Teach the children well.

Jul3

“Let us think of education as the means of developing our greatest abilities, because in each of us there is a private hope and dream which, fulfilled, can be translated into benefit for everyone and greater strength for our nation.” John F. Kennedy

There is among us a group of individuals who hold the future in their hands. They mold the present into what will one day become our past. Few are willing to take on such an awesome task, such a mighty responsibility. We call those few teachers.

Teachers become a part of every student they reach out to. They leave an imprint that remains with them their whole life through. There are many teachers whose lessons still resonate within me and I still go back to those memories every now and then and gain strength from them.

I remember the names of some, can recall the faces of few, but the ones I remember most are often faceless and nameless in my mind’s eye, for they have become something more than a faded memory to me. Those teachers did more than simply teach.

They grasped for the potential they saw within me. They gently pushed me toward success and I knew without a doubt they were pleased when I achieved it, I knew they still had faith in me when I did not. They incorporated values, pride in oneself and good work ethics into everything they tried to teach. They gave boost to low self-esteem, a pat on the back and a smile for every effort made.

Unfortunately, I remember all too well teachers that approached each day with the unspoken expectation that their students would fail. Too many of their students did fail; they failed to learn from a teacher who failed to teach. I do suppose in some small way I learned something from those teachers. I learned lack of enthusiasm and empathy would only lead to an end I did not desire.

“I have learned silence from the talkative, toleration from the intolerant, and kindness from the unkind; yet strange, I am ungrateful to those teachers.” Kahlil Gibran

I remember teachers who thought sarcasm and ridicule would teach. I remember teachers who lectured and yelled. I remember teachers who told students they would never amount to anything. I wonder if they ever did.

“Do not train children to learn by force and harshness, but direct them to it by what amuses their minds, so that you may be better able to discover with accuracy the particular bent of the genius of each.” Plato

I have fond memories of teachers who taught with kindness and understanding. I remember teachers who said good job and nice try. I remember teachers who turned a failing grade into the opportunity to learn. I remember teachers who told their students they could do anything if they tried. I imagine many of their students were able to reach out and touch the stars.

“The job of a teacher is to teach students to see the vitality in themselves.” Joseph Campbell

Teachers are one of our greatest resources. They do not always receive the gratitude, the accolades and the credit they deserve.

Children are another of our greatest resources. They do not always receive the praise, the attention and the credit they deserve.

Teachers are human. They have bad days and buttons that can be pushed. Some days, they may not want to be where they must be.

Children are human. They too have bad days and buttons that can be pushed. Some days, they may not want to be where they must be.

So many of us were inspired to become who we are because of the role one good teacher played in our life. I became a writer because a teacher believed in me. She showed me a path I’d not known existed. Though neither of us knew where it would lead, she pointed out the possibilities, she help me envision what might lay in wait for me. I am still on that path and in some small way she is right alongside me.

A teacher must be on a continual quest for knowledge else they cannot guide and teach and inspire. A teacher must learn to adapt in a changing world. They cannot teach today’s children effectively if their methods are cemented in ways of the past. They must maintain the core elements of their curriculum, yet have the ability to incorporate them in different ways for different children.

“You can’t direct the wind, but you can adjust the sails.” Anonymous

A teacher must remember each student is an individual. Not every student is equal. They all learn differently. They all act and react differently. Some have disabilities, some are gifted and some are right there in the middle. Some require a strict approach, some require a sensitive one. Some need a bit of both. Not every student is equal.

“There is nothing more unequal that they equal treatment of unequal people. ” Attributed to Thomas Jefferson

A teacher must recognize the uniqueness of each student, seek out their strengths, their talents and passions as well as their weaknesses.

“Expecting all children the same age to learn from the same materials is like expecting all children of the same age to wear the same size clothing.” Madeline Hunter

If a teacher truly wants the respect of their students they must first model it by giving it.

“The secret of education is respecting the pupil.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

Respect is learned and then earned.

“Great teachers empathize with kids, respect them, and believe that each one has something special that can be built upon.” Ann Lieberman

Teachers have a direct connection to who their students are and who they will become.

“Treat people as though they are what they ought to be and you help them become what they are capable of being.” Goethe

My goal, my dream, was to be a teacher. I never made it to the front of a classroom, but nevertheless, I became a teacher. I taught my children the faith and the values and the morals they need to have and then I built on the knowledge their teachers imparted to them. I tended to the seeds they’d sown, but just a seedling cannot grow without sun and water and care, a student cannot learn without praise, encouragement and time. Next to a parent, a teacher can be the most influential and guiding force in the life of a child.

“I put the relation of a fine teacher to a student just below the relation of a mother to a son.” Thomas Wolfe

Every action a teacher takes, every word they utter and every mood they have, whether it be for a moment or a day, will affect and impact the lives of the children they teach. A child should never leave a classroom feeling a failure. A child should never leave a classroom with guilt or fear or shame.

“Education . . . is a painful, continual and difficult work to be done in kindness, by watching, by warning . . . by praise, but above all example.” C.B Neblette

A student should walk away knowing even if they failed, they have the opportunity to succeed the next time. They need to walk away knowing their teacher believes in them. They need to walk away and want to come back.

“Nine tenths of education is encouragement.” Anatole France

For every seemingly troubled child, there is an underlying reason for their every action, whether it be emotional, mental or physical, there is a reason. Children are born with the innate desire to learn and please. The child labeled problematic was born with the same desire; something or someone along the way robbed them of it. A good teacher can help find what was lost. Some children may seem unreachable, even unteachable, but those are the ones who often have the greatest potential to learn.

“A child miseducated is a child lost.” John F. Kennedy

Sometimes a teacher will see the fruits of their labor as they watch the growth and change their influence has made. Sometimes though, they may not. There is a certain Chinese bamboo tree that once planted, seemingly does not grow. Initial growth takes place deep below the surface for many years. Before the first signs of life can be seen the tree has grown a strong root system that will sustain it as it begins to grow above ground. Within a year it sprouts from the earth and grows to be one of the strongest and tallest of the bamboo trees. There is no way to know which student will be like that bamboo tree. Just because you can’t see growth, doesn’t mean it is not taking place.

As parents, we entrust the most precious and valuable things in our lives to teachers. We trust they will provide the care and nurture required in our absence. We must do our part to teach them to respect and honor their teachers as someone of great importance in their lives. I valued my children’s teachers, they were role models partnered with me in shaping my children’s futures. I only asked they value my child and all the children in their charge. While teachers mold the future for their students, they are molding their own as well.

“A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops.” Henry Adams

Crystal R.Cook

A day at the river.

Jul3

More shoebox memories.

I remember this day so well . . I woke early and sat on the picnic table next to the tent we’d pitched by the campfire’s glow the night before. I just sat, watching all of God’s glory begin to stir. I spent most of that day in silent observance, I watched and I listened and I wrote throughout the day. I wrote of love, of memories, and questions often pondered.

At the end of the day I felt such peace. Tranquility washed over me as the sun set below the tree line. It was a beautiful, beautiful day.

The morning sun
brought the
flowers to bloom
along the banks
of the sleepy river.

They stretched forth
their petals
as if in praise,
while hungry bees
dined upon their
sweet nectar.

The glistening dew
that formed
in the night,
fell to the ground
for the thankful
earth to drink in.

Songbirds
sang out
in soft serenade
as they searched
the moist soil
for food
to fill the
mouths of their
hungry babes.

Diamonds danced
upon the surface
of the waters
while life below
began to stir
from slumber.

Trees swayed
in the soft
spring zephyrs
as the sun
peaked high
in the
afternoon sky.

Furry little
squirrels darted
to and fro
beneath the
shadowy shade
of the trees
they called home.

The sun then
slowly made
retreat from her
lofty place
to spread
rays of gold
elsewhere,
the trees
bowed in thanks
as the sky
grew dim.

Mama birds
flew home
to their nests
to cradle
their young
in the warmth
of their wings
while the
crickets welcomed
the moon.

Fog again settled
over the river
as the flowers
tucked themselves
in for the night.

With bellies full
the bees
nested
and the
playful squirrels
were at rest.

Once again,
dewdrops formed
as moonbeams
began their nightly
waltz atop the
once again
sleepy river.

Crystal R. Cook

*Credit for the photo above is unknown, at least to me.

Please don’t judge me.

Jul3

Every spring I get this incredible urge, it lasts throughout the summer. It borders on obsession really, if I don’t satiate my desire it overwhelms me. Every year I tell myself, not again, but when the spring zephyrs begin to blow, I find myself searching for them.

I suppose I should call them what they really are, I have come to a place of acceptance with what I do. Victims. They are victims, innocent and unworthy of their fate, but no matter how hard I try, I cannot help but seek them out in an effort to fulfill this secret fantasy of mine.

I guess you could say I stalk them at first. Once I find one I think would be perfect, I admire from afar, building up the courage to take what I should not be taking. No one ever suspects, I don’t look like the type to be engaging in something so unseemly, it only makes it easier to walk away with my prey. Usually it’s just one at a time, but every once in a while I end up with more. It’s easier to do what needs to be done with just one at a time.

Last summer I went crazy for a week and ended up bringing one home every day, it was too much to deal with, they expired quickly. This year, I have so far resisted, my husband intervened after I was
caught dumping my last failure, his disappointment in me was heartbreaking. He stuck by me though. That man is a rock.

I’m not sure I can hold out much longer. My desire has become a need, a thirst begging to be quenched, a hunger screaming to be satiated. I think today is the day. There is no one around to stop me. All I want to do is nurture and protect, I convince myself I’m rescuing them but in the end, they all end up dying, buried beneath the damp earth in my yard.

I remember every one of them, how beautiful they were before I stole away with their life. I miss them, I just can’t help but think the next one will be different, I will be different and we will be happy together, I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.

If I could find ~~an accomplice~~, a partner who would not judge me or interfere, maybe it would be easier. I can’t ask my husband and involving my children is out of the question. I should go to the authorities and just turn myself in, I just want to try one more time before I take that step. I have to believe I can make this work.

This may be a silly question, but . . . What kind of fertilizer do you use? Do you water in the morning or the evening? Potted or in the ground? Is there some special type of soil I should be using? Help me. Please, help me before I go to Home Depot and find more helplessly, beautiful flowers to kill again this year.

Don’t judge me. I try.

Crystal R. Cook

He doesn’t truly mean me any harm . . .

Jul3

Not sure If I should be worried . . .

My son loves swords, he is always coming up with new ideas for swords he wants to one day make. He loves to share the details of his many, many, MANY, ideas with me, this morning was no exception, but his wording left me with a wee bit of trepidation ~

“Hey Mommy, I have an idea for a sword I want to run through you.”

Freudian slip? Not so passively, passive aggressive?

“You do mean, run BY me, right?”

“Right?”

After the storm.

Jul3

Storm raged.

Crimson rains fell.

Fragile flower
shattered.

Shards
held together
by faith,
hope,
escape.

Pieces of
broken promises
scatter
beneath
timid footsteps
of freedom.

Cleansing rains fell
as new
days began
to dawn.

Never look
back.

Crystal R. Cook

Holding Hands With Joy

Jul2

Acceptance is the greatest gift we can give to those who may be different in some way. I was fortunate to have learned early in life to accept those who were not just like me, I was also fortunate to be accepted by them in return.

My mother taught me well, I played with children who were different and they played with me, I never knew others shunned them or judged them until I was blessed with a life changing event, a moment in time which cemented my resolve to help and advocate for those others would not.

I’m not certain just how old I was, perhaps twelve or thirteen, right around the age I felt I was too old for Girl Scouts but wanted that last badge. My girl scout troop was invited to a place called Hope Cottage. It was a home for physically and mentally disabled people. It was an emotional day for all of us; it would be years before I grasped the full meaning of all that transpired during our visit.

From the outside looking in, it was a building like any other, nothing fancy, maybe even a little run down. When we stepped through the doors, we entered into a world we never even knew existed. As I looked around, I noticed a young man, sitting alone. He seemed to be having the most wonderful conversation with someone only his eyes could see. Not too far away sat another boy, rocking to melodies only he could hear. A girl, older than me judging by her size, was seated in an adult sized high chair of sorts, being spoon fed by one of the care givers.

Her name was Joy and I will never forget her. As our guide was introducing us, one of the girls in my troop noticed Joy had on a rather large diaper peaking just above the waistline of her pants and began to giggle and whisper about it to her companion. They were both taken from the room immediately. Joy just smiled an innocent, unknowing smile and turned back toward her meal.

Our guide explained Joy had been shaken when she was an infant and even though her body continued to grow, in her mind, she was still the playful baby she’d once been. One of the girls in my troop began to cry and was taken from the room as well; Joy looked toward the door and with a mouthful of oatmeal said “Hug?”

Suddenly the room began clapping for her! “Good word Joy!” She beamed, she absolutely beamed. I couldn’t help but smile even as a tear fell from my eye. I was asked if I wanted to leave, but I didn’t, I couldn’t.

I remember looking around the room at the drawings decorating the walls. Some of them could have easily been drawn by toddlers while others were amazing works of art. It was as I looked upon one of these portraits, a young man whispered, “That’s mine.” I smiled as I told him it was a beautiful picture. I had no idea then it was his, a glorious work of art created by a boy who lived his life somewhere along the autistic rainbow.

Joy began to cry as the oatmeal was being wiped from her chin, I found myself by her side offering words of comfort. Her big baby hand took hold of my arm, the woman firmly said “Be soft Joy.” She was. She smiled at me; she truly was a beautiful baby.

Before I knew it, we were being rounded up to leave. I think part of me did not want to go and the other part of me wanted to run and never come back. I experienced many emotions in the days and weeks to come. I felt sadness, confusion, pity, perhaps even anger.

Soon, my sadness faded as I realized they were not sad. I’d not seen frowns on the faces of those children, I’d seen beautiful smiles. My confusion vanished with the help of my mother’s wisdom. I realized I had no right to pity them; they did not want it or need it. Any anger I may have felt was fleeting, it was more of a helpless type of anger. The sort you feel when you think you should be able to change something you know you cannot.

Years later I drove past the run down home and saw a mansion. I looked past the unkempt grounds and the peeling paint and saw a mansion. Through the window I saw angels. I have always wondered if they were the children who resided in the cottage named Hope or if they were the care givers who kept watch over them. Maybe they were all angels, simply here to teach us and touch our lives.

That day changed my life forever. Maybe it was that day, as I looked into the eyes of Joy; God decided he would bless me with children who would require a little more than most. Children who would hear melodies I could not. Children who would live in a rainbow of colors I would not always be able to see.

I often think of the young girls who laughed and I hope they learned something from their experience, I hope they took something home and taught it to those who should have taught it to them. I think of the girl who could not stop her tears from flowing and I hope she found peace and understanding.

Our world is made up of more than color and social status, more than what we see with our eyes, we have to look with our hearts as well. We owe it to our children and their children’s children to make the future a place where all are accepted and never will there be a need to ask if children should be exposed to angels . . .

I will never forget that day. I will always be thankful I was given the opportunity to stand among angels, holding hands with Joy, in a place of Hope.

Crystal R.Cook

The End of Her Pain

Jul1

Going through more old files I came across this one . . . It’s filled with a wee bit of affectation, but I was fifteen when I wrote it, I vaguely remember it being a writing assignment.

The End of Her Pain

Her weapon of choice was words. Words forged from the icy steel of her anger. She stared quietly at him, through him. He felt uncomfortable and vulnerable as her eyes penetrated deep into his soul. She spoke not, simply let her eyes talk in the absence of voice.

The biting silence was nearly enough to tear him apart. He felt his hands trembling as anxiety began to blanket the air about him. It seemed an eternity had passed before he felt the sting of her first blow.

“I can no longer bear the torment of what you call love.” she finally spoke and he felt he’d been struck so hard he should fall from the force it.

“I no longer wish to be shackled in the prison of your heart,” as the words darted from her lips his pulse quickened, confusion and anger wrestled within him. “The cold and darkness of it has dulled my senses and robbed my soul of peace.” Her monotone voice made him uneasy in his own skin.

He searched for words of his own to defend himself, no words would lend themselves to his desperation. His pleading eyes looked to hers for mercy but found none. She remained unstirred and unmoved by his obvious plight. If anything, she revelled in it.

A flurry of questions raged within him. Had he turned this sweet soul so sour and bitter? What had he done to deserve such an attack? His mind raced for the answers he longed for. The answers did come, for the first time it was clear to him. As his smug arrogance began to fade from the reality of her pain, he realized what he had not done for her was the abuse she’d endured for so long.

Always he had thought wounds were made with anger and harsh words, or the pounding of a fist. Now, in his memories, he so clearly recalls all he had chosen to ignore in the past. He sadly sits and thinks of how her lovely smile would fade when he dismissed her dreams. He saw for the first time the many tears that had fallen as he turned from her in times of need. He felt guilt for all the times everything else had been more important than her.

In his newfound clarity of mind he knew the damage he had done. Years of neglect and selfishness had left far worse a wound than any weapon could have delivered. He wanted redemption. He wanted to fall to his knees and beg for her forgiveness, but his arrogant pride had not yet been fully broken, he couldn’t bring himself to do the only thing that could end this torment.

She looked into his eyes and knew she did not have to speak another word. She could plainly see in his desperation she had bruised him, but as she turned to walk away from him, forever, she simply said, “I hope you find happiness.”

As the distance between them grew they both knew he never would. She’d made sure of that. Somehow her words had changed him, he now felt unworthy of happiness. He’d taken his chance and tossed it foolishly aside in the blind assumption he could do no wrong.

He’d taken her love for granted. When the petals of her love began to wither and fall he crushed them beneath his feet. He could have saved the beautiful flower of her love, he could have quenched her thirst and filled her world with light, but he didn’t. He left her to wilt in his shadow and now, nothing would ever grow where she’d once been.

She felt the slightest twinge of pity for him, knowing the misery she’d left him to. He would forever walk alone with his thoughts of what was, what could have been, and what will never be. As she raised her eyes toward the sun, taking in the warmth of it once again, she knew her pain and sorrow was forever ended and his had only just begun.

Crystal R. Cook 1985

Our world

Jul1

Subjective Variation . . .

Jul1

I have pretty honest kids, I really do. It’s fairly rare I catch them being untruthful . . . one of them though, he blurs the line between honesty and deception every now and then. For instance, my coconut waters go missing, I find the empty containers in his room.

Me: “Stop taking my drinks.”

Him : “I didn’t.”

Me: “I found the empty cans in your room!”

Him: “Those are old.”

Me: “Old as in yesterday?”

Him: “I didn’t know they were yours.”

Me: “They are always mine.”

Him: “You didn’t say that this time.”

See, he gets me on technicalities. Empty cans from yesterday, technically old. I put them on the shelf without specifying they were mine (even though they always are) so technically, I didn’t tell him they were not for him. He is a master word weaver, if I could afford it, I would send him to law school. He would make a great lawyer.

When he was in his mid-teens I busted him mid-fib, I no longer remember what he was trying to deny, cover-up, make light of, or get out of, but what he said in a last-ditch effort to worm out of the situation was epic . . .

“It wasn’t a lie, it was just a subjective variation of the truth.”

My son, the smart, witty, and wonderful troll he is, succeeded. I lost my composure and started smiling. At least it was an almost admission he was practicing the art of deception, just a little.