Monday, May 4, 2009

recording it

Sam's words to Marcel on Saturday (I was around the corner folding laundry so you know he meant it): Marcel, I think that I am falling in love with you.
Marcel: shriek- followed by Oh-my-gosh.


I've finished another piece to submit out there to the publication ether. This one is about a miscarriage. I work-shopped the piece, and it's as good as it's going to get. At the moment I have two pieces, no three, waiting for a yeah or nay, and one in the warm up circle. The regular out-go feels so important and impressive. Lots of great staff feedback from the reading on Thursday.

This morning one of my students met me for breakfast and memoir writing. It's an over due assignment he needs help with for another class. I brought the bagel, he brought the material. He lost a family member last year to gun violence. I challenged him to make notes about that over the weekend. He came in saying that he was at a funeral over the weekend and it brought up all sorts of memories that were too hard to talk about.

Then, he started talking. I just listened. Fifteen minutes later his memoir was essentially written. It was the first time that he spoke about his brother's death in such detail to me, and probably to anyone. I typed down everything he said, as I remembered it. He looked over it, and made some edits. The piece organized itself on the paper. It was such an amazing testament to the power of listening, recording, and memoir. He was at least eighty pounds lighter when he left my room that morning. He described the way he feels about everything around him as in a cloud that only he can see.


I am not reading enough. I am trying to write, and not allowing myself time to read. It doesn't work that way. Sam and I completed our first chapter book, Stuart Little. He can now listen without pictures. I had no idea how much joy reading longer books would bring me. My father used to read Alice in Wonderland to me from a little leather bound copy with the silk ribbon bookmark, that I always got to place in between the pages. I could not wait for the moment that I would hear his feet coming down the hallway towards my room. His gentle gait. making it's way to me. His enthusiastic reading, his determination to bring Alice's magic into my room.


When I woke up this morning I wondered if I am making a difference in the world. At all. What is the point of my being here. Blogging tonight has reminded me that I am . A is off with the kids in the park--her Monday gift to me. An hour to myself, to do this, and make dinner, and prepare the lunches, and not yell.


1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Hi Kate, Loved that reminiscence about our reading "Alice in Wonderland" together. Thanks for the memory. LoL, Dad