I hope I never stop pursuing Secret Projects. You know the ones… When you’re six years old, collecting buttercups and dandelions outside to bring to your mom, and you’re so excited to show her how much you love her that you burst into the house with the mud still on your shoes.
Some days, it’s hard to get up. It’s hard to put aside the worries and future concerns. It’s hard to stop wishing things were different. It’s hard not to resent when things don’t go our way.
I started the morning by bringing two mismatched shoes to school (It’s Monday, isn’t it?), and had to walk around in my socked feet all day, twinning it alongside every other twelfth-grader in the building (I’m definitely the coolest teacher ever, they just don’t know it yet). Did I mention that the left shoe had a giant hole in the…
Amidst the gratitude of Thanksgiving, the carolling of Christmas, and the first real taste of everyday freedoms, I inconveniently find myself in a rather poetic, albeit incessant, season of silence. Here I am with a world of opportunity before me: volleyball season is over, the calves are weaned, and the evenings are free of homework. I could not have asked for a more promising recipe for writing success.