An Evening Well-Spent

Sometimes, you just have to sit back and, well, just sit back. I have not done that very much lately, but I did tonight. It was one of the best decisions I did not actually make in a long time. If that makes no sense whatsoever, let me ramble on just a little more. Maybe it will compel one or two people out there to allow the same thing to happen.

OK, here is what happened. This evening, after supper, with Emily at work, Dylan playing one of his video games, and Heidi already snug in her nightclothes, I wondered out to the back patio with a large tumbler of iced tea and a book by Cormac McCarthy. I had been introduced to the author by Greg Froese, a kindred spirit at BHS, and we read one of his works in Honors Sophomore English. He has his own unique style (McCarthy does, although Greg rolls his own way too), and he is quickly moving up my list of favorites. I had spotted one of his novels, All the Pretty Horses, at a garage sale this spring, but did not crack it open until last week, waiting until schools was out in hopes of simply reading for fun and relaxation.

And that is where I was this evening. I have a chair on the deck that requires one to display a great deal of trust in nylon and old cedar as he lets gravity draw him into the depths of the chair's reclination. I fell into that chair with the book in hand and tea within reach. The sun blazed through the leaves of the cottonwood and created stark contrast between the inked letters and the dull white pages upon which they were printed, a fact that allows these tired eyes to more comfortably make out McCarthy's words and sentences and paragraphs as they paint pictures of Mexican jails and greenbroke horses.

Kansas evenings in early June are something special, and few people allow themselves to slow down and let them take effect. That is unfortunate.

When I started reading, the sun was bright and fairly high above the horizon. When I closed the book and grabbed my empty tea glass, I had to strain to read the words on the page. I had not noticed the light begin to dim or the sun dip behind the peaks of the rooftops to the west as it made its way toward the horizon, but eventually it was too dark to make out what was on the page, so I had to stop. I was at one of those spots where I wanted to discover how John Grady's decision would play out, if fate was to lead him to happiness or hardship, if the obviously dubious choice to retrieve his horse Redbo would bring on more mental and emotion anguish or simply to his physical demise. Alas, I would have to wait.

As I climbed out of the patio chair, I felt oddly relaxed and satisfied. I had made no conscious choice to sit there in the Kansas breeze and read until the light was gone. It just happened. Did I have other things to do? Yeah. There is always something else to do. But do you know what? I will have those things to do tomorrow too. Right now, not making a decision to go do something "important" was the best decision I couldn't make. I am glad it happened that way. It needs to happen more often.

By the way, I have not decided exactly how I feel about the novel itself. After this evening, I am only about 270 pages in, so there is time yet. Several times, I have thought "This moves a little slowly," but then I found myself continuing to want to move through it. I guess that makes it a good read. Regardless, the is is well-spent.

And that is what really matters.

Emily Has One More Day As A BHS Student.

Today, one of my seniors told me that I made her cry. It was one of the best moments of my year.

Now, before you think me a complete and utterly heartless jerk, let me give yo a little more of the story. Last Friday, as each class of seniors walked out my door, I handed each young person a copy of a poem I wrote last year as part of our spoken word study. I posted the poem here last week. When the student told me she cried a little, it was a good thing, not because she was made sad by what I wrote, but because that told me she got what I was trying to say, which was, in part, that some of these kids are truly special, and I am proud to have shared these halls and these walls with them for a brief time before they exit and begin their quests toward their individual greatnesses. I always enjoy working with seniors, and each year they surprise me and amaze me, while at the same time frustrating me to no end in a way that only those on the precipice of adulthood and yet still sheltered in the cocoon of adolescence can do. This year is a little different, however. You see, this year, my daughter Emily is graduating. I have been trying for weeks to figure out just how to put into words what is going through my head, filtered through my heart, as my little girl prepares to cross the stage and receive her Buhler High School diploma. It is not an easy thing for me to do. For some of you, this may seem odd, seeing as I tend to ramble on at times and let whatever thoughts might be stewing simply gush forth. As I said, this is different. So, here we go; a true Rambling.

Emily was born shortly after 11:30 pm. After we met her, and I was given the chance to give her her first bath, and Heidi and Emily were quiet and sleeping, I had to slip away and write lesson plans and take them up to my classroom. We had rushed to Southwest Medical Center shortly after midnight that morning, and I while patiently waited through an endless loop of Andy Griffith reruns, Emily made sure that we knew she was going to do things her way from the very beginning. She wasn't rude about it, but she just quietly waited, seemingly ignoring what was going on around her, literally around her, as Heidi strained and cried through over 23 hours of labor. Emily had apparently decided she would join us when she was ready. But I digress.

At around 4 am I made my way to Liberal High School and put my plans on my desk, went back to our apartment for an hour or two, and then returned to the hospital. I went to Heidi's room, where I found her sleeping, but no Emily. I went to the nursery. No Emily. That is a little frightening. I found her, in her bassinette, in the nurse's lounge.  The nurse told me she took her in so the other nurses could see just how perfect she was. I believed her, and I had proof right there.

Now, what is the point of this little stumble through the past? Well, that perfect little girl is still perfect. Does she meet some standard laid out by Cosmo or MTV or other society measuring stick? I don't know, and she doesn't care. You see, she is still doing it her way, just doing what she knows is right amidst all the commotion around her. Sure, she sheds tears (a lot sometimes), and life frustrates her at times. However, she is growing up, from that tiny little picture of perfection, into her own young woman who is uniquely her. And I am proud of her for that. I could recount story after story to show you just how special she is to me, from the times in the neighborhood pool in Liberal to the time I learned she was afraid of heights when she crawled up the bleachers on her hands and knees to the advice about giving the "crazy eye" to the girl who picked on her in the lunch line to the driving lesson that ended in the yard at the end of the block to the excitement she showed when she discovered art classes at BHS to glowing smile she had when Mrs. Dewitt announced at the awards banquet that she had won a scholarship for her passion for art.  The other day in the hallway, I was walking and talking to a football coach from Garden City Community College when Emily strolled up, held her arms out wide, and gave me the warmest of hugs before continuing down the corridor. The coach seemed a bit perplexed, but he chuckled a little when I said, "That is my daughter by the way, in case you were wondering."

When Emily was a freshman, Mrs. Susan Jordan told me that little girls need dads. The truth is, this dad needs his little girl too. The last 18 plus years have been a blessing, and the last four years have been a treasure. Thank you, Emily. And congratulations. You are still perfect, and you are still keep doing it your way.

That Time of Year + A Letter to My Seniors

For those of you who do not teach, or who are not blessed have seniors in your classrooms each day, you may have missed the daily countdown of how many days our seniors have left. We are smack-dab in the middle of that time of year when teachers a grumbling and sporting bloodshot eyes from grading essays, labs, and tests. Oh and those "OMG! I forgot to put that in my folder! can I still turn it in?" assignments that we all love so much. Yes, Kellie, I am talking about you.

This year is a little different for me. My daughter, Emily, has blessed me over the last four years in ways that few people can understand. I had the proud pleasure of teaching her as a freshman in honors English, and she has continued to visit my classroom each school day since. Her sophomore year, on a day my senior classes were in the library, I heard a senior laughingly utter, "She;s coming in hot! and I turned to see this brown-haired angel sprinting (in a running style all her own) across the LMC to give me a hug. Mrs. Jordan has been telling me for two years that I need to value each and every one of those hugs in the hallway, but until recently, I did not really grasp just what she meant. My little girl is graduating. She will always be my little girl, but the days where she will be a daily constant are numbered. And I am starting to realize just how much I am going to miss it. It might not seem like a big deal to be able to trot down the southeast stairwell and duck into Mrs. Smith's room to see her, head bent low over some new sketch or painting, but it will be when I can no longer do it. I will miss flannel, an overloaded messenger bag, and bulky portfolio working their way down the hallway more than anyone can imagine. I will only need one coffee cup, but I will still keep a second around, just in case. The drawer of granola bars will stay stocked much longer, and that makes me sad.

And all of that is ok. You see, she is growing up, and that is how it is supposed to be. I know sometimes it seems as if life would be easier if our little ones just stayed little. But then we would never get to see them grow, and that is something we never want to miss. Emily is not that freshman drying her eyes before she slips back in the classroom, although she is in there somewhere, and always will be. She much more complex, stronger, and more mature. She is a young woman, a young adult who is uniquely herself. She is becoming more and more that person she is destined to be. Is she there yet? I don't think so; she has more growing to do. Shoot, so do I. And that is ok, too.

Without a doubt, I have been blessed beyond belief. For that, I say thank you. The amazing thing is, next year, I will be blessed to have my son in our building. And Dylan, he is definitely his own unique self, too.

I will probably write again on this topic as we near graduation, but I really do not want to right now. I would rather just enjoy the time that is left.  So instead, I will share a poem that I wrote.  I actually wrote this last year, but as we near the end of the year, my beautiful daughter's senior year, I thought I would repost.

“A Letter to My Seniors”

Jason Kohls

I just want to take the time, while I still can, to say one more thing to you

Before you walk out those doors and toss the cap and tassel.

Now, before you groan too loudly,

Remember that with one click, all evidence that you finished that senior project,

Will be gone. Poof. Just like that.

So zip it.

This is what I wanted to tell you, while I still can:

YOU DON’T KNOW.

You don’t know that this place,

Which some of you call a prison,

Has offered the freedom that only security can,

That for some,

This is the only place they feel warm, and safe, and unafraid.

Not everyone, but some,

But you don’t know.

You don’t know

That turning 18 does not really make you an adult

That some were forced to be grown up long ago,

And that others will take, just a little longer.

And some, much, much longer.

You don’t know

How much you will crave Taco Crunch

When you are reheating leftover ramen noodles because that is all that’s in the fridge

After your roommates ate the last hotdogs and it’s 7 days until payday.

You don’t know

That for one kid here,

That already happens every month, except mom lets him have the last hotdog

While she goes without,

Again.

You don’t know

That just when I want you to be gone from here,

Just like you dream of being and do not hesitate to express,

One of you will amaze me with a thought, an act, or words on a page.

You don’t know

That the impact you made here

Where you say you hate coming every day

Is deep and will be seen long after you are gone,

That someone little with wide eyes wants to be just like you

Even though you will be gone,

That the freshman you said “Hey” to on the stairs

Or the boy you helped with his books,

Or the kid who sees you and says,

“He’s like me, and if he can make it, then so can I”

You don’t know that each one of them

Feels a little better today than yesterday

Because of you.

You don’t know

How many times your mom, your dad, your aunt, or your grandpa

Has thought “I’m proud” and smiled

Because you are you.

You don’t know

What the word “commencement” actually means,

That is is not an end, but a new beginning,

You don’t know

That what you are now is no where near what you will become

And that where you will go could surprise nearly everyone

Including you.

You don’t know

How many doctors, builders, teachers, mechanics, mothers, lawyers, nurses, musicians, artists, and leaders

Sit among you right now,

You don’t know

That for every heartbreak and struggle you have felt these past years,

You will feel even more as you grow,

And they will each be worth it,

As you become who you are meant to be.

You don’t know

That despite the headaches

The frustration,

The struggles,

And the anger,

I am glad you have been here,

For a moment or two,

Before you go.

Tell My Story...

This weekend I have had the pleasure of working with young writers at the Prairie Winds Retreat. It is an amazing opportunity, and it is a terrific way to begin spring break. One of the greatest aspects of the camp is that I get to actually complete some of the writing activities with the kids. Yesterday, one of the tasks was for each kid to find something at the camp that they found interesting, silly, impressive, you know, basically awesome. They were to take a picture, and later we returned to the scenes and wrote the story that scene had to tell. 

Below is my offering. I had fun with it. Some of the young writers created some truly impressive tales. 

So, here you have it:

"Tell My Story..."

My rings should tell my story, swirling the years of growth and drought, etching my tale for the world to read. That is not happening. The surface where the saw bit through decades is now charred, and my voice is choked, even as young feet shuffle past what is left of me toward something better, something new, with concrete and steel. I want to scream out that I was not always this stump, this lifeless remnant of what had once been strong and tall.

I want to once again whisper with the breeze, to tell the story of those two laughing lovers who sat beneath my branches. He had leaned against me as he sat, and she had leaned into him, letting the sunlight that tumbled through my leaves dance on freckled cheeks as she closed those bluest of eyes and allowed his arms to wrap around her. Later, as the rays of the sun dipped below my branches, he took a small blade and pressed the tip through my rough bark, carving four letters set in pairs and joined within the border for a heart. I did not mind the discomfort that the scar left, no more than he regretted the indelible mark she would carve into his heart itself, where he hoped to hold her forever. The scar on me fell when I did; I wonder now if those four initials one day became three, or if those two youths would one day become one more.

But I cannot let that story drift do to those who walk past me. That gently carved heart has been replaced with only the blackened char of regret and death.

What treasures I would shower if I could only once more drop the leaves of the tales from years passed. Someone should hold a leaf to the sky and trace the veins that reveal the story of that young girl, pig-tailed and pinkless, who clamored up my lower branches to the highest limbs that would hold her, climbing a ladder seemingly built just for her. I must admit that more than once I leaned my arms toward her, allowing an outstretched hand to pull her up higher, leaving those boys far below. Boys who threw rocks, pine cones, and cruel names, but who would later chase her as high as she would let them.  In my fallen state, I cannot see beyond the horizon of age, and I wonder if she is still climbing, forever fearless, no limbo out of reach, or did she one day fall to earth?

In my leveled state, I cannot see. But, the truth is, I know now I never truly fell. Not when the weevil bored deep within my core, ring by ring, and left me creaking in the Kansas wind. Not when then dropped me from my height, sending me crashing to the grass. Not even when they reduced me with blades and wedges and let flames devour me. No, I still live on. As long as new initials trace the roots to those carved initials or young climbers give life to tiny crawlers, I continue to spread my branches.

Hey you! Yes you, Skinny. I have been ignoring you since they dropped you into the earth and your roots began intertwining with mine. I see they have staked you upright. That is good. We all need a little guidance, especially when we are young and easily bent by the winds that blow. Grow straight and grow strong. And listen: if one day, small, filthy  hands yank you down, trying to pull some laughing creature up or if some smooth, strong hand presses a steel point into your rough flesh, do not sway away. The scars will be worth it.

Thanks, Lacy Pitts @pacylitts

I was called out last night. It must have bothered me because I awoke at 2:30 this morning in a cold sweat, tossing and turning in a fit of guilt and anxiety that would not let me rest. I tried to coax sleep back to my bed, willing my eyes to remain closed while behind those fitful eyelids danced images of failure and frustration. Tortured and tormented, I lifted myself from my useless cocoon of slumber and resigned myself to a long day, thanks entirely to a cruel jab on social media that shined a light on my failure as a writer, a teacher, and, in essence, a man.

Thanks Lacy Pitts.

Maybe I exaggerate, just a bit. It was awake a 2:30 am. I did toss and turn before giving up and getting up just after 3:30. I was not thrown into turmoil by a tweet by young Miss Pitts. I am not really sure what woke me and kept me from falling back into sleep, but I suspect the second enchilada may have had a part in the process. Perhaps another bill making its way through the dual houses in Topeka started my mind turning. Shoot; the Governor may have introduced another education bill for discussion about the time I gave up on sleep. To paraphrase Hamlet, now, in the darkness of night, is the best time to do dirt, to undertake deeds that would force one to blush in the light of day. Of course, that idea assumes that said individuals are actually capable of feeling embarrassment and shame. Evidence would indicate some of our "leaders" have lost such ability.

So no, I should not blame Lacy Pitts and her tweet calling me out for not blogging enough for my inability to settle gently into the peace of sleep. However, I will thank her for nudging me to work toward clicking "Publish" once again.

So, instead of filling my mind, and yours, with more images of sleazy politicians masquerading as social and economic scientists gathered in a back room filled with cigar smoke and the stench of failed "experiments", passing money from pocket to pocket and chuckling about the ignorant fools who actually put them in the position to achieve, well, whatever it is they think they are achieving for the state of Kansas, I will compose incredibly long and rambling sentences that even Vicki Jewel would find challenging to diagram, sentences that turn our thoughts toward more cheerful ideas and more energizing ambitions.

Ironically, I turn to my classroom for such inspiration. My honors sophomores are studying poetry, you see. Currently, they are attempting to create audio-visual products which bring to life extended metaphors that they fashioned to create images of school. The assignment is inspired by Emily Dickinson's "'Hope' Is a Thing with Feathers", Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Wall", and Shane Koyczon's "To This Day".

This project can be a minefield at times, but it can aso allow some students to blossom. "Writer what you know" is how the old saying goes, right? We did discuss cliques this year, and I was hoping to avoid the yearly nugget "School is a prison." I pointed out that that metaphor may have outlived its usefulness and has lost its value due to overuse as an expression of young hyperbolic angst. "Elsinore is a prison" muttered the inky-cloaked Hamlet, and ages later he was echoes by Will Farrel's "This house is a prison!" in Stepbrothers. If that sentiment is in fact what this year's crop of creative minds wants to convey, they should strive to develop a new image that strikes the mind's eye of the reader.

I am excited by what I read. Not every student has a positive  view of school, and the images created by their metaphors are clouded in gloom or cracked by violence. While I am not happy to see those images tied to my mission, the creativity and emotion is sometimes truly impressive. Many are positive, and some shift in mood and tone as the mental pictures unfold on the page. The young poets  have created images for school and its various aspects that range from carrot cake to zoos, from racetracks to shoes, from beehives to mountains as they ahve crafted their extended metaphors (I have avoided calling these poems in class; I have found that simply calling them extended metaphors results in a much lower level of frustration for young men and women who i am trying to nudge away from groaning when they hear the word poetry).

I have witnessed young people labor for dozens of minutes trying to discover just the right word to fit in one line, only to change it again the next day when they reopen the document. Students become poets as they shift from using tired adjectives to vibrant participles. One event that no one outside my classroom may notice truly made me appreciate the opportunity I have each day. One student had created a rather lengthy metaphor comparing school to a zoo. The assignment required 8 lines, and she had placed at least twice that on the class document that held the entire class's offerings. However, she had actually composed perhaps 16 additional lines that she had not pasted with her other work. She was not sure if it was good enough, and she asked me to read it. In it she compared herself, as a student, to a wolverine, caged and observed, but eternally ferocious, fighting to overcome and break free, following an inner drive to go beyond the zoo's walls. It was not flawless, as no piece of writing ever is, but it was vivid. When I told her that her metaphor needed the lines she had written, that it completed the image and the idea, her face lit up, and she smiled, squirming in her seat.

That reaction made my day. That is why I teach young people. Those moments are present each and every day, and we sometimes have to remind ourselves to enjoy them. The smile when a kid finds just the right word, the tear that runs down a cheek when a stanza or paragraph touches something inside a 16-year-old, the furrowed brow when a bright student pushes a little harder to reach a higher expectation, the look of hopeful satisfaction on the face of the student who went beyond the basic requirements for an assignment for the first time this year. Those moments lead to higher assessment scores, and they allow a student to meet standards, believe it or not. More importantly, they lead to learning and growth. They open up minds and hearts, and they let kids find their ways. It does not happen with every kid on every activity, but we strive to make it happen as often as possible. It is not always immediately quantifiable, but it is without a doubt qualifiable.

So, it am going to go to work now. It is what we do. I will image upon image about school. Some will make me laugh, some will make me grind my teeth, and some will warm heart.  And one more thing is certain: they will make me want to go back tomorrow.

Oh, and thank you Lacy for calling me out. Sometimes it has to be done.

Play it a gain, Sam

This evening before I pull up my Honors Sophomore research papers and dive into grading another batch (Yes, Sydney, I am going to grade your tonight, so chill a minute), I decided I need to clear my head a bit, for the good of my students and myself. I do not mind giving the students' work my time on a Wednesday evening, despite the fact that our state senators cannot give even five minutes to discuss a proposed bill that will directly affect how and what we teach in our classrooms.  I chose my profession, and this is my job. It is what we do. However, as I said, I need to clear my head, so I will not write about that. You're welcome.

This week we did a creative writing activity in class which used music. I have the kids close their eyes and listen to a portion of a song. They then have three minutes to create the scene they see. Some kids love it; some do not love it quite so much.  I was impressed with what some of the students produced. I try to use a variety of music with each one offering a different tone and painting a different picture. After one song, a student muttered, "Wow, they just ruined that song." Personally, I like the song. I started thinking. It is amazing how often comments from my students lead me to thinking. I starting thinking about cover songs. Songs originally performed by one musician or band that some other performer has chosen to remake. For some individuals, it is a veritable crime against music to do this. I disagree. The error that is sometimes made is when a band tries to be the original when they cover a song. That is a mistake. Odds are that the second go around will fail precisely because the first attempt was exceptional. A cover song has the potential to be something more, something great, when the performers recreate the song, not in the image of the original but as their own. Notice I said "potential". Even if the new performers make a song their own, it still may not be very good. The potential for greatness is there, however, if the performers are potentially great in the first place.

I am sure some out there will disagree with me. That is completely understandable. However, they are wrong. All right, they are not wrong; they just have a different opinion and differing tastes. And they are wrong. Here is the song that started this rambling train of thought. The original is performed by Elvis Presley. The cover is by a punk band that goes by Leatherface.

Personally, I like the second version. They make no attempt to be Elvis or sound like him. That would be true folly. What they do is perform the song in their own way. They are a punk band, and they made it a punk song. The words are the same, but the tone is different. The energy is different. The song is different. And it is good.

Music is often a matter of taste. I am not a Taylor Swift hater. I actually like her music. However, one band had the guts and gusto to take Taylor's tune and craft it in their own, unique way. The second band is I Prevail, and they might be considered hardcore. It's not screamo. Personally, I prefer their jam, and it is on my workout playlist.

Maybe I Prevail had an easier time with covering "Blank Space" because the song was so new when they put out their cover. Other artists, like Leatherface reach back and grab a classic. That takes some intestinal fortitude. Another band that did that was featured in my previous blog post, but I will use them again. Battleme put out a tune titledPlay it  "Into the Black" which is a cover of a Neil Young song.  My seniors definitely preferred the newer version. The songs are different. Once again, Battleme made the song their own. They did not copy or regurgitate what Young produced. They performed it as Battleme. The made the right choice.

I am sure someone is wondering how in the world I can prefer a cover over an original, or the original over the cover. Honestly, each song stands on its own. The shifts in genre and tone fascinate me. Granted, I am a massive nerd.

At this point, I must go. The music is playing, the paper are waiting, and I made Sydney a promise.  I must do what I do, and do so with a clear mind. Mission accomplished.

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light"

For the last week or so, my seniors have been exploring British poetry that could fall under the umbrella of "Carpe Diem"-themed selections. It has been one of the most interssting and enjoyable units that I have the pleasure to teach. Seniors in high school are a unique tribe, varied and volitile, intriguing and infuriating, energetic and exhausting. We dived headlong into Herrick's "To the Virgins, To Make Much of Time" and combed the lines of Dylan Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night. (On a side note, my son bears that poet's name. He was not actually named after Dylan Thomas as much as the name chose him, seeing as it was the only name that Heidi and I both liked and that fit the 'little booger' when he was born. I am confident he will rage, against any dying of the light.) The students examined the "If"s of Kipling in an effort to decipher what it might take to become a Man (or Woman), and composed their own conditionals along those lines. They pondered the truth and fault in the theme Housman expressed in "To an Athlete Dying Young", drawing parallels with "Into the Black" (I prefer the Battleme rendition; sorry for all those Neil Young fans) or The Dark Knight. 

I have been impressed with how many of the young people in hours 1, 3, and 4 have peered into the words and images, drawing from them emotions and ideas worthy of in depth discussion. They "gathered their rosebuds", argued that they will indeed catch and sing the sun in flight, and questioned whether it is better to set "foot on the threshhold of shade" before having a chance to experience the silence of decline. 

This week, we moved our way through what many might see as metaphorical "streets that follow like a tedious argument of insidious intent", and I am sure some truly do dread the likelihood that I may ask "What is it?" We examined "The Lovesong of Prufrock", and as the yellow fog cleared from the eyes of one young lady, she asked me "What in the world does this depressing poem have to do with Carpe Diem?" That was a legitimate question. Seizing the day was not exactly Prufrock's thing. "Do I dare?" He didn't dare. So, what was the point? 

A more Modernist view of Carpe Diem was less optimistic than Mr. Keating might have been as he urged his young charges to live life while they could. 

Where some see "Life is short, so live it" others see "Life sucks, so why bother?" Where some see rosebuds and the pleasures of scent, sight, and touch, others see nothing but thorns. I told her I lean toward the more positive view, even though I love the powerful imagery and depth of Eliot's piece. You could say I enjoy the artistry of it all, although I think my definition of artistry might differ significantly from Kanye West's. The fact is, I can understand the lament of Prufrock; I can even relate to it. I do not, however, subscribe to it. That is my choice, and it is a choice we all have. 

So, where am I headed with this? Each day, we have a decision to make. Sometimes we have to make the choice consciously, and sometimes it just seems to happen with little effort. Regardless, each of us controls how we seize the day. For teachers in today's schools in Kansas, it does seem that a yellow fog seems to be sliding around our house, covered in the soot that has filtered down from the scorched remains of what some once called a Great Experiment. But, as my cousin stated last week on Twitter, WE will return to our classrooms each morning and do our jobs. We will seize the day. Why? We will do so because we have to. It is not about us. It is about the kids we see each day, who are learning to read, learning to think, learning to live. We have to seize the day. We have to help them gather the rosebuds, because "this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying" and not one of us wants to steal away from those uncalloused hands, those as of yet unjaded hearts, the chance to make themselves the best possible members of this little world we live in, even if time may be short. They deserve to be "chaired...through the marketplace", and we will not be the reason they lose that chance. 

So, seize the day. Let those who have helped you gather your rosebuds know you appreciate it, and let those who now seem to want to tear up the rose bushes by the roots and crush them know that you will not stand for it. In short, "Rage, rage agaisnt the dying of the light" and we will not "go gentle into that good night."