I hear myself speak sternly to my students. Then I think of changing the title of the Tina Turner hit from “Proud Mary” to “Stern Sherri”.
The notion of applying the descriptors declarative and procedural to identity opens up a box of intellectual surprises I would never have dreamed. First, though, I had to share it “out loud” on Twitter.
When I get to my light teaching day and I feel like I’ve just swum the English Channel (again) before I turn around and swim back to France.
Thinking about this writing business and how much time I invest for my own edification. Simultaneously also realizing that without the daily presence of teaching – the rustling, bustling, corralling and collecting – that writing would lack the same degree of color, profile, urgency, nerve and power.
To stand before students of any age and carry the expectation that they will listen to you, follow your lead, acknowledge your hard won wisdom and expertise, is to be humbled on a predictably regular basis. To persist in this act is courageous, exhausting and a large part of the job description.
Sometimes I use this space as a sort of verbal sketchpad. It’s a place where I can keep some of my not-quite-ready-for-prime-time ideas on record yet not feel compelled to ask the world to help me make sense of them. The more I write, the more my head seems to swirl with topics both mundane and profound. They catch me at night, get caught on one of my sloppy dreams. Sometimes they wake me up, follow me onto the yoga mat, risk slipping out during the downward dog but travel back up my spine on cobra, and nestle in my tangled hair as I manage a headstand. Some thoughts slide into my tea with that spoonful of sugar I can’t resist adding. A few athletic ideas like to jog with me up and down the stairs as I hustle to pick up and drop off groups of students. At any rate, I am surrounded. Hundreds of thoughts coming and going like travelers in an airport after they pass security.
What’s a good way to end a post I couldn’t predict before I wrote it down?
Once upon a time, a girl wrote and wrote until she couldn’t think of single thing more she needed to say. She stopped, saved her work, and closed her laptop and walked away.