two friends and I headed to see an art exhibition on the first floor of the national library. We wished to see a final project of an Art Academy student. He had walked around the city recording every print he saw (signs, ads and graffiti) and all the words were printed on  multiple folded leaflets. Unexpected concept and impressive result.  The library worker suggested that we would also visit another exhibition on the sixth floor. We went without any expectations. We were at awe. Grateful for this unexpected experience we left the building with various ideas for our teaching. And I knew I would take my students there. Small class, small city, flexible schedule, a culture that encourages going out of school - I could make the trip happen just like that. I knew it was  the right decision when I saw the students leaning in to look closer, calling each other to share their discoveries, and later writing in their journals and taking photos. They had been open-minded,  inquirers, thinkers and reflective as they had set their intentions.

Student reflection:

Writers wander and wonder

I had a plan. A wonderful plan. As wonderful as going to the park the week before. Having three lessons in a row allows leaving the classroom. More than that it's the fact that I have a family size class this year. It provides me a different kind of freedom. I envisioned how I would walk with my students through the old town and back, giving one more tool for collecting ideas. Writers wander and wonder. We read "Wonder" by Amy Krouse Rosenthal to show how wild the wonders may be, "Why Poetry?" by Lee Bennett Hopkins to create a mood and for a bit of challenge "The Summer Day" by Mary Oliver.
Journals and pencils snuggly resting in a totem bag over my shoulder, we stepped out from the school building into the bright sunshine. We started with "What do you wonder?" as soon as we closed the gate behind us. Crossing two streets, passing a parking lot, a hotel and one apartment building we were about to walk past a small park. Noticing some outdoor chess tables we thought it might be a good place to write down some of the wonderings before we forgot them.  We wrote.
When I thought we might continue our journey, my students looked at me and said, "We like it here. We can stay and continue writing." I respected their choice. My plan and vision didn't happen. Wonderful writing workshop happened nevertheless.

You might wonder together with us:
Do sparrows and crows understand each other's bird language?
When a sea gull sits on a lamp post and looks down, does he wonder about us?
If birds wanted to write would they use a beak, wings, tail or legs?

GDPR and poetry

If you are very bored and up for some challenge I recommend to sit through a meeting about EU General Data Protection Regulations. I did today. Not because I was bored or wanted a challenge but because it was a mandatory meeting. Three smartly dressed specialists with black ThinkPads educated our school's leadership and administrative team almost for two hours about the process we will go through in the next twelve weeks. We saw a slideshow explaining GDPR in legal language with many words that my brain couldn't recognise, they listened to our simple explanation of the data we collect and process, then saw a table with 25 columns we have to fill about the same info, and interviews we have to go through, and how our info will be used for making a detailed plan for the future steps. It was not a cold meeting. The specialist were friendly and smiling. Only the topic and language were so far from my every day life.
After the meeting my head was spinning from all the information, yet in the other part of my brain a lovely memory created a warm glow.  I had read Betsy's post about poetry. How is it possible that words are used for creating such different extremes as legal texts and poetry? Of course I will follow all the necessary laws and regulations. I have to. Reading poetry with children is a choice, a beautiful choice, I have already made this year. A poem, sometime two or three, have been part of our days, during morning circle, during snack, during the writing workshop, listening for pleasure or as a spark for a discussion, or as inspiration for our own writing. Betsy's words nudged the legal words to a faraway corner of my brain and invited me to go to the library and check out several more poetry books. And the head wasn't spinning any more.

May you find some poetry in your day!

Happiness

On the third day of the Paws.b mindfulness course the teacher asked us to picture a happy moment, and describe the thoughts, feelings, body sensations, actions and urges. At our table I went last, teacher already counting the end of the sharing session, so I opted for one of my favourite moments: slow Saturday morning, when the whole family is at home, and I am the first one up, a quiet moment. I love small moments of happiness.

What I really wanted to share was my happiness moment in London. This is my "I can't believe I'm here" happiness moment

Walking past the Buckingham palace, two paper bags slightly swinging in my right hand, one with four green teas  from The Tea House on Neal’s Street and another with two books from Daunt bookshop on Marylebone Street. Even though I have walked twenty-nine thousand steps already, I feel like stretching out my arms and singing "I feel so alive on the streets of London" like Maria on the hills in the "Sound of Music."  Deciding that a musical scene might be a bit bizarre, I tame myself to a light step, soft hum, and a smile matching the warmth of the summer sun.  I am 46 years old, mother of three daughters, a teacher, Estonian from a small town, a middle aged woman whose childhood was during the soviet times, and when I read about London in my fifth grade English book, it seemed as distant as the moon, under the “impossible” category, not something you could dream about. So, I didn’t dream. At the start of the New Year London wasn't even a tiny flicker on the horizon. Yet, here I am. In London. The city greeted me kindly, with gorgeous summer weather, full of colour,  polite and friendly encounters, quiet early morning streets and merrily flowing crowds in the evenings. I bow in gratitude to my director who sent me here for Paws.b mindfulness at schools course. Staying in Westminster region, not far from Victoria Station, I have walked around quite a bit in the mornings and evenings, with the course taking up most of the day. I’ve seen the Thames River, the Parliament building, the Westminster Abbey, The Buckingham Palace, Trafalgar square, walked down Charing Cross, Oxford Street, and the Mall. I’ve visited The Tea House, several bookshops, the Neal’s Yard, the Covent Garden Market.  Happiness is a sense of freedom, heart full of gratitude, the scene of a vibrant summer city, the balance of learning and wandering around, awe at what life brings, me-time free of duties, tea and books. 

___________________________________________

London: photos only
Bookshops in London

to write or not

Vivian Gornick in her "The Situation and the Story" says, "....you cannot teach people how to write - the gift of dramatic expressiveness, of a natural sense of structure of language sink down beneath the surface of description, all that is inborn, cannot be taught - but you can teach people how to read, how to develop judgment about a piece of writing, their own as well as that of others."
I couldn't find a pencil today. Finally found two, both rather short and dull, one yellow and one with Hello Kitty.  I took the dull dull yellow pencil and filled two pages in my new journal, with roses and typewriter on the cover. As if the cover would make my writing more beautiful or meaningful.  The pretty cover makes me smile. The empty pages inside laugh at me. This is the only journal writing I have done in the past three weeks.
This summer there are other things I haven't done. Like exercise.
When you live in a summer house with people in every room, and with little space and time for yourself, the health warriors would find a way to do yoga on a small carpet between beds before others wake up, or they would go running through the village. Not me. The last time I ran was sixteen years ago, not that anyone remembers this anymore.
I haven't taken many photos either. It feels as if I take the same pictures over and over and over again.  Another flower, another butterfly, another sea scene.
Two daily routines I have kept are morning mindfulness exercise and reading. I read books, writing about books, books about writing.  Maybe I shouldn't read the books about writing.
Gornick is convincing. I believe her. Yet, I am still writing today, because I also believe all the other people who say that writing is good for you. It doesn't have to be perfect. Catching some thoughts on the paper and reading them later might help to understand oneself.
During my walk in the village I had some thoughts forming in my head. Lost most of them. What remained: it might be that the human communication during the school year is beyond my natural capacity, so I need the summer to turn inward, cherish the seldom moments of solitude, and I'd rather not see anybody on my walks through the village street.

Fold your arms, close your mouth, and watch

Sitting on a grass next to a playhouse, under a plum tree, I watch as my two-year-old nephew L. squats in a sand box and tries carefully to fill a blue bucket with sand using a small yellow plastic spoon. He scoops a tiny mound on the spoon and watches how the sand trickles into the bottom of the bucket. He leans down, his nose almost touching the bucket, in order to watch closer. Not much sand there. He decides to abandon the spoon, stands up and reaches for a large play shovel. Like a mighty ditch digger he uses force to push the shovel into the sand and with a little grunt lifts the shovel up. He has a fair share of the sand on the shovel but by the time he moves it above the bucket the shovel has tilted and most of the sand has vanished. He tries few more times, then puts the shovel down, and runs to the playhouse, pulls out a crate with his toys and rummages through it until he finds a sand scoop. He also finds a sieve. He takes both back to the sand box. He squats again, and with his left hand he uses the sand scoop to get sand and then pours it on the sieve in his right hand. The sieve is sideways and the sand slides down.
Grandma walking by sees it and rushes over.
"Let me show you," she says and demonstrates how to use a sand scoop and sieve fine sand into a bucket.
When my kids were small I used to do the same what my mom did now - when I saw them trying something I would rush over and demonstrate how to do it, help them out when they couldn't do something properly, sometimes even do things for them. All in order to be helpful and teach them.
I wish I had known then what I know now. I learned a super valuable advice from my colleagues at school.
When my colleagues returned from play based learning conference, they said the best lesson for them was, "Fold your arms, close your mouth and watch." Ever since the conference, more than a year ago, they have practiced it a lot with the kids in preschool, grade 1 and in music, letting the kids explore without interruptions, allowing them to figure out problems without jumping in, holding back with answers for the kids to make their own discoveries.  The Music teacher especially has excitedly shared how following this advice has empowered the students and made the time with the kids more interesting than before.
This advice rings on the back of my mind whenever I follow my little nephew around. I fold my arms, close my mouth and watch. Can't help but smile constantly. So much fun. As is watching my mom now.
My mom (72), petite and white haired, looks cute playing in the sand box. I smile and leave the two sieving sand and making some sand soup, seasoning it with wildflowers and grass. Mom sings a song about a mouse cooking a porridge for a chicken and my nephew sings along. They love each other's company.

The little things that make me happy

Waking up late on a quiet morning
Slowly starting the day
Seaside air filling the lungs
Fresh mint tea steaming in a green ceramic cup
Picking a handful of wild blueberries from the garden
Reading some pages from "The Signature of All Things"
Spotting a ladybug climbing on a sunflower

 

Gently return to the practice

When I don't write for two weeks it feels as if my creative spirit got offended and deserted me, and the critic occupies a prominent place in the mind continuously croaking rude comments and switching off the pathways that move fingers. Even with so much to say, too much to say, the connections between the brain and words and keyboard seem non existent.
Last week my brain was awesome. I was able to dig up my memories of cognitive coaching planning and reflection maps, the types of paraphrases, the five states of mind, and add tons of new learning to it. I was able to observe behavioural manifestations of bodily responses in others, determine filters of perception, create mediative questions, follow the problem solving map to invite cognitive shift in others.
During the four days of intensive learning my brain showed excellent functioning. And in the afternoons the same brain easily switched to the tourist mode, navigating maps and public transportation in a new country; discovering, observing, noticing and appreciating the new surroundings. With ease I was able recall the one and only sentence I could say in Italian, "Uno pistacchio gelato, per favore!"
While choreographing a short dance to remember the problem solving map, or watching the super energetic workshop leader excitedly tell stories, or eating trofiette with pesto in a small trattoria in Genova, or walking on a beach promenade in the picturesque Camogli, a little "ding" sounded as my brain registered these as possible slices. The "ding" sounded often during last week. As I said earlier, so much, too much to write.
Did I write a word in my journal? No. Not a line. And this is why my creative spirit is refusing to talk to me. "Find your own words and structure," were her last words. And the critic doesn't stop nagging, "You call yourself a writing teacher and you haven't even touched your journal for ages. Do you even know where it is?"
I know perfectly well where my journal is. I admit I haven't written. Not going to make any excuses. Or be cross with myself. With self-compassion I will gently return to the practice, accepting that even with the best intentions, I may have days when the journal stays closed and the screen empty. But I hope there will be more days of writing than the days of not writing.

Weight lifting and writing

The quarter of a watermelon felt rather heavy when I cradled it in my arms on the way home. My hubby next to me carried the groceries we had bought after finishing our late evening walk. My hubby joked I should lift the watermelon with one hand and carry the grocery bag in the other hand to get some weight exercise done. It's one of our latest jokes. My weight lifting.

For the past two years my director has been trying to educate all the women in the building about the importance of muscle building as we get older. She has shared the research, showed different exercises with explanations of which muscles work, set an example regularly exercising herself and passing the body building teacher exam. Some women followed her. Most shrugged the shoulders. I understood the importance of weight lifting for my body and health. I did nothing. Push ups and me. Laughter. Weight lifting and me. Laughter. Pull ups and me. Can't stop laughing. Yoga and dancing are my favourite modes of exercise. Walking too. But now that my director is leaving in two weeks, I have a set of weight lifts in my living room. I bought them. My director gave me a set of exercises to do daily. I am laughing. But I am still going to do it. I used not to write and thought I couldn't do it. I am writing.

I though of the kids in my class who had struggled with writing this year.  Listening to their answers to end of the year interview made me do a little happy dance in my heart.

I asked them: What might be some successes you had this year?

H: The historical fiction because it was the most writing I have done the whole year.  
S: Writing. My historical fiction. Maybe the "Secret Life of Zack."
I: My writing, I didn’t write before. This is the first time I am writing stories.
F: I almost finished a story that I started with H. I am happy that we started doing it. I like writing with H. He is a good artist, I have ideas. We have good team work.

And a note to remember:

H: Writing is difficult at first, but if you get used to it, you get more ideas.

Little by little, when I practice lifting weights, I might get used to it, and I might become stronger too.