Momma Clay’s Musings

Prompt:  What is the most important lesson(s) you’ve learned or taught as
a teacher (or as a ______)?
Or:  Make a list titled, Tips for Teachers.
 

Lessons life has taught:  I must be in Living 304, prerequisites of 101, 102, 203, & 204.  The freshman level classes are what we learn as kids birth to age 18.  As we complete them, whether we pass or not, we get placed into adulthood.  Some go willingly; some are pushed kicking and screaming.  The main objective in these classes is to become responsible and self-supporting.  It also can include that whole choosing a mate and forming a family unit.  But then comes the movement into 305.  This passing into upper level courses is not obvious like the end of a semester in college.  It’s the kind of things where you gradually, or suddenly, realize that hey, I’m the adult.  Almost all the parents, aunts, and uncles are gone on and the few left behind need help doing things and I’m the one helping.  When did I become the adult?  What happened?  This is scary.  This is a lesson:  we all have to grow up, or face the alternative of death.  That brings me to my lesson.  Letting go.  Letting go is hard.  Letting go of innocence when you face heart break.  Letting go of carefree actions without fear or even awareness of consequences.  Letting go of childhood memories.  Letting go of being the baby, because I was the baby, until both Dad and Mom were no longer here.  Now I’m the one saying to my son, “As long as I’m living; my baby you’ll be.” 

Letting go.  Realizing that letting go of my parents into the hands of death was hard, but letting go of my children into the hands of the world of adulthood is even harder.  Letting them drive alone, graduate, go away to college.  One would think it would be a relief since adolescent children can be such obnoxious pains in the butt, but when they go our that door and our of sight, I remember the sweet smiles and full body hugs of children that were such joys.  I have to let go of that memory because it’s passing through my consciousness is just as painful.  Letting go.  Letting go of a friend that is my age to disease and then death is painful.  Watching someone whom you love and share secrets with turn from a happy, vibrant, joyous, fun lover to an old before its time body who suffers so physically and mentally that he forgets how to laugh.  Letting go is watching the light in his eyes change as the pain and struggle to catch breath fills that orbit.  And then, letting go as I see him one final time in that sterile hospital environment and know that death is near.  Letting go as I realize that the funeral really means that I can no longer see his face across a canasta card table, laugh at corny jokes, expresses an opinion with “whatever,” or dial a number and have a friend’s heart listen to daily woes and share personal successes.

Letting go brings tears.  Letting go is hard.  I scream, inside, that I refuse.  I fight.  I chomp at the bit.  But, like other life lessons, the sooner I learn to accept them, the better off I will be.  So, I let go, crying.
 

Letting go is the hardest lesson and by the time I get through 305, I realize that 306, 407, and 408 have come and gone, and darn, I’m already in the grad school level of this Living Curriculum.

I think…I think a lot
I think fast and furiously
I think but not before I speak
I think bizarre things
I think funny responses
I think faster than words can express but slower than my mind can process
 

When my environment is not challenging me I think and the paths are like the spiders Doug talked about with a search engine.  Thoughts go all directions and lead me into interesting paths and walkways.  I think like Dr.  Seuss without rhymes.
 

An exercise my family has done is to take a question or comment one of us makes that seems to be off the wall and totally unrelated and try to trace that thought process back through the maze of ideas to where we actually are.  My son and I realize just how slow our world is and how fast our minds are when we try to trace our “thinks.”
 

I think I like writing.  I think I like even more a writing community.  I think…Ithink.
 

I think chex mix is like thought.  How is it that so many different shapes, sizes, textures, colors, flavors, and grains can be together at one time and still be appealing?  How do most people eat a trail mix?  Do we put our hand in, grab several into the fist, and just throw them into our mouths to let the taste buds on our tongues separate them?  Is that the way we think?  Just let all those thoughts mix and blend and let the brain cells taste them before they are sent to a place to be stored?  Or do we take one item, a pretzel or a corn chex or crunchy crouton, put it in and savor it before we add another?  Maybe that’s deep thoughts, metacognition—thinking about thinking.

Prompt:  Space…the final frontier….
Or:  Describe the ideal classroom space.  How close is your classroom to the ideal?  Where do you place students?  Where’s your space?  Is there a sacred space in your classroom?
 

Space—Space—Space—Space—the final frontier—What is space?  William Shatner—James T. Kirk has a home in Kentucky.  Did anyone else know that the four chief characters on the original Star Trek are examples of an ideal leadership team?  If we study leadership/behavioral styles, there are four basic categories, controlling, analyzing, supporting, and promoting.  Individually each has strengths, as well as challenges, so a mix of all means that a team having all would be able, theoretically, to work effectively with all types.  Kirk is the controlling, Spock, of course, is the analyzing, Doc McCoy “Bones is the supporter, and Scottie is the promoter.  Controllers are in charge, have the final word and are the take charge kind of guys.  Analyzers want all the details; they want reams of reports to peruse before they decide.  Supporters will make the decision that best meets the needs of the group; they are in tune to people’s feelings and always have a tissue box on their desk.  Promoters get an idea and go with it; they’re always enthusiastic and willing to get the group involved with a let’s all do something and have a party while we’re at it. 
 
So what does that say?  None of us is one of these types all the time, but we move around.  Interesting.  What a bout Karen, Karen, Peggy and myself? Well, “Van” Karen Mc is an analyzer, obviously with all of her digital expertise and desire to research everything.  I, on the other hand am quite the opposite—a promoter, energetic, gung ho, ready to party, and urging others to join in and have fun.  What about Karencia and Peggy?  I don’t know them well enough, yet.  Wonder if either or both of them keep tissues on their desks?
 

So, back to space.  The Hubble telescope is out in space with camera problems and they are going to try to reboot it or something.  The latest planned shuttle launch is going off on schedule this weekend, even though NASA knows there are possible problems with the heat tiles.  If there are developments, the crew can go to the International Space Station to make repairs.    Will we ever actually travel in space?  We’ve not been great caretakers of this space we’re in.  Can we be trusted in a new frontier?  Space—Space—Space—Space.
 

One final thought.  Space to teachers is different at various grade levels.  College teachers share “room” space with other teachers, but have their own offices to call their own space.  High school teachers mostly have their own “rooms”, but some have offices like the college instructors.  However, look at the elementary teacher.  Her/his room is their domain!  Ask them to share their space, and war is on.

What shall I write?  As I leaf through Heard’s Toward Home I found a number that I was considering—
The one to keep the channel open to the presence
The one to write about a single noun
The one to write a prayer
The one to return to a moment in childhood
Even unpoetic words, but my A-H-H-A moment came on Songs to Everyday,
So here goes
          My
 

                                      ODE TO THE TOMATO
 

Tomato – Tomato
Red and Bright
Yes, Red, no Yellow for ME
perfectly round
Roma oval
misshapen or perfect
small or large
distinctive flavors
all so enticing
 

Tomato – Tomato
seeds dripping off my chin
fresh picked from a garden
sink my teeth in
to savor the warmth
and juicy delight
 

Tomato – Tomato
whole, sliced, diced, chopped,
raw or cooked
flavored with salt or basil,
oregano or thyme
enhanced with vino
or mushed into paste
Tomato – Tomato
So Versatile
So Universal
So Necessary to Me
alone, warm, cold
paired with half funners
added to greens and veges
flavors enhanced with creamyranch
 

Tomato – Tomato
There’s none quite
Like you
If consuming love
Is what you seek
I can reply
How do I love thee?
Let Me count the ways!
 

Prompt:  What are your sacred spaces?  The places you think, create, plan, day dream?  Where you fell most at home?  Why?  Explain.  (Refer to Heard p. 18)

Or:  What is cyberspace?

Letting my mind’s eye travel from site to site in my life I start to ask if I have a sacred space and where is it?  Multiple choice question:

a)                  desk at school—a whole lot of work gets done there, after the kids leave in the evening

b)                  desk at home—ha!  It’s too piled up to be able to work on

c)                  couch—left side beside the touch lamp.  That’s definitely my corner of the world

TV on for background noise, I grade papers, pay bills, study my Sunday School Lesson, read books and even write a little and then when I’m done I have to put everything away.  Except I’ve made a concession. There is a nice glass vase, supposed to be ornamental and pretty, that has become functional.  It’s now a pen/pencil holder.  You never know when you’re going to need to write. 

Why is it the left side of the couch?  Well, because I’m right handed.  I can write, work, or even eat I realize, with my right hand and can reach for a drink with my left.  The arm of the couch with an assorted pillow strategically arranged becomes my lap desk.  I have one of those too, but it gets used only occasionally when I have to keep things organized like balancing the check book.

This sounds silly.  I know most of the fellows will have this quiet, secluded, “feng shui” place, but I’m in my own little corner of the world, in the corner of my couch—reminds me of one of Cinderella’s songs from the musical.

Where else is a sacred space.  Obviously to me it’s in a group of writers.  No famous people to the rest of the world, but teachers who see the need to take their summers to stretch themselves; to press forward and apply themselves to better teach their students.

HAPPY SUMMER!
 

Prompt:  Remember your most memorable summer moments and places.  Recreate them in as much sensory detail as possible (see, feel, touch, taste, smell, hear) as “snapshots”—(vignettes—a snapshot in words).
OR:  Do the same for your classroom, the particular spaces and moments.
 

SUMMER 2002
 

Peering through glass framed by the metal of a window at this
        unknown location
Rows of connected stone houses crawling along lush hillsides
In the distance like legions of house soldiers
Clack, clacking as train travels over the rails
Hearing the murmur of quiet voices
Even-breathing of someone snoozing behind me
Seated across from a friend in a little “foursome” arrangement
Not just rows of two all facing the same way
Feet adjusting to make room to stretch legs from being seated so long
“Sorry”   “Sorry”  “I’ll go right and your go right and then we’ll be okay.”
Slight stirring of cool, conditioned air interrupted by a blast of heat as
         door  is opened and BATH is announced with British accent
 

Rooftops visible as far as the eye can see, every shape & size
Geometry lesson in real life to name the figures
River obviously flowing through a break in roves, but no movement detected from this height
Until a boat comes in focus floating slowly across the surface
Obviously full of happy tourists
Step to the edge, feel the wind, feel the openness—FEAR
There’s a rail, but it’s so far down and feels so empty—
Step back, breathing slows and reason returns
Look around and see two people, zoom in on them like a one inch picture frame –contrasts
Petite, dark, flowing hair falling straight past dainty features.  Flowing skit with peasant shirt, quiet voice talking to companion.  Tall, large hands, big feet, sharp, angular nose, overdressed in a billowy, pink dress more suited to the Moulin Rouge that the Eiffel Tower.  Wait—it’s not a woman, it a guy in drag.  A really ugly guy in drag.  Ah—Paris or should I say Gay Paree?

HAPPY WEST VIRGINIA DAY!
 

Choices:  As a teacher what have you learned about pace?  Describe the pace of your school day.  What pace works best and how do you maintain it?
OR:  As a (teacher) (writer) (           ) what are you falling in and climbing out of again & again?  What is your voice saying?
 

As a writer I am falling in and climbing out of practice again and again.  Writers write consistently.  Writers write daily.  Writers write constantly.  Writers write voraciously—as a starving child attacks food, writers attack paper with their words.  I keep falling out of writing.  I’m lazy and a procrastinator.  In the morning I hit the snooze and refuse to get up early to allow myself some time to think and write:  at nighttime I say I’m just too tired to think.  I just want to relax and fall asleep to rest and be ready for the next day to come.  So– admit—when it comes to writing I am not self motivated. 
          What do I do to climb out?  I stay involved in Writing Project through SI and continuity programs.  I’m like a person wandering in a field that suddenly finds themselves at the bottom of an abandoned mine shaft after the earth falls in under their feet.  I’m in a deep, dark hole looking up through a small ray of light; the sides are sheer rock, too slick and steep to climb and I’m stuck at the bottom with no paper or pen and net even a loose rock to scratch the days off with hash marks in the surface of the hard rock. 
Then into my view comes an escape ladder.  Writing Project faces become clear and a ladder is lowered to me—with the blinding light of creative prompts and plenty of supplies.  As I write, I climb a rung—and with a little more ink on paper comes several more rungs.  Soon, I have reached the top rung; my head is above the ground and I see faces I know, names I know, and new faces to learn—as each of them encourages me to write….and write….and write…and write. 
I must write.  My voice tells me I must.  The first time I recall writing to give voice to the inner me was in adolescence.  The drama and despair of the first lost love; the hurt of being jilted; and there I was sitting on our front porch on a hot, cloudless summer night pouring out my feelings of rejection and hopelessness.  As I sat in that rocking chair my words flowed in the same patterns, back and forth, appearing to go nowhere as a rocker does, but in reality traveling miles and miles through teenage angst.  And oh so many life times later, here I sit.  I need to write, for me.  Life is so busy and we can go on day to day refusing to acknowledge that the past is full of dark moments and disappointments.  With the joys of existence come the heartbreaks and heartaches of myriads of losses—deep sadnesses that seem like those abandoned mine shafts.  Writing is the way to climb out—to give voice. 

What is teaching?  I suppose a dictionary definition might be imparting knowledge to others, but on a personal and professional level, it’s so much more.  It’s a job, a career, a vocation, a means of support, or to some a means to an end or even torture.  To me, it’s what I was meant to do.  It’s my calling.  Hard to organize my thoughts right now, but teaching is a way of life and it is my life.  I thought, way back in high school that I wanted to teach, but was unsure of the subject and age level.  I thought about Math—I was a pretty good student, but as a senior I took the National Math Exam as a sort of contest with the Math Club—a negative score sealed that idea’s doom!  I still knew I wanted to teach.  I knew that summer breaks and holidays worked for families and the teachers’ kids in school seemed to have a distinct advantage when it came to that tutoring and opportunities thing.  I wasn’t sure what major, but I enrolled in my 1^st semester of college taking general across the board courses—and during that semester my advisor encouraged me to enroll in her nutrition course the 2^nd semester.  Well—I was hooked.  When I realized that I could learn a little about everything from cooking to sewing to child development to housing and careers, I know I could always be involved and there would be no time to get bored.
 

After graduation there were not Home Ec. Jobs, so what could I do?  I took a job subbing and eventually a self-contained third grade classroom.  I spent the better part of that year learning as do most new teachers, but eventually got my sea legs.  And now I look at teaching much as someone else might look at surfing.  You’re dressed and ready; got your wet suit on and your equipment prepared; just like a waxed board, waiting for the waves—the kids.  Each wave is different: some small so they just rock you a little, some a little bigger, they give you a little ride; some really rough, you get almost up and they throw you off that board and you wonder if you’ll surface in time to get your breath or will you drown.  But then, there’s the one you wait for—the one you can ride all the way in to the shore—that’s the teachable kid, at the teachable moment, and the one you can connect with—from now until you reach the sand.  Every wave comes to an end, as do students and school years, but they start over in just a few weeks and once again you wax that board and get ready for the ride. 

I am Diana Lynn Herald Clay, daughter of Harry and Bea, mother of Leah and Josh, teacher of Family and Consumer Sciences at Logan Middle School, and admitted Writing Project Junkie.  This page is being created while I am Co-facilitating the Marshall University Writing Project in Huntington, WV.  My involvement with National Writng Project began in the late 90′s when I attended several Staff Development workshops conducted by NWP Teacher Consultants in my home county of Logan.  I got hooked, but it wasn’t until the summer of 2000 that I could free my schedule to attend a full Summer Institute. Not only was I hooked, I was dependent.  I have been involved since then and now I am attending my seventh Summer Institute.  Previous summers I have attended the Coalfield Writers’ Satellite Site of the Marshall University site, so I am excited to be traveling on the Mother Ship, so to speak. 

Summer Insitute charges my batteries to get me ready for a new school year.  It is a time to renew friendships, meet new people, commune with colleagues, respond to prompts from real people, write till my hands and my heart hurt, and share thought, ideas, actions, and of course, food.  I am a procrastinator extraordinaire and have learn in my over half century of life that I am not a self motivated writer.  Writing Project activites make me write.  Writing keeps me mentally healthy.  Writing and sharing with others not only exposes my skin, it brings to the surface those hidden emotions that get shoved to the back of my closet of awareness.  Basically, writing is cathartic and Writing Project gets me there.  Beyond the Summer Institute I am involved with the Leadership Teams for the The Marshall Project and the Logan Satellite, Coalfield Writers. 

One other thought–the name Momma Clay came from students over the years who were not only in my classes but attend school and had class, especially band, with my children.  Someone used the name once–and as

Hello, everyone.   Today in Bart’s presentation I referred to the WV Dept of Education’s Curriculum and Technolory Resource Center at Cedar Lakes.  Their website is:  http://wvde.state.wv.us/ctrc  When you go to that site, you can click on the link to the Library and then search or scroll for resources available. 

 Also, Happy West Virginia Day everyone!  I realize that we are a multistate group, but we do meet in Wild, Wonderful West Virginia, known in my childhood as the Switzerland of America, and catergorized by our governor as Open for Business.  Diana