Poetry Is...

a fever, sung

a slow-working medicine

one distilled thought

the shortest essay, and the longest version of the story

how we remember

a last resort

annoying, poignant

sand in your eyes, balm on your skin

a splash of water, a driving rain

a jump, a leap

a whispering wind

the moment you know that

you couldn’t have said it better yourself.

How I Grade and How I Think

(I began this piece last spring. It's true. I wasn't often working at an optimal mental level for the last three years.)

I was sitting in the park, admiring the stream, having just half-composed a poem about the leaves against the sky. I opened my grading folder, and started in. One paper later, I received a phone call from a friend, also a beginner teacher. "Hey, Carolyn. I'm calling to hear about your grading philosophy..." Hahaha! I couldn't have planned it better. Of course, while this conversation took place, highly gratifying, though it was, nary a paper was graded.
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Teachers: talk to each other about grading. What does an "A" mean to you? I would be willing to bet a lot of us are actually grading on effort over product most of the time. If you're not "in education," you might find it surprising how many books and classes center on this very issue.
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I wish I knew how to teach a works cited page and avoiding plagiarism, and to do it calmly. I wish I knew how to do anything calmly. To sit quietly and grade 22 papers fairly and consistently, and afterward to keep my head clear and just do a load of laundry and go to bed.

I wish I knew how to stop watching YouTube clips and move through the day. Why does Buzzfeed have to format their articles with lists and gifs? Lists are my favorite way of organizing my thoughts. My thoughts are like cats, sitting on sofas and tabletops, each prowling, playing, sleeping, and sunning as they have need. And lists are like herding these unlawful creatures into a straight line.

Re-Entry

I went through the pains of what I have heard missionaries call "re-entry" when I returned from my first short-term mission trip to Arizona at the age of 12. What was it? Everything was different; home wasn't home. As I re-entered my old world, I recognized that it, too, was new. Those losses had to be mourned.

I didn't experience it to any great degree when I returned from Honduras, nor upon my return from any other foreign country.

But I've found myself experiencing it this summer, those aches of loss, now I have moved out of the life I've known for the past three years. I haven't always phrased my work as a missionary assignment, though my availability to friends and family has been that of an ex-patriot. (Besides, why would I call myself a missionary? Our lives are ours to use how we will, and if you're a Christian, your life is yours to use how God wills. So we live out our mission. All Christians are also missionaries.)

Yet... aside from rarely being available to hang out, I've been surrounded by people of a different culture and language, and I've been a spiritual mentor. And I guess those are what I have always thought of as a missionary's callings.

Now that I'm living outside of the residence hall, here's what's been on my mind:
1. I have to cook. What is "to cook"?
2. I just did a lot of packing and downsizing: my classroom and my apartment were all placed or displaced in the house I now share with three other women. And most importantly, I don't miss any of those items. Maybe possessions are silly.
3. Is it time to move to another country in a few months? No.
4. Aren't all jobs supposed to be full of purpose? Or are some jobs editing copy, making coffee, and praying that God would receive glory in that? Yes.