tag:karenjoybrown.com,2005:/blogs/blog?p=2Wildflower Recovery2023-08-01T03:07:37-12:00Karen Joy Brown Publishing 01/07/2022Exploring recovery through creativity categorized by topics featuring poetry, writing, and music by the host, guests, and more. Wildflower Recovery-Flourishing where planted in any seasonKaren Joy BrownfalseKaren Joy Browninfo@karenjoybrown.comtag:karenjoybrown.com,2005:Post/72504212023-08-01T03:07:37-12:002023-10-16T02:55:33-12:00Yellow Ball of Light<p><i>There is no situation too difficult to be bettered and no unhappiness too great to be lessened. </i>This mic drop of a sentence forms a part of the closing reading in Al Anon. I'm sure I repeated it a hundred times without fully appreciating it. </p><p>Most of us want to <i>solve </i>our problems; get rid of them. But like every living thing in this world, our problems just want to be loved. So, the real task we have is sitting with them, listening and practicing acceptance before jumping to some kind of action. Like Thich Nhat Hanh says, our problems aren't something <i>outside </i>ourselves. The people we have challenges with live <i>inside </i>us. When we understand that, we become open to compassion, which is actually the solution.</p><p>I've been practicing meditation, literally trying different things out, for at least five years now. When the topic arises in conversation, a lot of people tell me it's something they are curious about, have tried unsuccessfully, or they know it would be good for them. That sounds like an annoying task to get done! I like to think of meditation like someone asking me, “Would you like a free, professional massage?” Yes, I would. </p><p>Lately I've been experimenting with meditations that focus on specific chakras. That is not something that I ever expected myself to say or do, but I've become increasingly willing to do anything that could <i>better my situation or lessen my unhappiness</i>. During the last year of teaching, my normal stress response of migraines expanded into stomach pain. In effort to attend to that, I started looking into what's going on when stress expresses that way and realized that there is a lot to the concept of the solar plexus chakra's connection to confidence, assertiveness, and decision making. It isn't news that I've got a lot of personal work to do in that area, but I get that it has become a “front burner” kind of challenge.</p><p>As a result, I tried a <a class="no-pjax" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pz47Fv_TQDU&authuser=0" data-link-type="url">meditation</a> that, had it been in the beginning of my experimentation, I would have never continued. But now, I'm game to try things that seem a little “far out” for a person who grew up with a Marine father from Amish country. Try the link if you feel adventurous, or some other kind of meditation that feels like a massage to <i>you</i>. Read this poem I wrote about it to get the vibe. </p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;"><strong>Yellow Ball of Light</strong></span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">They told me —- </span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">There is a yellow ball of light inside your stomach, </span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">just</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">below your heart</span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">Breathe into it,</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">watch it expand</span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">But it feels instead</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">like a little canary</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">bumping into wire bars</span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">like a stone lodged firmly</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">in the granite cliff of </span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">my life</span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">I sing to my solar plexus</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">reaching back to the centuries circle</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">holding hands and chanting</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">my mouth round </span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">my throat a portal</span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">Just below my cage of ribs</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">a buzz</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">a hum</span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">I am </span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">that yellow canary</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">the curving cage and swing</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">that cliff </span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">of sheer rock</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">soaking up the sun</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">flattened in relentless winds</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">I am</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">that wind, relentless</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">the waves of light</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">traveling great distance</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">just to smile</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">warmly on your</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">face</span></p><p> </p>4:16Karen Joy Browntag:karenjoybrown.com,2005:Post/72232842023-06-08T04:49:22-12:002023-06-15T15:27:59-12:00Letter From Your Future Self <p dir="ltr"><a class="no-pjax" href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1nD9GJNRDhgtrIUub6W1PnlBs-BCY2BBy/view?usp=sharing" data-link-type="url"><strong>Click here to LISTEN</strong></a><a data-link-type="url"><strong> to this post</strong></a></p><p dir="ltr">I just finished a meditation from a favorite new source, <a class="no-pjax" href="https://www.youtube.com/c/artistmorning" data-link-type="url">Artist Morning</a><a data-link-type="url">. </a>The title of the mediation, <a class="no-pjax" href="https://youtu.be/o4IV1MIfcEU" data-link-type="url">Calling All Angels</a>, would have put me off before. But I am currently much more open to support of any kind. This time of year naturally brings change with school year endings, vacations, and disruptions to routines. This normal reshuffling is intensified with a larger, deeper one. </p><p dir="ltr">This year, I have begun the process of leaving my teaching job. Letters of recommendation, applications, and contemplation sprouted up like crabgrass through the landscaping fabric of school work and family responsibilities. No solid leads presented themselves for transitional employment, leaving me to sit with the deep knowing of what I want to do.</p><p dir="ltr">Instead of staying frozen in fear, I'm seeking support from many directions and resisting the urge to act immediately. Meditation has taken a front burner position along with joyful exercise, writing, and music. These tools work together along with friends, family, and Al-Anon to make me better able to hear, see, and know the next right step for me to take.</p><p dir="ltr">This morning's meditation reminded me of a writing prompt from a month ago where I wrote a letter of support from my future self. Take a moment to read it if you can, and I hope it inspires you to try it out yourself. You'll be delightfully surprised at what you future self has to say. Share your comments and responses wherever you read this post to reveal the like-minded community of support that exists all around us. </p><p dir="ltr"> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">Dear Karen,</span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">It's hard to believe five years have passed. Cute little Lei Lei is a beautiful young adult taking charge of her own life, doing things her way with courage and love. She is breathtakingly beautiful and funny. You would be so proud and amazed at her growth. </span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">I’m not going to be too specific about Dave. I just want you to know that your greatest fear of not experiencing easy love turned out to be pointless. You are already starting to feel the power of acceptance because of how you are starting to accept yourself as you are. Remember, Higher Power says to be ready to go in any direction. You picked him to grow, and you both have grown in amazing ways. You can be proud, hopeful, and at peace.</span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">You spend so much time worrying about the school thing, and now those all-consuming concerns seem far away and muffled. The days now are filled with contemplation and activity fueled by whole-hearted commitment. People are working with you by choice constantly and the atmosphere is pulsing with love and gratitude, and even disbelief that things can be so good despite a lot of struggle. You have moments in the spotlight and delicious hours following through with creative work. Decision making has become more streamlined, and you are much less apt to be derailed by other people’s ideas of what should happen.</span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">I wish I could wrap you in a sparkling blanket of energy that would melt into your skin and infuse your nerves with warm relaxation. You are going to be OK. All your ideas of security and planning have become delightfully irrelevant because as soon as one cool project winds down, inspiration for the next wave carries you forward. </span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">People are going to know you, see you, and delight in exactly what you naturally have to give. You will find a worldwide community of poetic souls that sigh with relief and appreciation just to hear you speak, sing; to see what you write and draw. </span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">I urge you to keep going. Whenever I meditate, sit at the ocean, or hike in a beautiful spot I send you waves of peace, compassion, and expansion. Do you feel them? It is so hard for you right where you are. You caught a vision of the future just in time for residual tides of darkness trying to pull so many under. Hold on, sweetheart! There is so much joy waiting for you; so much daily peace to wade into and float upon. </span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">It must be near impossible to keep taking those small steps toward this beautiful life in the face of so little encouragement. Looking back, I get excited because I can see that you are really on your way now, and all the things that would normally deter you are falling away. You don’t see it that way, but I am just starting to recognize the power I live in every day in your heart. Can you feel it raising you up so your feet barely touch the ground? You really can not guess all the beautiful serendipitous moments and cosmic connections ahead. </span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">It is absolutely worth it. Push through, love. Find all the support you can. I will be waiting here for you, cheering you on through every difficulty. When you doubt putting something you created out there, just do it. All the messages are floating on the sea, almost arriving to those who need it most. The sooner you send out the relief, the sooner it can get there. It is important. In fact, it is the most important thing. Your purpose in life. You did a great job with the students even on your worst days, and there were a lot of those towards the end. Don’t worry. You will see many of them again in the future and they will recognize the love you gave them at great cost. You can let them go.</span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">I love you and everything you are creating right now. Don’t worry about your limitations. The limitations are just signs that say “DO NOT.” Ignore them. What they really mean is, “It’s time to play!” That is your superpower. Playing, daring. Connecting deeply. </span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">I am already here, so just keep moving ahead. I can almost see you around the bend of the earth. Can you hear everyone here cheering for you? There’s a lot of us. </span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">Your future self,</span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">Karen </span></p>Karen Joy Browntag:karenjoybrown.com,2005:Post/71970132023-04-25T14:21:59-12:002023-04-25T14:22:00-12:00Teacher Failure and the Elephant of Wisdom<img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/391627/75ad915800dab328795dd3457d335dd2c93f7e2d/original/img-0673.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><p dir="ltr"> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">One of the things we learn at Al Anon meetings is self-compassion. Strangely enough, we do this by listening to each other week after week, non-judgmentally, with a loving smile on our face and hugs after the meeting if we are willing. I can listen almost endlessly to a repeated complaint or story from fellow members with a warm glow of acceptance, but when it comes to listening to myself; impatience, embarrassment, and shame can creep their way in. </span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">I’m sure that I have repeated myself many times in the last five years and more as I process my time as a teacher. Fellow members heard me agonize for years about my experiences at one of the high schools facing a lot of contention and frustration with antagonistic administration and school district leaders. As a result of their open listening, I was able to find the strength to quit and find a position in a less contentious district. Soon enough, wildfires and Covid doused the partial enthusiasm I had discovered in a wash of apathy and disconnection that washed me up on this current desert island of misfit toys. </span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">Here I am, a crotchety but good-looking 51 year-old lamenting the state of affairs. To state things ever so mildly, after Covid, many students lack the most basic self-awareness necessary for human interaction. After all the regular and pandemic hopelessness and Zoom, even the best ones really can not buy into the reality that they are in a public space where it is <i>not t</i>heir God-given right to use their cell-phone, computer, draw, pick apart their fingers, pens, or clothing items whenever they choose. </span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">I am here to admit to you that I am an adult and veteran teacher who can no longer tolerate the almost universal and constant explicit and implicit message that I am an unwelcome intruder in their space, and how dare I request and enforce that they look me and their companions in the eye, acknowledge each other when we speak, and not forget that fact every five minutes like dementia patients?</span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">This morning, one of my most challenging classes did what they do best and pushed me stereotypically and embarrassingly over the edge. I should(bullshit alert) be able to handle it, but here on this page, I admit that I <strong>can not</strong>. </span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">For better or worse, I sent three students outside to a metal picnic table outside the classroom after an entire year of utter and complete insanity fit for a<i> Breakfast Club</i> script rewrite. Two of them have D’s, one is getting an A. That one ironically yelled at me in front of the class for five straight minutes at the beginning of the year. Nothing I have done to meet them where they are at, or creating curriculum that is relevant, kind, with lots of space for them to resubmit and change their grade has an effect. I am reduced to tears, anger, and not-so-loving detachment. </span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">After school, I wrote a poem to process the incident that left me with sore shoulders and a pit in my stomach. This is a message in a bottle, sending out an S.O.S., hoping that someone picks it up off the beach, unrolls the damp scroll to look across the waters and speak out loud to the wind that they understand. </span></p><p dir="ltr"> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;"><strong>Teacher Failure and the Elephant of Wisdom</strong></span></p><p> </p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">Teacher failure is a hard buzz</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">straight to the head from three shot glasses</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">lined up on a metal picnic table outside the</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">classroom.</span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">Three beautiful girls, different sizes, grades— A, D, F</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">so committed to doing whatever the fuck they </span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">want and so painfully hollow in my chest,</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">squeezing my neck, my real response</span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;"><i>Go for it, I’m done.</i></span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">I wonder, <i>How did that bench get bent like an elephant sat </i></span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;"><i>in the middle</i>? I wonder because one appeared to me </span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">this morning at 5:45 as I took my tender self out to</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">play with words and pictures in the sacred, dark moments.</span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">A curving line gently traced a tail, a mammoth back,</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">sloping head and long trunk reaching upward </span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">to an unseen conversational partner, then ears</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">and pillared legs firmly grounded, the word </span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">WISDOM painted on its side. <i>Don’t worry, I’m </i></span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;"><i>hard to ignore, but also calm, loving, and</i></span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;"><i>powerful too. Are you listening</i>? he asked directly, </span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;"><i>I would rather give you a ride than trample you</i>,</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">but unable to focus, the squeezing shoulders, blood</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">rushing, my lungs a shallow pan </span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">inhospitable to gauzy breath</span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">that sputtered<i> I can’t…..I have never, …..don’t know, what </i></span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;"><i>can we do?</i> Three shots are a lot, not to mention the </span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">other seven just inside the door, they mention this</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">saying, <i>We aren’t the only ones, why us?</i> Of course</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">they’re right, but how am I still standing? I am</span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">too far gone, three sheets to the wind to chase </span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">these brilliant balloons, their beautiful young bodies</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">floating on compassless desire, too light to keep company </span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">with me or elephants. Around the corner, gray snout</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">sniffs a secret message</span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;"><i>Come with me</i></span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">I wonder who else hears, but they giggle at</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">my flustered nonsense, eyes glued on screens</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">while right behind a moving mountain slowly passes.</span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">No one notices my backwards steps, now I follow</span></p><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;"><i>Come with me </i></span></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>Karen Joy Browntag:karenjoybrown.com,2005:Post/71790882023-03-27T04:38:34-12:002023-03-27T04:38:35-12:00Tea Time With Fear<img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/391627/3766c69d6d96012c655a938c492fa2e4fb10c98e/original/img-0638.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><p> </p><p>What does fear feel like to you? </p><p> </p><p>During a conversation with my Al-Anon sponsor about leaving my life-long public teaching profession, she delicately but directly suggested that what I was really talking about was fear. I had called to sort out some nagging questions that I suspected were subterfuge for an underlying truth that she instantly identified. I wanted it to be something more complicated and nuanced, but instead, it turned out to be one of the basics that we all face in many distressing disguises. </p><p>Psychologists, ancient religious practices, and modern mindfulness all propose the simple but radical concept of <i>deep listening</i> when it comes to any kind of overwhelming emotion. There are a thousand ways of doing it, and it's helpful to keep trying new ways because fear can be bashful, elusive, or even aggressive in its attempt to self-preserve. </p><p>Over the last five years, drawing has become an integral part of deep listening to myself in my daily journaling practice. My hand often starts sketching something before I know it, and all of the sudden my thoughts and emotions reveal themselves effortlessly, comically, and most importantly- <i>endearingly</i>. </p><p>Almost immediately after my sponsor phone call, I started to sketch the above photo. I didn't realize how cold and sharp my fear about leaving my job was, how moving forward meant the possibility of getting stabbed by metaphorical falling icicles. </p><p>I decided to take the next step and start an open, curious dialogue with fear by inviting it to tea. The fear icicles joined together to make an ice monster which dropped me instantly into an observer position and ignited a sense of humor and compassion. Keep reading to see how the conversation evolved….</p><p> </p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/391627/0e4ead81dfc20e45510be00bc0790b3337a7f5d1/original/img-0640.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><p> </p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">ME: Can you tell me what you are so worried about?</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">FEAR: Yes, but first, do you know how exhausting it is to be like this? Everything about me has to stay completely tense and rigid. If I let up just a little bit, I actually lose myself! Right now I look pretty scary and imposing, but it wouldn’t take much to turn me into a puddle.</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">ME: I hadn’t thought about it that way, but it makes sense. I’m sorry it’s so hard to be you.</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">FEAR: Are you making a little pun there? Because I was trying to be real.</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">ME: No, I wasn’t, but that is a little funny.</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">FEAR: Ok, a little, but I’m in a lot of pain!</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">ME: Yes, that’s what I was getting to. I really understand worrying about losing yourself. That’s actually the very thing that brings us to this little tea party.</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">FEAR: What do you mean?</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">ME: Well, what’s making me more aware of you is that I feel like I’m losing myself with my teaching job, so I’m trying to leave it. </span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">FEAR: That sounds dangerous!</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">ME: Yeah, it does to me too. But it also feels dangerous to keep frozen(no offense) in the same place and not release this bubbling spring of creativity to see where it leads. </span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">FEAR: I have dreams like that!</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">ME: Like what, you mean the spring?</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">FEAR: Yes! Sometimes I’m a hot spring at the base of a snowy mountain, or other times I’m a huge wave hurtling towards the shore. It’s very exciting.</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">ME: No way! I have the wave one all the time.</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">FEAR: Really? I thought it was just me.</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">ME: No, I hear it’s common. But I agree; always exciting!</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">FEAR: So, you’re really considering leaving your job?</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">ME: Yes, but I’m terrified. My insides seize up, and my neck and shoulders feel really tense. But when I think of not being there at school, I feel wide and expansive, curious; awake. </span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">FEAR: Bubbly? Flowing?</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">ME: Yes, that’s a good way of saying it.</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">FEAR: Well that sounds amazing. I feel like I can remember those sensations in my molecules. </span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">ME: Me too. The thing is, when you flow, you never know where you’re going to end up.</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">FEAR: Right! That’s what keeps me frozen.</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">ME: I thought you were scared of losing yourself.</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">FEAR: Yeah, but not being able to recognize yourself or your surroundings is like losing yourself. </span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">ME: Or maybe finding parts of yourself you didn’t know existed……</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">FEAR: Whoa, like I’m more than I think I am?</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">ME: Not just that, but we are actually <i>everything</i>. </span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">FEAR: Okay, you’re getting kind of trippy now.</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">ME: It’s really just science. I mean, you’re H2O and that is what me and the planet are made of.</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">FEAR: Sooooo, what you’re saying is that I’m over here spending all my energy on staying sharp and solid to protect against losing myself, but if I let go and melt, not only will I feel the excitement and joy of flowing, but I will actually discover that I will become larger and more free. That I could never lose myself because we are all one.</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">ME: Okay, Mr. Metaphysics….</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">FEAR: Wow. I need some more tea.</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">ME: Wait! Not the hot one; here’s the iced tea.</span></p><p dir="ltr"><span style="color:#000000;">FEAR: Maybe I’m feeling adventurous. Pass the Earl Grey! </span></p><p> </p>Karen Joy Browntag:karenjoybrown.com,2005:Post/71340932023-01-06T10:56:12-12:002023-01-06T10:57:50-12:00Dust to Dust, Stardust<p><em>While I have compiled and recorded two music albums, I have yet to put together or publish a poetry chapbook. Since it's only been a year and a half since my father died, it's not surprising that I've been starting to gather my poems on the theme of facing his dementia and death. It's probably been a year since I revisited the eulogy I wrote the small, family funeral we had for him. It makes me smile to think of his life in the bigger picture. I hope it might make you smile too thinking of someone you have loved and lost. The blog title is the epitaph on his military gravesite. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s hard to believe that it was just a few weeks ago when Marcia and I came to Fresno to help transition Papa into memory care. I brought my guitar to entertain him, and when I took it out, his eyes lit up and he reached out for it. His left hand effortlessly formed a C chord, and he carefully plucked each string with his right. The sound produced a delightful boyish grin. It reminded me of when he would bring out his guitar when Marcia, Kim, and I were little and one of the songs he would sing, “Where Have All the Flowers Gone”. I looked it up to remind myself of the lyrics- Young men, they’re all in uniform, Soldiers, they’re all in graveyards, every one. And here we are. </p>
<p>Joseph Irwin Ketner was a man of opposites. An east coast, Pennsylvania-Dutch farm boy from the tiny town of Stouchsburg, one of four brothers, cleaning out pig pens, sneaking off to swimming holes, and shooting squirrels with BB guns. Later, a west coast, California quality assurance manager in Silicon Valley, proud father of three girls, and three granddaughters. </p>
<p>Once, he was a scared, little boy with polio in a lonely hospital room in an iron lung, waiting to see his mother visit through a small glass window in the door. That same boy grew into a strong, adventurous young man who enlisted in the Navy and sailed around the world to Italy, Spain, through the Suez Canal and more.He flew helicopters, landed planes on aircraft carriers, and cruised Oakdale, California neighborhoods on a moped named Heidi. </p>
<p>That same world-traveling soldier courted his cousin’s college roommate and married into a small, reserved, Philadelphia German-heritage family. Some thirty years later, fell madly in love with a feisty, beautiful woman and married into a big, boisterous, Filipino family who could tease him right back with equal intensity and enjoyment. This family gave him the best second half of life that he could have ever dreamed of with more than two decades of happy married life with his true love, delightful stepsons and step daughter he loved as his own, and adorable, affectionate grandchildren nearby to brighten his days. </p>
<p>He was a self-proclaimed average student in his younger years, who evolved into an avid reader of history, science, math, who turned his military training into a career as an engineer, taking night classes while working full time to get his management certificate. Someone who prided himself on his intellectual capacity. </p>
<p>He was not religious or devout, but nevertheless sang in church choirs and was awed by the wonders of God's creation in nature, astronomy, and the joy of little children. </p>
<p>At times, moody, angry, introverted, stubborn, yet thoroughly charming, charismatic. Full of contagious, mischievous humor, even up to his last weeks, drawing shoppers in the Dollar Store into playful conversations with his dementia-limited vocabulary . </p>
<p>Always a Marine, he was a man acquainted with duty, fulfilling his obligations with honor regardless of personal feeling. Yet later in life experienced duty softened by love, duty transformed into the joyful simplicity of naturally caring for those he loved. </p>
<p>Papa Joe most likely didn't let us know how important we were to him with big speeches or long conversations. But we can see it in the way he was driven to record connections and the moments we shared. From the fuzzy Super Eight movies he filmed of his little girls on the playground swinging and sliding to the binders he filled chronicling his family of origin, his work years, and all the cards and letters from his children and grandchildren he held dear. </p>
<p>While on a run a couple of weeks ago through a redwood lined graveyard near where I live, I was overcome with waves of sadness like all of us have been in the midst of daily activities. Without thinking, I reached out to the trunk of one of the huge trees and touched its bark for some kind of comfort. Instantly, I was filled with redwood understanding; that while it seems like such a tree lives forever, it doesn't. Death is part of the natural order of things. Scattered at my feet were pinecones that held the seeds containing the essence of that tree that will live on. Like those pinecones, each of us has the essence of who Joseph Irwin Ketner was inside of us, whether his DNA, or his perspectives. The time we spent together shaped who we are, and we carry him with us as part of the natural order of life. When I pick up my guitar and strum a chord, it is his smile that lights up my face. </p>Karen Joy Browntag:karenjoybrown.com,2005:Post/71248612022-12-18T09:40:19-12:002022-12-18T09:40:19-12:00Scarlet Silence<p>I woke up in the early morning dark in a funky old $600 a month apartment above the old El Rey theater downtown. Aware of it being at least $200 more than I could afford, I couldn't resist the second floor view of the park through two almost floor to ceiling wavy glass windows. I needed something to make me want to get up every morning; to make it not seem like I was an idiot to leave a fifteen year marriage and a house I had painted by hand inside and out. </p>
<p>Substitute teaching by day and occasional music gigs in the evening formed the new daily book ends of my life. I had no idea how I was going to support myself, and the first holiday season as a divorcee cast an eerie glow like a flickering string of old Christmas bulbs. Though the big tree in the park’s lights usually turned off in the middle of the night, I could see them faintly glowing in the morning fog when I stood directly at the windowsill. It got to me. </p>
<p>I sat on my bed and wrote out the lyrics to “<a contents="Scarlet Silence" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://karenjoybrown.com/track/2057016/scarlet-silence" target="_blank">Scarlet Silence</a>” in one sitting. Then, grabbed the guitar and tried out the new picking style I’d been working on to give my simple songwriting style a little spice. </p>
<p><em>So the saying goes, </em></p>
<p><em>darkest before the dawn </em></p>
<p><em>wake up early, </em></p>
<p><em>find Christmas lights still on, </em></p>
<p><em>and the cars go slowly, slowly, </em></p>
<p><em>walkers make their way </em></p>
<p><em>on the radio, holy, holy, </em></p>
<p><em>it’s another holiday….. </em></p>
<p>It’s a song that captures the spirit of most of what I write — an acknowledgement of both suffering and the tender love underneath it delivered straight from personal experience and awakenings. </p>
<p>I couldn’t know then what I know now, but in the lyrics I see a good start toward facing the deep pain of lost connection and finding new strength and support in a community of friends and like-minded souls. </p>
<p>Click on the link to listen for free, or pay it forward for a dollar. Either way, I hope you take a moment to enjoy the scarlet silence. </p>Karen Joy Browntag:karenjoybrown.com,2005:Post/70038032022-06-28T12:23:13-12:002022-08-29T09:26:03-12:00Jazz and Jackhammers<p>There's going to be construction every day this whole summer vacation right outside my front door. The city is tearing up the street to replace water pipes; a necessity for long term viability. This was not good news for my plans of a peaceful, non-teaching, domestic retreat. I read the form letter with stony frustration and a sense of squeezing around the heart. My beautiful, serene summer, now doomed by jackhammers, mind-numbing motors, back-up beeps, dust, dirt, and chaos! </p>
<p>A quieter chaos lurks inside my house. It vibrates on a frequency those who grew up in militant, old-world tidiness can expertly detect. My husband and daughter breeze past bursting closets, jumbled drawers, dirty carpets, spiderwebs, mildewed bathroom tiles, and weedy front yard jungles without a care. They look at me with pained, pitying expressions when I mention, suggest, manipulate, demand, or plead for corrective action. </p>
<p>“Ok, mama,” on a good day, or, “Pick one thing and put it on a list,” if I’m lucky. Where is the outrage? The disgust and indignation at the shabby state of affairs? Perspective is a powerful thing. </p>
<p>There was a time when I listened to jazz and could only hear disconnected barrages of scales and rhythm patterns that followed no clear order or structure. Many friends and I shared conspiratorial giggles about the pretentiousness of those who claimed to enjoy it. Yet, in certain quiet moments, driving home along the Sacramento river after teaching an evening ESL class, I found myself tuning into community radio jazz. Only now, those so-called barrages and patterns I complained about accompanied and even comforted me on my lonely journey. </p>
<p>Most music I listened to focused heavily on a finely crafted message supported, enhanced, and made complete with instrumentation. Lyrics understood and spoke truths I needed to tell. The structure, repetition, and clear progressions were the cradling and cooing that calmed my worried mind. </p>
<p>Apparently, jazz didn’t need me to understand what it was saying or playing. It didn’t require my permission or approval. I could either take it or leave it. No hard feelings, no questions asked. The wordless story it was telling was more expansive and universal, less linear. Feelings and ideas had more room to stretch out and wander. Maybe a melody would return at the end of the song, maybe not. Not knowing was part of the charm. Enjoying it demanded a letting go I had not previously been capable of except when watching clouds, waves, or children madly chasing each other around a play structure. </p>
<p>At this moment, 8:30 AM, there is a lull in the construction cacophony. Birdsong and distant traffic sounds prevail mixing with a light rustling of bamboo leaves off the back deck. Dappled sunlight gently rests on notebook lines creating a musical score of shadow notes where I write. Just inside the house, I perceive a discordant, low hum, but I’m hearing it differently. </p>
<p>For long-term viability and happiness, allow a more expansive and universal story with no need for permission or approval. Today, mildew and weeds creep, developing their own melodic themes. Next week, the rhythm of scrubbing and clipping. Jackhammers this afternoon, and jazz this evening. </p>Karen Joy Browntag:karenjoybrown.com,2005:Post/69663452022-05-08T05:18:44-12:002022-05-08T05:20:05-12:00Hail Mary<p>I’ve been thinking a lot about Mary for several months now and woke up compelled to write about her this Mother’s Day morning. Not growing up Catholic, my relationship with her is distant and my impressions vague. Even so, she intrigues me. </p>
<p>In my fervent evangelical Christian days, leaders were determined to put her in her place; clearly less important than Father and Son, and not to be consulted. Yet Catholics devoted themselves to her with dramatic and sentimental vigor, lighting daily candles, praying to her, crawling on bleeding knees to the shrine of La Virgen de Guadalupe. </p>
<p>It felt a lot like what I observed people around me doing every Mother’s Day. They seemed to enjoy a closeness and connection that I lacked with my mother. I hid my jealousy in cynicism by expressing irritation about a corporate manufactured holiday we were being sold. </p>
<p>When I went to Spain to walk the Camino de Santiago I ran into her alot. Every elaborately beautiful cathedral to the humble mountaintop shrines held prime space for her. Quiet and heavy with exhaustion from the miles, we sat face to face, just being together. </p>
<p>That was when I noticed she was sad. Very close by her statue was her son in a state of perpetual torture. Her arms stretched out to hold him, but could never reach. She understood that loving involves a lot of powerlessness. I tried telling her that I felt that way too. She didn’t jump in to solve my problems for me or coach me to focus on the positive. We soaked in the silent beauty of the space; the rows of red glass candles, arch of the ceiling, the respite from effort. </p>
<p>Years passed until she pushed her way back into my consciousness again with the Beatles' <em>Let it Be</em>. I listened on repeat as I drove to my teaching job through the vineyards of Sonoma county. The same energy of making space and holding filled the car and surrounding landscape of grape vines peeking through morning fog. </p>
<p>I decided that I needed a Virgen de Guadalupe candle to light in the morning when I do my daily spiritual writing practice. Every time I went to the grocery store’s Mexican food section all the other saints' candles were there except hers. Finally, a thrift store came through for me, and I brought it home admiring her starry cape and open arms. </p>
<p>Over the next weeks, I would finish meditation time by staring at her form illuminated by a flickering flame and ask what she had to say to me. It felt ridiculous, but my doubts quickly vanished as I felt surges of loving, caring questions and encouragements something like: </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>“Sweetheart, it’s been a long week. Make sure you get some rest this afternoon!” </em></p>
<p><em>“What about that song you’ve been working on, maybe you could practice it on your lunch break? It’s really good.” </em></p>
<p><em>“Mothering is hard work, love. Very hard work. You are not alone.” </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>A few years ago I wrote a poem using the structure of the Hail Mary prayer. This morning, I edited it to express more of the tenderness and connection I now feel after those mornings. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><strong>Hail Mary </strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hail Mary, lion’s mouth fountain, champagne bursting, seven-thirty Thanksgiving evening </p>
<p>full of grace. </p>
<p>The Lord is with you and all mothers loving. </p>
<p>Blessed art thou among women with God’s holy knowing of creation and caring, </p>
<p>And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus, </p>
<p>Firstborn of righteous rebels and truth tellers -could you possibly be prouder? </p>
<p>Holy Mary, so contrary to properness, </p>
<p>Pure in defiance of expectations, </p>
<p>Mother of God, </p>
<p>Show us how to conceive miracles, feed them </p>
<p>With our blood in the quiet darkness, protect </p>
<p>Them from judgmental eyes as we ride </p>
<p>Whatever humble vehicle carries us to </p>
<p>Deliver our precious gift and place </p>
<p>It shining among the surrounding shit. </p>
<p>Pray for us sinners! Back-stabbing betrayers of beauty, </p>
<p>Takers-for-granted, and servants of status-quo </p>
<p>Now, </p>
<p>And in our hour of Death and Disappointment, and </p>
<p>Dreams Deferred. </p>
<p>Amen </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>Karen Joy Browntag:karenjoybrown.com,2005:Post/68636832022-01-12T10:53:32-12:002022-01-12T10:53:32-12:00Wildflower Recovery Ep.2 "Irritable and Unreasonable Without Knowing It"<p>In the second episode, meet guest/co-host Katie Phillip and learn how music and Al-Anon brought her and Karen together as they deconstruct Hafiz's poem, "I Know the Way You Can Get," uncovering the roots of our exasperated behavior. </p>
<p>SONGS IN EPISODE: </p>
<p><a contents="De Rien" data-link-label="" data-link-type="track" href="/track/2057011/de-rien">De Rien</a> by Karen Joy Brown </p>
<p><a contents="Reasonable Girl " data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://music.apple.com/us/album/reasonable-girl/1066091164?i=1066091482">Reasonable Girl </a>by Katie Phillips </p>
<p>¡Hasta pronto!</p>47:41Karen Joy Browntag:karenjoybrown.com,2005:Post/68612192022-01-06T09:24:27-12:002022-08-29T09:26:03-12:00Wildflower Recovery Pilot 1 "When I Got Busy I Got Better"<p>Good friends push us in a good way. After talking to one of those good friends at a rough spot in the beginning of this new year, I decided to to publish the first episode from a podcast I started playing with during the darkest hours of the pandemic. </p>
<p>Enjoy this pilot episode that introduces the concept and provides some background. Episode two featuring the first guest is complete and coming soon. </p>
<p>If you like the song, "<a contents="Little Words" data-link-label="" data-link-type="track" href="/track/2057014/little-words">Little Words</a>" at the end, you can purchase it by click on the song title in the sentence.</p>
<p>¡Hasta pronto!</p>22:06Karen Joy Browntag:karenjoybrown.com,2005:Post/68597642022-01-05T03:00:48-12:002022-08-01T10:00:55-12:00Petals On the Wind <p>Sun sparkled on the water as I surveyed king tide waves at Bodega Head on my fiftieth birthday. I asked Higher Power what I should focus on this mile-marker of a year. A delightful series of images and ideas rolled in with the waves. </p>
<p><em>Observe, write, create. Send it out like petals on the wind.</em></p>
<p>So at 6:30 AM, in that spirit, here is a poem I wrote during the winter break. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><strong>Love Notes</strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Why do words matter?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When I started all this teaching, writing, singing,</p>
<p>I braced, crouched to pounce </p>
<p>in response.</p>
<p>I could put on a show with my </p>
<p>youth, volume, sometimes</p>
<p>desperate need.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Deep down, I was disturbed</p>
<p>at the violence</p>
<p>of the question.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Why should anyone stop-</p>
<p>listen to morning rain,</p>
<p>notice the black bird</p>
<p>at the coast with white-tipped neck</p>
<p>feathers and iridescent</p>
<p>body?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>If you don't know why,</p>
<p>I cannot help you</p>
<p>but will pray that </p>
<p>both of us</p>
<p>do not accidentally</p>
<p>throw out the love note</p>
<p>God left in our </p>
<p>lunchbox with the</p>
<p>trash.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>Karen Joy Browntag:karenjoybrown.com,2005:Post/66816072021-07-13T11:53:17-12:002021-07-13T11:53:17-12:00Silver Bridges<p>I didn’t want to do it. I wanted to write about something else, to distance myself from a profession with which I’m locked in a terminal love-hate relationship. Surely, as I boldy devoted precious morning energy hours toward the creative endeavor of writing, I would write about something that would transport me away, beyond, and above the all-encompassing world of teaching? </p>
<p>During COVID, I tried to dream, vision-board, and research my way out of the job. Would online teaching offer any relief from a 160 student overload, cut back on commute hours, and provide respite from challenging classroom behaviors? Was there a county Office of Education position, or a social services job that included health benefits and utilized bilingual capabilities? </p>
<p>Each time I dug deeper into any of the options, an immediate and total physical reaction overtook me that felt as if gravity had suddenly doubled. I could barely lift my hand to click on the next job opening, and when I did, the words of the description blurred and dribbled like broth down the chin of a sick person. What was I to do? Not inspired to continue, and without motivation to find another way. </p>
<p>As the saying goes, the only way out is through, and I was struck with the familiar urge to write about what troubled me. The three music recordings I accomplished consisted of songs that I wrote almost involuntarily. Words, melodies, and rhythms spilled out of me as I struggled with strong emotions from family and relationship trauma, gracing me with an opportunity for my own catharsis as well as those who listened to my CD’s, at Farmer’s Markets, restaurants, cafes, parks, and wherever I could get a gig. </p>
<p>A enemigo que huye, puente de plata construye. <em>When your enemy flees, build him a silver bridge</em>. </p>
<p>A proverb I used each year in my class openings came to mind. If I could use the tool of writing to explore what got me into teaching in the first place, what pulled me back when I tried to leave in the past, maybe I could re-discover my purpose, or find the will to try something different. Writing, recording, and performing my songs had helped process some of the dearest and deepest failed hopes and dreams of my life, so perhaps writing could again construct a silver bridge for all the frustrations and regrets that had tainted my teaching career. </p>
<p>With the help of the <a contents="WOW! (Women on Writing)" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://wow-womenonwriting.com/">WOW(Women on Writing</a>)website, I took a nine week speculative memoir writing course with gifted teacher and writer, <a contents="Naomi Kimbell" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://naomiannakimbell.com/">Naomi Kimbell</a>, that facilitated the beginnings of a memoir on my teaching experiences. During the asynchronous class, each of the participants submitted two different pieces to be reviewed and questioned by all in an encouraging, yet challenging manner. </p>
<p>Below, I share with you a section of my second submission that explores my own school experiences that led me to become a teacher. I hope to continue developing this idea into a complete memoir that guides me forward in my work as a teacher, writer, and singer, and encourages others who have surely hit the wall during this massive reset moment that the pandemic has so costly afforded us.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>‘I cannot be a teacher without exposing who I am.’ </em>–Paulo Freire, Pedagogy of Freedom </p>
<p> </p>
<p><strong>Whitfield Elementary </strong>Kindergarten-1st Reading, PA 1976-1978 </p>
<p> </p>
<p>An open classroom door invites her at the end of the wide hallway. Children giggle, find their seats, open squeaking desk tops to carefully arrange school supplies inside. Sounds recede like the turn of a stereo fader as the banner hanging high above the chalkboard in block letters comes into focus: T-R-A-N-S-P-O-R-T-A-T-I-O-N, illuminated by the diffused glow from a wall of windows. Anticipation, electricity surges through synapses tucked inside a skinny frame. Wispy, white-blond pigtails float backwards as the freckled-faced little girl contemplates, involuntarily vocalizes, trans-por-tay-shun. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Very good! Very good, Karen.” Mrs. Braithwaite glances up from her desk and smiles with warm approval. Karen. Not “Kim and Karen”, “the girls”, or “the twins”. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>This tiniest spark of recognition ignites an orange glow at the center of her chest, radiating outward to the tips of each extremity. She is going to like school. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><strong>Raymond C.Buckley Elementary</strong> 2nd-4th grade Ithaca, NY 1978-1981 </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Cayuga Lake’s finger points straight at Ithaca. Hills thick with trees line the shores of its green waters for forty miles. In September, she waits for the yellow bus with her sisters by the bed of pansies at the edge of the front lawn. She and Kim, Snoopy lunch boxes in hand, headed to different classrooms, Marcia off to junior high. By November, they trudge through frozen drifts, leap up grooved metal steps, and dive behind high backed vinyl seats, huddling for warmth. </p>
<p>At school, there is order, schedule. She takes comfort in the opening ritual of copying paragraphs from a flipchart onto delicate, dotted-green-line sheets. Each subject enjoys its own time slot, but the activities vary; a colorful spinning wheel of dictionary races, multiplication table flashcards, clacking red and blue wooden rhythm sticks, <em>Around-the-World </em>history challenges roll the day cheerfully along. When winter drives P.E. inside the gym, the children circle around a colorful parachute, marching in time with music. The song suddenly stops, little fingers lift and release silk into the air with a magician’s <em>ta-da</em>, dart underneath, rushing to the center; a momentary temple infused with stained glass light. </p>
<p>In Art, windows looking toward softball fields, she paints a green, wicker-wrapped wine bottle alone on a table in a sphere of light from a hanging lamp. Illuminated by yellow rays, surrounded by darkness on either side, she writes the words of her first poem: </p>
<p><em>Under the dim light </em></p>
<p><em>There is still stands hope </em></p>
<p><em>Under the dim light </em></p>
<p><em>There still stands truth </em></p>
<p><em>Under the dim light </em></p>
<p><em>There still stands love </em></p>
<p>At home, there is order, schedule too. Even in summer, she and Kim get dropped off at Stewart park on the lake shore for summer day-camp. They play capture-the flag and engineer coffee-can stoves to make grilled cheese. At dusk, their Papa guides his miniature ship from a gravelly beach with the remote control, sending arcs rippling back to his girls’ muddied shoes in the shallows. Back at home, fireflies flicker in the humid air. The three sisters run wildly after them through the dark, racing invisibly through a fenceless backyard opening to a half-acre field with a barn. Their mother chats with neighbors silhouetted in folding chairs on the lawn. On long afternoons, Marcia reads in her bedroom while she and Kim serenade the outdoor cats with clarinet from the willow tree´s lowest branch, crunch carrots and green beans from the garden with a satisfying snap and taste of rain flavoured by mineraled earth. </p>
<p>But unlike school, where rules are clear and interactions predictable, sometimes home’s spinning wheel jumps off its track. Plates and silverware rattle from slammed fists when dinner arguments get loud, <em>Damn it, Doris! Will you just stop?</em> Mom ends sibling bickering in the back seat on the way to swim practice abruptly with a smack across the face. <em>I said knock it off! You girls keep on pushing me. </em>Papa stands at the door with a suitcase and a weak smile, his words float to the ground like one of his white handkerchiefs falling from the clothesline, <em>I’ll be back in a couple of days</em>. </p>
<p>She wishes she could show him the draft she writes sitting at his big wooden desk for Ms.Bement’s class about the history of Cayuga Lake; the story of the Frontenac, a steamboat in the 1900’s that catches fire, and despite relatively shallow waters, causes eight fatalities. Six women, mostly due to drowning, weighted down by cumbersome dresses popular at the time as its sidewheel spun uselessly in the flames. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><strong>Graystone Elementary</strong> 5th grade San Jose, CA 1981-82 </p>
<p> </p>
<p>California. <em>California</em>. California. It sounds fake when she says it outloud, repeating her father’s ludicrously impossible declaration after a year of unemployment. The <em>tech industry, Silicon Valley, Memorex</em>. He pronounces carefully, like words from a foreign language. </p>
<p>Goodbye vegetable garden! </p>
<p>Goodbye willow trees with fuzzy caterpillars! </p>
<p>Goodbye secret creek in the skunk cabbage at the edge of the field! </p>
<p>Goodbye rope swing over haystacks in the barn! </p>
<p>She takes leave of the sacred places one drizzly, overcast June morning after the Mayflower moving van, big as a brontosaurus, swallows boxes of dishes, stuffed animals, ten-speed bikes, clarinets, the croquet set and badminton racquets, softball gloves, <em>Black Stallion</em> books, Papa’s beer steins, thick orange glass globe lamps, the artificial Christmas tree, folding aluminum chairs, the floral couch. It devours everything, leaving a blank stage, like their life there never happened. </p>
<p>The plane lands on the rain-soaked runway, there are no beaches or surfers nearby. Fat, four-laned freeways dump the rental car onto Almaden Expressway. She counts seven traffic lights, each one an eternity, before they get to Hurlstone Lane. Two-story, one-story, small front porch, wide garage, strange pointed plants and cookie-cutter lawns repeat. Brown, tan, beige. <em>Isn’t that the same house from the last block?</em>, she comments without expecting an answer. </p>
<p>At the end of the cul-de-sac, a tall fence separates the one-story ranch-style house from busy Camden Avenue. Across the street, a dark-haired girl her age rides a bike down the driveway onto the sidewalk. <em>Birds of Paradise</em>, her mother identifies unasked the orange and purple tropical flowers spiking up along the short path to the front door. Artificial turf lines the concrete slab threshold to the double front doors. She walks into a tiled entryway, brown carpet spreads across the living-dining room area with windows on the opposite wall overlooking a thin strip of backyard lawn and other sharp-leaved plants. To the right, more brown carpet leads down a narrow hallway to three tiny bedrooms and one small bathroom. </p>
<p>She walks with Kim to the new school, carefully memorizing street names. Buildings shaped like octagons give the impression of boarding a spaceship. Inside, the back of an otherwise normal classroom yawns open. Three other rooms can be seen across a carpeted center space, like three television screens playing at once; portals to three parallel universes. The teacher pulls a hidden folding accordion wall closed, dampening sounds of the other teachers and students, and begins a lesson. </p>
<p>At recess there is no kickball game. The other children play soccer and something unidentifiable with a rubber ball on the blacktop where painted white lines form four boxes. A few kids punch a yellow volleyball attached to a metal pole with a string. Her eyes compulsively follow its consecutively diminishing orbit. </p>
<p>“<em>Off the blacktop if you’re not playing a game!</em>”, shouts an older lady with an orange vest in her direction. </p>
<p>Without a clear destination, she heads back towards the soccer field, sticking out a middle finger from one of the hands folded behind her back at the yard duty, hoping both to be seen and not to be. </p>
<p><strong>Bret Harte Junior High</strong> 6-8th grade San Jose, CA 1983-1986 </p>
<p>At lunch, she pages through an <em>American Quarterhorse</em> magazine with her friend, Shannon, in the cafeteria. A fold out page shows an awkward, long-legged colt prancing wildly, still learning to control its limbs. </p>
<p><em>Are you still hungry too?</em>, she asks, the two girls explode in giggles. </p>
<p><em>Are you going to eat that?</em>, soliciting leftover cornbread or apples down the line of each table. </p>
<p>The outdoor campus no longer feels foreign, pathways from class to class trace the same geometric pattern daily, each angle’s degree calculated unconsciously. Who are these women in the front of each classroom delivering daily monologues, so certain of the weight of their words? She watches them closely, admires the revolving parade of outfits; wool pleated skirts, stockings with heels, flowy blouses with crisp blazers. These are Women in Command, Women With a Plan, Women Who Know Something. In Drama, she assumes at Ms. D’s posture at the podium; elbow out, fingers splayed across her chest, and delivers a perfectly parodied speech: </p>
<p><em>Acting</em>, she intones with a New York nasal vowel, <em>comes from the body. You have to feel it from your center, children. Breathe from your center. </em></p>
<p>The class cackles, Ms.D doubles over with laughter, her eyes a glowing endorsement of the performance.</p>Karen Joy Browntag:karenjoybrown.com,2005:Post/64326442020-09-13T07:44:34-12:002021-04-21T05:09:07-12:00Climbing the Ninth Step<p>Twelve step programs ask participants in step nine to “<em>Make direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.</em>” Though often misunderstood, this step offers a spiritual practice of facing our shortcomings directly and dispelling pent up energies that can afterwards be more pleasantly and productively enjoyed. Many times, the people we need to contact have already died. This doesn't prevent us from employing creative means to express our ammends through graveside visits, ceremonies, or letters. </p>
<p>Working through my list, I found it necessary to put a creative process into practice. After sharing a free-write letter with my sponsor, I sensed the need for a last step of somehow publishing it as a part of my own ammends to myself for undervaluing my talents as a writer. I hope that whoever reads it will get to know and appreciate an important figure in my life just a little bit, and be encouraged in their own process of making peace with their past. </p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em><strong>Mr. Brown</strong></em>.</span> I picture him so clearly in his teacher photo with thick, rectangular 70’s glasses, long dark hair and beard with reddish highlights against one of his standard embroidered Panama shirts. His parliamentary procedure, constantly dabbing his one glass eye with tissues, and low voice vibrating the microphone speaker employed to save his vocal chords after decades of teaching. The French workbooks and conversation quizzes. The repeated stories of the day his son got shot with a BB gun in the throat and the miraculous one centimeter distance that protected his carotid artery. </p>
<p>I was entertained, enchanted, and a little critical of him. He didn’t seem a very involved or aware teacher, giving us assignments and retreating to his office at the back of the room. Both my social studies and language classes with him felt out of control, but punctuated with moments of wonder caught up in tales of ancient Egypt, rattling off a paragraph with his Parisian liaison, or the thrill of being elected classroom president and running official meetings with Robert’s Rules of Order. </p>
<p>He was a true old-school educator, union die-hard who understood the long view of a teacher’s influence on students' lives. Ineffective according to today’s standards, no data-driven planning or outcome measurements, yet as fixed, quiet, and towering as a California redwood in hundreds of students minds. After twenty years in and out of the profession, my admiration for him grows, understanding just what kind of character it takes to bring exactly who you are to the classroom without apology for who you aren’t. </p>
<p>But Merritt wasn’t just a teacher, he became my father in law. At Hume Lake Christian camp the summer of my Freshman year, his adult daughter Stephanie laughed heartily as my cabin counselor while I shouted “Quin-ton!”’from the top bunk, swapping the middle N with a glottal stop. We marveled together at the synchronicity of my growing infatuation with her brother, finally seeing with my own eyes the actual scar on his neck from Mr.Brown’s famous class saga. </p>
<p>Stranger still, when he actually became my boyfriend, to see all these characters from separate contexts come together for a chef Merritt spaghetti dinner around their 80’s suburban San Jose kitchen table. More stories flowed, hiking to the top of Pikes Peak in his beloved Colorado, working as a dishwasher to fund the trek. Writing a novel about ancient Egypt, the year the classroom “had no walls”. All his living had already occurred. He was hanging on, going through the familiar routines, content living off fumes of the past, kitchen chair parked in front of the TV watching A’s games, peanut shells littering the carpet below. He felt comforted surrounded by his stores of pens, light bulbs, tissues, haunted by his parents' experience during the Great Depression. </p>
<p>From my young perspective, he was a character, a bit ridiculous, and a force of nature. So much of what he said seemed scripted, as if he never really came out from behind the podium. His ways of seeing the world and himself were basic facts, like arithmetic. His mandate was clear in the classroom and at home, and his family arranged themselves quietly and contentedly around it. </p>
<p>I did not. I wanted to question him, throw him off balance, or better yet, even the scales to reflect the rest of the family’s needs and interests. My own father’s larger than life personality and issues with alcohol weren’t met with the same complicity, and my bull in a china shop approach couldn’t have been more contrary. In retrospect, I see the opposite attraction that drew me to them. A more loving and accepting integration. </p>
<p>When I imagine talking to Merritt, I don’t know what to say. The way I married his son at twenty, stayed for fifteen apparently happy years and then left wouldn’t make sense. Would he listen, turn away in denial and disapproval, or surprise me with that lowered voice, issuing a patient, compassionate proclamation about the nature of life and love? </p>
<p>Merritt, it must have seemed cold hearted for me to leave without explanation.If I did send some sort of letter back then, I don’t remember what I wrote, and it would have rang false with a desperate justification, lacking the depth of understanding I have now. You were a powerful figure in my life that already had its share of powerful figures to contend with. I didn’t understand that I envied the self-possession and confidence you exuded, like a poor man watches diners through a restaurant window. You were your favorite Colorado Rockies to which you finally retired, visible in all directions for hundreds of miles, quiet and sure in the midst of daily thunderstorms. I was a wildflower on the green hills below in Estes Park, and an elk butting horns around the lake. </p>
<p>I understand the love of world languages from an academic standpoint from you. I’m doing something similar, teaching teenagers Spanish that belongs much more to my past than present. I enjoy the way it sounds and its different way of expressing meaning. I also enjoy the pleasure of writing, whether published or not, like you. My faith in God has also become more private, less connected to traditional Christian institutions. I’m learning something about the nature of love, that there can be room in families for all our strengths and weaknesses, if we are willing. I always feel the need to alter myself daily for love, but you made it a lifetime being just as you were. Was it the peaceful assurance of your value that endeared them to you? </p>
<p>In the end, Merritt, I loved you. You exasperated me, and I will never know if I did the same for you. I did love you, your class, and your family. I especially loved your son. What a handsome, charming enigma I could never solve, but couldn’t stop loving. I’m sorry for breaking his heart. I hope you forgive me for doing the best I could. I was so young for all the years you were in my life. It was the time for mistakes, confusion, and a search for love that I could look in the eye. </p>
<p>You certainly have a lasting effect on me, and a power of persuasion so strong that I married your son. Thank you for letting me in your world and loving family. I hope that, like me, you don’t regret God’s plan that turned that centimeter of distance into a lifetime of connection. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>Karen Joy Browntag:karenjoybrown.com,2005:Post/63183542020-05-15T11:33:28-12:002020-05-15T22:20:04-12:00Introverted Victory<p>I’ve been struggling to shift a clunky percentage in my classroom for years. How is it that I’ve spent 80% of my energy on students who are the least capable of engaging and using the instruction and attention I offer and 20% on those who are ready and willing? </p>
<p>Large class sizes, shifting jobs and levels, distracted and disruptive students, administrative focus on closing achievement gaps all conspire to commit resources to new strategies to magically motivate those who can’t consistently show up physically, psychologically, or intellectually. </p>
<p>That energy drain isn’t limited to lost hours, but also lagging inspiration and synergy that naturally occurs when students are curious and responsive. </p>
<p>Two months of distance learning during the pandemic wins the dubious honor of flipping that fraction like Jesus did the money changers’ tables at temple. </p>
<p>For the first few weeks, the majority of each of my six classes dutifully attempted to navigate the Google Classroom stream, struggled to submit each assignment, and bombarded my Gmail with a machine gun spray of questions.Then…….crickets. </p>
<p>Once the understanding sunk in that whatever grade earned at the trimester would be transferred to the semester’s end with NO POSSIBILITY OF LOWERING, the apostate sloughed off like snake skin. What sleek and powerful viper glistened underneath? </p>
<p>Introverts. Normally extroverts take up all the classroom space, whether they be strong academically or in the martial arts of annoyance. Now, students I had struggled to connect with all year <em>all of the sudden</em> found their voice. Through email, Google doc private comments, and Zoom class meetings that dwindled to low single digits that brought these shy creatures out of hiding. Personality glimmered through stellar work, insightful metacognitive responses, and brave video assignments. </p>
<p>I've felt strangely inspired, taking time to leave extensive meaningful feedback on student work, reveling in the volley of suggestions and action. It's as if I were actually teaching. </p>
<p>Before I leave the impression of indifference to the disenfranchised, let me show the other side of the coin. </p>
<p>Even as my right hand sent delightful parental emails praising students who have persisted valiantly throughout the closure, my left crafted responses to prodigals making them feel my joyful greeting from afar as I prepared them a feast for their return. </p>
<p>And that’s when it hit me. I was spending 80% of my time and energy with the ones doing the work, and 20% making a way for the lost to return. Victory!</p>
<p>We don’t know how school will look this falI, but I aspire to create a curriculum worthy of the students who want it and to unapologetically engage them. All the while remaining connected to those not currently ready, careful to leave the door open through empathy and the dignity of repeated invitations to rejoin.</p>Karen Joy Browntag:karenjoybrown.com,2005:Post/63000702020-04-30T07:05:24-12:002020-04-30T07:05:24-12:00Poem in Your Pocket<p>April 30th marks the end of National Poetry Month and the culminating game of "<a contents="Poem in Your Pocket" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://poets.org/national-poetry-month/poem-your-pocket-day">Poem in Your Pocket</a>". Here's what the Academy of American Poets(poetry.org) website suggests:</p>
<ul> <li>Select a poem and share it on social media using the hashtag #pocketpoem. </li> <li>Simultaneously participate in the Shelter in Poems initiative, and select a poem that brings you solace during this time of distance and solitude. Share what it means to you and use the hashtags #pocketpoem and #ShelterInPoems. </li> <li>Print a poem from the Poem in Your Pocket Day PDF and draw an image from the poem in the white space, or use the instructions on pages 59-60 of the PDF to make an origami swan. </li> <li>Record a video of yourself reading a poem, then share it on Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, or another social media platform you use. </li> <li>Email a poem to your friends, family, neighbors, or local government leaders. </li> <li>Schedule a video chat and read a poem to your loved ones. </li> <li>Add a poem to your email footer. </li> <li>Read a poem out loud from your porch, window, backyard or outdoor space.</li>
</ul>
<p>Personally, it signifies the second round of me trying poetry month experiments with my Spanish classes at Windsor High. Of course, this year was the height of strangeness as I attempted to rally the students with an assignment that asked them to post a poem on Instagram. While almost all students participated in the world of Google Classroom, only some posted their poem and imagery online to my <a contents="@proyectopoemasespejos" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.instagram.com/explore/tags/proyectopoemasespejos/">@proyectopoemasespejos</a> Instagram page. Many have private profiles, so even if they used the hashtag as directed, it wouldn't appear on the page. PROGRESS NOT PERFECTION, folks. I wish I had the time to personally post everything they submitted, but between teaching my full-time load and guiding my daughter's schooling, it just wasn't possible. However, the goal to get students interacting with poetry in Spanish: WIN/WIN!</p>
<p>It's also the perfect day to share a few of my poems here as well as on my new poetry Instagram page <a contents="@extracurricularverse" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.instagram.com/extracurricularverse/">@extracurricularverse</a>. Here's my Haiku poem that appears in the profile:</p>
<p><strong>Extracurricular Verse</strong></p>
<p>The classroom closed, and </p>
<p>the songs refused to sing. Then, </p>
<p>a poem appears</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My first poem post will be one that's been on my mind recently due to the excessive focus on housekeeping during this Shelter in Place experience and a good reminder from nature. Hope you enjoy it. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><strong>Mother Nature is a Shitty Housekeeper</strong> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Who throws everything on the ground </p>
<p>to rot, swept only by </p>
<p>the wind? </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Larvae and worms creeping, </p>
<p>lifting blind extremities </p>
<p>toward raindrops </p>
<p>right where everyone walks! </p>
<p> </p>
<p>When it’s cold, lets frost strike citrus, </p>
<p>or the summer sun brittle and fade </p>
<p>all that is carelessly </p>
<p>scattered? </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Live and let live,” </p>
<p>she states serenely, </p>
<p>though I would rather die </p>
<p>in antiseptic order. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>But every verse and song </p>
<p>from the beginning </p>
<p>can’t stop praising </p>
<p>her amazing skills: </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“How beautiful!”, we burst forth</p>
<p>while balding treetops </p>
<p>shed rusty reds and orange; </p>
<p>piled, scattered without </p>
<p> </p>
<p>pattern, and rain </p>
<p>puddles, pours caldrons</p>
<p>of muddy slop sloshing </p>
<p>everywhere, and snow </p>
<p> </p>
<p>blankets</p>
<p>the chilling disaster; </p>
<p>distracts all</p>
<p>in muffled meditation. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So serene!”, we breathe when</p>
<p>slender foxes</p>
<p>ache in hunger </p>
<p>inside dreamy dens. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Fend for yourselves, loves!”</p>
<p>she chirrups. </p>
<p>No one gets fed for months!</p>
<p>Yet </p>
<p> </p>
<p>she remains </p>
<p>a hero. </p>
<p>A champion crowned</p>
<p>in springtime blossoms, </p>
<p> </p>
<p>self-sustaining bulbs, nonetheless- </p>
<p>daffodils and tulips, </p>
<p>lilies, hyacinth </p>
<p>seep homages of sweetness! </p>
<p> </p>
<p>How does the bitch do it?</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>Karen Joy Browntag:karenjoybrown.com,2005:Post/62637752020-03-27T09:32:31-12:002020-03-27T12:59:36-12:0052 Card Pickup<p>What a week. On the phone yesterday, a friend compared the struggle to create a new normal during this pandemic to a game of fifty-two card pickup. It certainly feels like playing without a full deck.</p>
<p>The last post showed the first attempt at a schedule to bring a little comforting structure to these strange days for my daughter:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/391627/35f9d8a0af5a790e025d738ed902f504777e6a12/original/first-schedule.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>...which evolved into:</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/391627/864a5f0c208538d4b7bd0a48e696f605ba07dc11/original/new-schedule.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />At the end of the last post, I mentioned that I hadn't been attending much to my own schedule. Do a little "compare and contrast":</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/391627/f1ea478de377a07e1c9fd6890b35c7f6bcd28cc5/original/karen-schedule.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />I salute my attempt at paying attention to my personal life while playing that pickup game with online teaching, apocalypse grocery shopping, cooking, and cleaning. Just putting my priorities and ideas on a calendar gave them a little more weight. </p>
<p>Now that we're all a few weeks into this mess, I remember recognizing for the first time the profound silence of the world grinding to a halt. What I DON'T want to do with these schedules is fill up that beautiful emptiness with a lot of <em>something</em>. To substitute the mania of full time teaching and parenting with producing amazing songs or poetry ASAP. I'm reminded of a poem I heard in one of <a contents="Tara Brach's " data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.tarabrach.com/talks-audio-video/">Tara Brach's </a>meditation talks:</p>
<p><strong>Do not try to save <br>the whole world <br>or do anything grandiose. <br>Instead, create <br>a clearing <br>in the dense forest <br>of your life <br>and wait there <br>patiently, <br>until the song <br>that is your life <br>falls into your own cupped hands <br>and you recognize and greet it. <br>Only then will you know <br>how to give yourself <br>to this world <br>so worth of rescue.</strong></p>
<p>-<em>Martha Postlewaite</em></p>
<p>Maybe the expert move is to leave most of the cards on the ground for now.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>Karen Joy Browntag:karenjoybrown.com,2005:Post/62596272020-03-24T06:29:45-12:002020-03-25T09:23:38-12:00Easy Does It<p>Today marks our first attempt at a homeschool/work schedule since "Spring Break" officially ended. Last week, when we weren't paralyzed with fear, or blowing short fuses with each other, we enjoyed empty beach trips, long neighborhood walks, baking, cooking, movies, audiobooks, exercise youtube videos, and the beautiful spring weather. We also figured out the basics of digital communication for Dave's music teaching practice with Zoom, virtual playdates for our 10 year old with videogames and Skype or WhatsApp, and I freshened up my Google Classrooms. </p>
<p>Here's how the schedule went down today:</p>
<p><b>7:30-8:30 </b><i>Breakfast and reading.</i></p>
<p><strong>9-9:30-</strong> <em><a contents="Zumba" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ohr8lxFx6I4">Zumba</a> (Some challenging moves, but Ipo and I had fun.) </em></p>
<p><strong>9:30-10:30</strong>- <em>Math packet worksheet. </em></p>
<ul> <li><em><span style="color:#c0392b;">WE INTERRUPT THIS SCHEDULE TO MENTION THAT ABOUT 1/10TH OF ONE PAGE WAS COMPLETED DUE TO A VETERAN TEACHER'S ROOKIE MOVE OF NOT SPECIFYING AMOUNT OF WORK TO BE COMPLETED AT END OF TIME FRAME.</span></em></li>
</ul>
<p><strong>10:30-1:30- </strong><em><strong> </strong>Virtual playdate w/ pal in Oregon. </em></p>
<p><strong>1:45-3:45-</strong><em> Lunch, clean bathroom, neighborhood walk.</em></p>
<p><strong>4-5:30-</strong><em> Virtual playdate w/local pal.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Under normal circumstances, I would cringe at four hours of screen time. As her only option for social contact, I'm willing to experiment a bit.</p>
<p>As I scan what I've written so far, I realize that I'm already falling into the trap of putting the proverbial "oxygen mask" onto my child first, instead of starting with myself. What about my schedule? At the end of the day, I felt the familiar squeeze at the base of my neck and under my shoulder blade that informs the need for self-care. </p>
<p>I'll work on the homeschool schedule and my own over the week and check back in. Like the title of this post....</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>Karen Joy Browntag:karenjoybrown.com,2005:Post/62514472020-03-17T11:51:15-12:002020-03-17T11:51:15-12:00Distance Learning Litmus Test<p>Apparently, I picked a good time to start blogging again. I planned to share the piece I submitted for the <a contents="We Are Teachers" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.weareteachers.com/">We Are Teachers</a> blog regarding <em>classroom observations</em>, which seems to be currently irrelevant. Instead, I'll share ideology and a few online tools I've used over the past decade or so that have passed my <strong>litmus test</strong>. </p>
<p>When it comes to using technology as a learning tool in a public high school setting, here are the criteria:</p>
<p>1) <strong>Is it widely accessible/reliable and free? </strong></p>
<ul> <li>Ideally, it should be functional on a phone, since that is often the only accessible device in lower socioeconomic households. (Of course, even that is not an option for many. At this point in the school year, an instructor would be aware of individual student limitations.)</li> <li> <p>DOÑA KAREN’S CHOICE: <strong><a contents="Google Classroom" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://edu.google.com/products/classroom/?modal_active=none"><span style="color:null;">Google Classroom</span></a>.</strong> There are many other cool platforms, but in this case, ubiquity wins. For both teachers and students, assigning, tracking, submitting,and attaching ANY kind of digital information is streamlined and relatively simple. It is also usually connected to the most commonly used student information systems, like <a contents="Aeries" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.aeries.com/">Aeries</a>. </p> </li>
</ul>
<p>2) <strong>If it's a skills-based practice activity, is it simple enough, singularly focused, with immediate feedback?</strong></p>
<ul> <li>If the directions are too complicated, or there are no reference materials or initial lessons included, they won't be useful. In general, a student should be able read or watch a BRIEF presentation before attempting, submitting, and correcting errors independent of teacher consult. DOÑA KAREN’S CHOICES:</li>
</ul>
<ol> <li> <p><a contents="Study Spanish" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://studyspanish.com/grammar">Study Spanish</a> The grammar section divided into units provide introductory notes to each concept, and then the BASIC QUIZ provides the guided practice for free.</p> </li> <li> <p><a contents="Quizlet" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://quizlet.com/92511/modismos-ap-spanish-flash-cards/">Quizlet</a> Create your own or look up any subject vocabulary for content to borrow, share, modify.</p> </li> <li> <p><a contents="Profedeele" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.profedeele.es/">Profedeele</a> An amazing site with anything a Spanish teacher could want from native speaker including grammar presentations and practices, songs and video(mostly authentic materials) with ready-made interactive practices, cultural information, ANYTHING. </p> </li>
</ol>
<p>3) <strong>Does it provide something that a live instructor can't, or shouldn't spend their time providing?</strong></p>
<ul> <li>In almost any subject, there are elements of "drill practice" necessary to mastery. This is the very thing that technology is good for. An instructor's time and energy shouldn't be spent of something a computer can check, like spelling, a correct conjugation, etc.. </li> <li>In world languages, comprehensible INPUT, INPUT, INPUT is the name of the game. Songs, games, books, children's stories, articles, infographics, movies, shows at varied comprehension levels are available ad infinitum online. It isn't instructionally sound for a teacher to be the only source of target language input under ANY circumstance. The more interactive the input, the better. DOÑA KAREN’S CHOICES:</li>
</ul>
<ol> <li>NOVICE LEVEL:</li>
</ol>
<ul> <li>
<a contents="Mi vida loca" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/languages/spanish/mividaloca/">Mi vida loca</a> (BBC) An interactive drama that places you as a direct participant. Includes episodes and practice companion activities. Uses flash, so it's good if you enable it until December 2020.</li> <li>
<a contents="Tío Spanish" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCYPrAErF70voeEZB7BXAFxw">Tío Spanish</a> It's a ridiculous finger talking with props, but has a lot of useful input on vocabulary, grammar, and culture. High schoolers find it entertaining. </li> <li>
<a contents="Reading A-Z&nbsp;" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.readinga-z.com/worldlanguages/spanish/leveled-books/">Reading A-Z </a>en español This link takes you to the levelized readers. You can open a level, search through the books. The key to using it for free: just magnify the screen to actually read the book. Students can switch back and forth between Spanish and English to translate unclear sections. </li>
</ul>
<ol> <li>INTERMEDIATE/ADVANCED LEVEL:</li>
</ol>
<ul> <li>
<a contents="TED en&nbsp;español" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.ted.com/about/programs-initiatives/ted-en-espanol" style="">TED en español</a> You can jump off from each video to other possibilities. </li> <li>
<a contents="National Geographic&nbsp;en&nbsp;español" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.ngenespanol.com/" style="">National Geographic en español</a> Students love this one. </li> <li>
<a contents="Stanford University Resources in Spanish" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://spanlang.stanford.edu/resources/">Stanford University Resources in Spanish</a> This covers everything. </li>
</ul>
<p>There's always more, but teachers know that the real gold is ROAD TESTED materials. I dabble in a lot of other resources, but these are the proven ones. </p>
<p>BUEN PROVECHO...</p>Karen Joy Browntag:karenjoybrown.com,2005:Post/62468162020-03-12T07:15:47-12:002022-05-17T10:03:49-12:00Otra vez<p>I don't have a tattoo, but if I did, the words "otra vez"' on my wrist in a cool script would be my choice. Again. When life knocks you down, get back up. When a hope gets deferred, keep at it. Author <a contents="Stephen McCranie" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4577067.Stephen_McCranie">Stephen McCranie</a> writes, '“<em>The master has failed more times than the beginner has even tried.</em>” In the spirit of trying, I've decided to start blogging after an almost ten year hiatus. </p>
<p>Many things have shifted:</p>
<ul> <li>second marriage</li> <li>move to Sonoma county (four different houses)</li> <li>eight years of solid <a contents="Al-Anon" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://al-anon.org/">Al-Anon</a> membership and work with a sponsor</li> <li>eight years of full-time high school <a contents="Spanish teaching" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://donakaren.weebly.com/">Spanish teaching</a>
</li> <li>two years as a <a contents="Bootleg Honeys" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://thebootleghoneys.bandcamp.com/">Bootleg Honeys</a> band member</li> <li>
<a contents="foster-adopting" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://tlc4kids.org/">foster-adopting</a> a seven-year-old girl(now ten)</li>
</ul>
<p>Writing has naturally floated to the forefront given time constraints that full-time work and parenting impose. It's quicker composing a poem than a song, and booking, preparing, and getting to a gig requires more effort than Dave and I have been able to muster on a regular basis. Creativity and life find a way like famous Mexican author <a contents="Octavio Paz" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/octavio-paz">Octavio Paz</a> writes in one of his haikus: </p>
<p><strong>Hecho de aire</strong> <i>Forged from air</i></p>
<p><strong>entre pinos y rocas</strong> <em>between pine trees and boulders</em></p>
<p><strong>brota el poema.</strong> a <em>poem springs forth</em></p>
<p>In this blogging era, I plan to share my experience, strength, and hope in the aforementioned areas, especially by chronicling any attempts at publishing, performing, and presenting. Hopefully, it will help me track and celebrate my attempts as well as encourage others to do the same. </p>
<p>Visit the next blog to see my submission to the <a contents="We Are Teachers" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.weareteachers.com/">We Are Teachers</a> blog!</p>Karen Joy Brown