"Like the study of science and art, accounts of historical events can be intrinsically fascinating. But they have a wider significance. I believe that people are better able to chart their life course and make life decisions when they know how others have dealt with pressures and dilemmas---historically, contemporaneously, and in works of art. And only equipped with such understanding can we participate knowledgeably in contemporary discussions (and decisions) about the culpability of various individuals and countries in the Second World War. Only with such understanding can we ponder the responsibilty of human beings everywhere to counter current efforts at genocide in Rwanda and the former Yugoslavia to bring the perpetrators to justice."
"...we humans are the kinds of animals who learn chiefly by observing others---what they value, what they spurn, how they conduct themselves from day to day, and especially, what they do when they believe that no one is looking."
----Howard Gardner, from The Disciplined Mind, published in 1999

Saturday, June 30, 2007

Gautama, Take the Wheel; or, It's Raining Puppets

I am most fond of the "Mutts" comics. Patrick Mc Donnell's work is absolutely marvelous, and makes me very happy.
The Little Pink Sock is a frequent character. It is the much-loved object of the Mooch, the kitty protagonist.

Puppets continue to pop up all over the place for me: they are singing karaoke, they sit as part of an imaginary audience to alleviate stage fright, or they become shadows projected on the wall by the light of a camp lantern to alleviate a little boy's fear at sleeping alone, for after all, he's used to sharing the room.
Now the Little Pink Sock is in on the act!
It makes me very happy.
So on this day when some Buddhists celebrate the first Turning of the Wheel of Dharma, I wish for you, dear reader, to have time to be with your own Little Pink Sock today, and to be happy and well.
Yesh!

© 2007 Patrick Mc Donnell muttscomics.com

Friday, June 29, 2007

Calling the Lama from Afar; or, What the River Gave Me

Dear reader, I am most glad that you are here to keep me "on task," as the shop talk goes.
I've challenged myself here in this venue not only to develop the habit, the practice of writing, but to assign words to that which I normally would---as the New Testament was fond of saying about a practice of Mary the Mother of Jesus---keep and treasure in my heart.
Whenever I would read this about Mary in the Bible, I would say, yes, I can see that; and in reading these accounts, I would always feel a well-springing forth of good feeling and deep affection: one that was not replicated when reading any other part of the Gospels.

This summer here has been so humid and still, as it has for you as well, perhaps. My sons and I have spent much time at our lovely river. The boys enjoy wading into it all, to see what they might find, scooping up and sifting silty through their hands: crayfish, minnows, pebbles, skipping stones. That boy I would chase by this same river, he the Gingerbread Boy, I, wanting some sugar, is now taller than I and teaching his much younger brother the finesse in the skipping of stones. He's even perfected the art of skipping crayfish. Can I say what a gleeful thing that is? And how eager his younger brother is to move onto that craft?
Me, I enjoy sitting on the soft bank, in the green-silver light that reminds me of the light of della Francesca or that other Northern Italian Renaissance painter who so articulated the quick-silver shimmer. It is often spoken in Zen practice that one may practice zazen most anywhere, doing most anything, and I attempt to realize this in my day-to-day. Laughing at skipping crayfish as they bounce upstream, knowing that their Mr.Toad's Wild Ride will be over soon enough is one of the ways that I practice.

I've mentioned Buddhist practice before to you, dear reader. What I must tell you is that I have no official affiliation as to my form of practice; I attend no bricks-and-mortar sangha. I am one who feels very much at home with the minimal or the baroque: thus I find my practice is informed by not only Zen, but by the distinct Mahayana form of Buddhism that is Tibetan Buddhism.
As Zen is particularly amenable to solitary practice (thanks, Boddhidharma!), Tibetan Buddhism is best realized when practiced under the tutelage of a lama. Having no access to a Tibetan-lineage sangha, much less to a lama, when I sometimes feel the need of a lama, I think of the experience that I've held and treasured in my heart, as Mother Mary: the puja destroying the sand mandala. I think of the aged lama who led the puja, who with beauty and ferocity in slow motion took gorgeous complexity and brushed it into a pile of muddy-colored sand.That first moment, when brush came to sand, seemed to turn the world in every sense to me.

Dear reader, it is one of the things I keep and treasure in my heart.

My younger son and I visited the river one day last week when we found ourselves to our own devices. Yes, he caught a few crayfish; after collecting them to see who was biggest? who was tiniest? they all were happily released to the current. On his way wading out, he noticed something from beneath a rock, and plucked it out: a small rodent skull, perfectly clean of flesh and hair. May I keep it? he asked. Sure, I replied. As he set it on a rock to adjust his shoe, we noticed it leaking. (Here, I must tell you, if you are somewhat squeamish, please skip ahead.)Although the skull was perfectly clean, the cold temperature of the river, in tandem with the inverted position in which it was wedged beneath the rock, must have allowed for the retention of some small amount of brain-matter in the skull cup to remain, and to decompose at a much slower rate than the rest of the flesh.
Can I keep it?
And so, dear reader, this is how I found myself shaking a rodent skull over the river to dislodge the remaining funky brain-stew so that it might exit the small aperature at the base of the skull through which the spine, with its bundle of nerves went crackling: you can imagine how it went, dear reader; it was exactly the action one uses when one shakes the ketchup out of the bottle onto a plate of fries.


So what did the river give me?
It gave me the most funny koan of a skipping crayfish, like the twirling of a flower.
It gave me a message from the lama from afar: like so much brain-stew into the silver current; an affirmation of life in all its complexity and simplicity; beautiful and not-so-beautiful.
This is the picture.
Treasure.
Enjoy.
Repeat.


http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Image:Lotus_flower.JPG#file

Thursday, June 28, 2007

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

Puppet Karaoke Time!; or, Let Your Fingers Do the Talking

I must tell you, dear reader, that I cannot hear the words of the title of this post without hearing them sung to the tune of that maddeningly endearing peanut-butter-jelly-time banana.

Can't you hear it also?

Puppet karaoke time, puppet karaoke time!

Puppet karaoke, puppet karaoke, puppet karaoke with a baseball bat!

Dear reader, we were in Philadelphia yesterday to see the King Tut exhibit at the Franklin Institute. I learned of the existence of puppet karaoke when reading the Sunday Philadelphia Inquirer this weekend.

It is most disappointing that one may only enjoy puppet karaoke on Thursday nights. You know me, dear reader: I would have been there with the proverbial bells on my toes (although not as an Oobi-style puppet: modesty forbids, for the point is for the puppet to do the work, yes?)!

http://phillyist.com/2005/08/19/puppets.php

http://www.uwishunu.com/2007/02/15/let-the-puppet-do-the-work/

http://www.puppetkaraoke.com/

And if the possibility exists that you want to view the dear banana:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s8MDNFaGfT4

Friday, June 22, 2007

Simple Gifts; or, Excellent Birds, Part Two

When I bought a pound of rose tea at New Man Kam last week, I felt foolish as I watched the gentleman fill my order from the giant glass jar of tea leaves.


One pound of tea didn't seem so very much when I said it. One pound of tea seemed so very much as he continued to scoop out tea from the jar and fill a plastic bag with the leaves. Well, I said to myself, there's nothing to be done. I won't ask him to stop; that wouldn't be quite right. Well, I thought, I will figure something out.


Can I say, dear reader, that last week as I watched the bag fill, I thought, oh, too much.


Now, now as I hold that gaiwan that is Mme de Pompadour pink, that feels just right in the hand, the porcelain hot, the steam and the scent and the taste all floral and pink, all oaky and dark; sometimes images of sun and shade and wild roses looping their canes out of the funk of dark loam flash and fade as I close my eyes to take that first sip, now, now I think: just right.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Kiss Me Goodnite, Eddie!

Dear reader, I spent most of today writing my term paper that is due tomorrow. Since I am also required to present the paper tomorrow evening, I made a PowerPoint slide presentation as well.

The slide show is so that the people in the class have something to look at other than myself, dear reader, for I am pretty well petrified of the thought of giving this presentation.

As I am wont to have props and manipulatives on hand, most especially in front of a room of adults, I am enlisting my cello to be my service prop.

My presentation is on "Integrating Multiple Intelligence Theory with the Basic Student Needs of Belonging, Power, and Achievement."

8 human intelligences. We all have each and every one of them in some measure.
Like the notes of an octave.

We all have our own intelligence profile, unique and unlike no other.
How many songs can be made? I'll play snippets from a few oldies but goodies for you.


Our intelligences are made manifest in the pursuit of goals, and in the context of the pursuit.
I'm glad that you like the Ode to Joy chorus as well; I'm sorry you don't agree with my choice to play a riff from Pop Goes the Weasel at the end!

Borge, Gardner, Wences: I'll be imagining they are there in the room.


So much better than picturing people in their underwear.
members.aol.com/dwmyers/images/senorwences.jpg

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

No, That's Not What I Meant

Dear reader, the New York trip was excellent, though most tiring.
As I have a paper to write that is due this week, I will not be doing much writing here for the week.
May I tell you that I brought home the most lovely gaiwan from New Man Kam in Chinatown?
It is a lovely shade of pink, one that I think of as Mme de Pompadour-pink.
It is the vessel of best fit from which to drink the rose tea also found at New Man Kam.

You can read about how to brew in and drink from the gaiwan here:
http://chineseteas101.com/large_gaiwan.htm
Did you mean gawain? asks Google, ever so politely.

Friday, June 15, 2007

Happy Weekend!

Happy Weekend, dear reader!
We are off to New York City to celebrate the end of the school year tomorrow. Can I say how excited I am? Dim sum, museums, and more Mr. Potato Head parts from the Disney store on 5th Ave...
(sighing happily)

Here is an interesting article by Temple Grandin on visual thinking. I came across it earlier this week doing my project research. She is one of my favorite writers/role models:

http://www.pilambda.org/horizons/v84-4/grandin.pdf

Please enjoy!

Thursday, June 14, 2007

The Persistence of Memory; or, The Treachery of Images, Redux

Today is the final day of the school year for our boys. Next year, one will be in his final two years of high school; the other, still in elementary.

Sometimes I find it interesting and useful to think about the fluidity of time, of memory. I've had occasion to see many science-fiction type stories played out in various media, and I am often drawn to thought about that common story arc, that of the parallel universe/time travel: often, one character, upon discovering that alternate realities of the reality previously thought to be the one true reality truly do exist, travel through the ubiquitous time-space continuum to a different, alternate reality.
The traveler does so for many various reasons: to avert some tragedy; to gain information; to start over; to become deus ex machina; really, to be or to do anything. Truly any number of reasons are given; that's part and parcel of the pleasure of the playing of ideas, from fingerpainting to string theory, that question begins it all: how would you like to play?
There is some strange comfort to thinking about being able to have access to such a thing. If time is like a river, moving along into the ultimate sea; or if time is like, say, moving along in a spiral as if tracing the continous coil of a Slinky-type toy with one's finger, wouldn't it be good to be able to move back upstream to leave a little sign, a little touchstone, for the ride; or to be able to convey a wish to stop thinking about the circles of motion (round and round) and begin thinking and feeling about the direction of motion (up and up)? To say, look, this is the picture.
Frida is one of my favorite painters. She speaks to me, as she does to many others, with a unique language of icons. It is accepted in art history that she did not wish to be known as a Surrealist; some say it started with her abhorrence for Andre Breton. She was not averse to labels, when appropriate; she just didn't care for the word in reference to her.
An eloquent lady in many languages, that Frida.
shown above, right:
Memory, or the Heart, Frida Kahlo

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

On the Corner; or, Metta Unexpected, Part Two

Summer vacation will begin for my children on Friday morning. With the lovely challenge before me of how best to make use of the first of the last two independent mornings, I decided to visit an establishment in town that I often pass but have never visited. The reason for my visit was that I had heard that one of my dearest friends is now working there.

I've not seen her for a while, as she had been out of state for her own joyful purposes. As friends often do, we had been out of contact for a while. And so I was eager to see her.


Dear reader, I must tell you that although I had never before visited this place, I pass it every time I return from classes at night. It is a family place, an old-timey style place on the corner; with an ample porch and outdoor seating should you choose to take advantage of the beautiful day or night. At nighttime, I always look forward to seeing the glow of the lights, reflected back again through the mirrors on the back wall, and seen through the plate glass windows, and seeing all the people gathered. Just so.


It is a happy place: if Hopper had been feeling so inclined to paint Renoir's boating luncheon at the Moulin de la Galette, with an interior of the Folies Bergere, it would be a picture of what I see when I pass it at night. And it is a lovely sight, making one feel a little lighter and glad to have such warmth there on the corner, in one's own town.






Luncheon of the Boating Party, Auguste Renoir
www.phillipscollection.org/html/lbp.html

Moulin de la Gallette, Pierre Auguste Renoir
www.msubillings.edu/art/Realism-Impressionism.htm


(imagine her smiling to make a more correct reference)
Bar at the Folies-Bergere, Edouard Manet


When I entered the establishment this morning, I did not at first see my friend. I was about to leave, when the proprietor greeted me. Dear reader, imagine my surprise when I realized it was D., an acquaintance I had met through my friend, J. when J. worked in a different shop. How glad I was to see her; and not only D., but in quick succession came many good people with whom I have had happy acquaintance!

Dear reader, I wish I could convey to you the abundance of that place, and of those people. What a beautiful generousity that D., J., and L. offer, and how glad I was to be able to be with them and all our neighbors.

The old popular song says that you can't always get what you want, but you sometimes find that get what you need.
I like to think that sometimes happy finds us more often than we know, just so.

We need but open the door, say hello, and stay a while.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Green and Black Lace with Lite-brite; or, Metta Unexpected

Although my school district has completed its school year, the district that my sons attend is still in session. I've taken advantage of this today by going to the University early to complete research on a paper that is due before the month is over.
It is a beautiful June day, clear and warm. I decided to save money on parking fees in one of the city parking garages and park about a half a mile or so away in the parking lot of a city park fronted by a river.
I loved walking over the river bridge. It has both a pavement walkway and an iron-work-type of walkway. I chose to walk over the iron-work. The river was glinty-green against the black of the walkway. Lovely.
At the end of the bridge, there is a crosswalk. There is a traffic light there; the street to cross is a one-way street of several lanes.
The crosswalk has a pedestrian signal, indicating when it is safe to cross the road.

The signal is two images. One is an orange hand, depicted in the classic traffic-cop signal that says "stop" (but that for some time now also can be interpreted as "talk to the hand"); the hand glows steadily and cool, as if someone had made it from a Lite-brite toy. The hand is silent. The other image is the stick-figure-type of a single walking figure. The figure is white. It also glows in the same Lite-brite manner as the hand; however, it does not do so steadily. It blinks: on, off, on; and does so until the orange hand reappears. The figure is not silent. As the image flicks off, on, off, one hears the sound of a chirping bird.
As the hand glowed, I stood waiting, happy in the sun with the river glinting and moving behind me. An old man finished crossing the bridge and he took his place on the curbside as well. The bird began to chirp and we moved together across the road. What a simple and beautiful thing.


I've finished printing the necessary scholarly, peer-reviewed articles. I will now wade through the pile, dear reader, and thank you for your help to me, aiding me in this thing that is the practice of writing.

Monday, June 11, 2007

Strange Is Your Language and I Have No Decoder; or, Why Don't I Make My Intention Clear?

The majority of our students in the classroom in which I work have a diagnosis of autism. Autism is a condition that one hears very much about these days, and one that also can cause people who wish to speak about if for any number of reasons to approach dialogue about autism in increasingly polarizing ways. I myself am reluctant to write very much about my work, and only do so here because I wish to reference a certain way that our classroom, and many other classrooms providing service to children with autism and other differing abilities, approach communication.
Those with autism process sensory input differently than those who are "neurotypical." To oversimplify: in most cases, for those with autism, spoken language is not as well received as an input as is visual input. Although it is good practice to use visual input with all students, it is especially important for our students. When using spoken language, we often use what is known as "alpha statements:" statements pared of all but the essential, placed in the most simple words with best fit. These statements are then most often paired with visual cues, such as pointing or other gestures; sign language; or visual icons.
These visual icons can be used to facilitate communication when verbal language is not as much a player in the game of communicating. There are many assisitive technology devices that employ these icons to help along functional language; some more simple than others, some more expensive than others. The most commonly used system for creating icons is a software package called Boardmaker. One may find it here by following the link to the manufacturer's website:
http://www.mayer-johnson.com/
One can also design and make one's own "device" by creating icons and arranging them in the pages of a ring binder. The icons are backed with Velcro dots, and then affixed to Velcro strips arranged on the pages.
With this method, one can create pages dedicated to different conversations: for instance, a page for greeting statements, such as: hello, how are you? (or affix another icon such as "glad to see you, and so forth)--- I am (affix the appropriate icon); a page of request statements, such as I want (affix the appropriate icon, such as "a break," "to work," "to go to the bathroom;" a page of feeling statements, such as I feel (affix the appropriate icon---happy, sad, sick, etc.)

One can customize the icons and the pages for each child. Each main page can be further organized as each type of conversation dictates: if the child communicates the desire for a break by attaching the "break" icon to the "I want" statement during the course of communication, then another "I want" page is indicated, and the student may choose from several icons representing different break activities, such as a motor activity, a quiet choice, or a trip to the water fountain.
The organization is akin to how you might organize your folders and subfolders in your computer, dear reader.
Our students' schedules are posted using icons. The icons are arranged vertically on a Velcro strip affixed to a posterboard with their names on top. The icons show the students their day from start to finish. At each schedule change, the students remove the icon for what is now on their schedule, go to that area of the classroom, and then place the icon in the icon collection basket in that area.
There is something very satisfying about that.

I think that I have a tendency to use language as the icons are used in the classroom.

For instance, when I wrote about the rose petal in the arugula, there was much more to it than what I wrote; yet I chose the words I felt best parsed what actually occurred into a manageable packet that I might be able to transmit to you, dear reader. Though I was able to do so to some satisfaction when I posted about the rose petal, more often than not, I am more often seeing the icons of my own fashioning in my head.
In the Boardmaker software, one may customize the visual icons by typing whatever text you wish. To the side of the blog, I found a free icon of the 'Boardmaker-type" online; to the icon, I typed the text to a common phrase in our classroom: "time for group."
That was a fairly straightforward meeting of verbage and visual; yet it is often difficult for me to find the appropriate words for the visuals, and indeed, the sensory, that I perceive.

It's the old chestnut, that Appollian v Dionysian debate.
Words? Pictures? Perceptions?
Mutually exclusive? Tenuous relationship at best?

Dear reader, the students in our classroom brave the front lines of that age-old battle daily.
They are some of my best teachers.

Happy Belated Birthday

To Laurie Anderson, the first person who conveyed to me in a way that made sense that there is more than one way to approach language.
My intent was to post a few favorite videos from YouTube; however, YouTube seems convinced that this blog does not exist, so I am not able to post the videos here: instead, please follow the links as you choose.
I have always loved her generousity of expression.
Isn't it beautiful?
Isn't she beautiful?

Language Is a Virus
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4FeyGTmw0I0
Excellent Birds
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_6qCpLOebZ0
Smoke Rings
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NnRjTKVWzw8
O Superman
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0hhm0NHhCBg

Sunday, June 10, 2007

Ceci n'est pas un pipe

Thanks to www.artunivers.com, one of Magritte's Treachery of Images

Dear reader, it seems that I have already resorted to the use of images rather than words, and done so in five posts or less. Truly, the only surprise is that it did not occur sooner.
It has been my habit to set the timer and to write during that proscribed time: no more, no less. The post that I began working on yesterday addresses the issue of images, words, and the someplace between the two. I've exceeded my time limit yesterday and today.
Yesterday I posted an image; today another. Both will have to speak for me until the timer is set tomorrow, dear reader. I'm glad to have your patience.


Saturday, June 9, 2007

Do you want to play?

You fill in the blank.

Friday, June 8, 2007

Excellent Birds

This is the picture:
Yesterday I opened a bag of baby arugula. As I shook some of the leaves from the bag into a bowl, one small, peachskin-rosy rose petal tumbled out.
I was very happy.

Wednesday, June 6, 2007

Time Is a River; or, Do You Like Mulch in Your Shoe?

Today was the first day of summer vacation for me.

After the boys went to school, I decided to go to the river that I love. It was a lovely morning, the kind that everyone remarks on in passing, because we just can't believe we've been gifted with such a day.

It was sunny-bright and windy and a little chilly with the breeze that was blowing. In the pocket of my sweatshirt I placed a packet of sand that I keep; it is ironic that I keep the sand given its provenance: the sand is from a sand mandala honoring Chenrezig, known as the Buddha of Compassion in Tibetan Buddhism . The puja was performed by the monks from the Drepung Loseling Monastery; my keeping of the sand is ironic as the purpose of the puja is to destroy the sand mandala in order to speak certain truths about impermanence. Dear reader, you might follow the link to see for yourself: http://www.mysticalartsoftibet.org/Mandala.htm#top

It is at this point, dear reader, that I must disclose that I have been most in need of cultivating compassion.

I must also disclose that I have been in need of integrating the knowing of impermanence into my life.

The first time I visited this river, I was brought there by a former boyfriend. We had meant to surprise each other, and we did, delightfully so: I brought watermelon, his favorite; he brought me to a river, my favorite.

I visited this place often, even after J. and I parted ways. It was running along the riverbank after my-then-2-year-old son (he, pretending to be the proverbial Gingerbread Boy; me, pretending to be in hot pursuit) that I remember laughing for the first time in years. (Dear reader, I had been isolated and abused for some time before becoming free. More words for another time, perhaps.) When I received the phone call that told me of my brother's death, I immediately came to the river, in the winter; where else would I have turned?

Without any other way to explain this, I know these feelings each time I visit, and there is deep and simple satisfaction in it.

I wished to just sit without words for a while. I work in public education in an elementary special education classroom. Our classroom will miss one of our special people (who I will, out of necessity, give a designated pseudonym---Cerulean).

Cerulean's parents came to feel that Cerulean was not receiving adequate delivery of service in our classroom, and they are seeking a new placement. Cerulean left rather abruptly, and I felt very sad, for many, many reasons. We are always sad when we know we will likely never see people we care for again, are we not? I felt sad that Cerulean and classmates were not able to have a chance to say goodbye to each other in whatever way they needed; one of the manifestations of Cerulean's autism is that Cerulean does not use much verbal language.

Attachment, dear reader, is the cause of much suffering.

So feeling some strong attachments to feelings and ideas about the Cerulean situation, I went to the river.

As I was walking the trail before sitting zazen with the river, I met a woman, a young girl, and a large dog on the path. (No, dear reader: although it sounds as if it is a promising beginning to a joke, it is not. ) After pleasant conversation about the beautiful day, I remarked that I liked the lilac-colored Crocs worn by the girl. I laughed a little as I said this, as I myself was wearing a pair of Crocs. The woman said, they are a pretty color. But she keeps being bothered by the mulch getting into the little holes. Does it happen to you? the woman asked.

Sure, but I don't much mind, I said. I just slip them off, dump them out, and start all over again. The woman looked dubious for a fraction of a second, and then laughed a little. We went our separate ways.

I found a rock that proved a perfect seat and sat by the river. The intent of my sitting was to cultivate compassion regarding the situation with Cerulean. The day that Cerulean left was difficult for us for many reasons. That night, I had a nightmare. I was in a classroom with our students when Cerulean jumped up and ran out of the room. I chased Cerulean through the stereotypical labyrinth of corridors and floors of bad dream architecture. I finally was able to catch up in a stairwell. In my dream, Cerulean began to speak to me, in "I need..." sentences. Complete sentences. Many, many sentences. I didn't have anything that Cerulean requested in my dream. In my dream, I did not think twice that Cerulean engaged me in a wave of verbal language.

When I woke from this dream, Cerulean's speech was most wonderful and very sad, all at once.

When I was ready to return to the rest of my day, I stood up, and poured some of the sand in my pocket into the river.

I had to laugh a little again at this point. I suppose I finally perceived the joke, dear reader: you know, the one about the girl, the woman, the large dog, and mulch in the shoe?

I remembered that Cerulean sometimes wore Crocs. When this occured, Cerulean would, as a habit, deliberately insert mulch from the playground into the holes.

Language Is A Virus: Or at Least Laurie Anderson Says So

Words have never been my strongest suit.

For instance, the scent of the mogra and the gulab, the chandan or the champa, that I light daily during devotions or ordinary routines such as the washing of the dishes speak as much to me as the words playing over the radio during the NPR news. The sound of the river that I frequent speaks as well to me; as does the dappling, off-on patterning of the sunlight and shadow through the leaves to the path; as does the sensation of the grip and give of the dirt and vegetal matter through the soles of my shoes on the soft earth by the water as I walk. More often this input is more favorably received by me than verbal language.

Why then would I begin a blog?

Dear reader, it is because I wish to address this, my prickly relationship with the written and spoken word. I know of no other way to do so then to practice writing. Those who know me might suggest that I have ample opportunity to do so, as I am a graduate student in special education. Plenty of writing, that, dear neroli, you might say. And you would be correct. It is for the abundance of graduate writing that I need to practice the practice of writing.

A colleague with whom I will no longer be working gave me a parting gift: she told me that I would just have to get over my displeasure of writing. Thank you, Miss B, you are absolutely right.

So here I am.