by Fitz | Dec 25, 2013 | Journal
This picture is from Christmas eleven years ago when Tommy was only two weeks old, and now all of them—and Gio and Pipo–are playing charades or some such game in the dining room, shouting and laughing at each other’s miscues and fortifying another enduring memory into the mosaic of their lives. For me, it is another reminder that everything in my life is worthy of this moment, made this moment, and remembers this moment because it validates and makes sense of the patterns and actions Denise and I follow and create as parents–patterns and actions that we question in the moment and agonize over in retrospect (and all too often regret) but through the distillation of experience, the guidance of faith, and the search for perfection within imperfection become the patterns and actions that made us and make us a family. And so a band of small kids gathered around the mystery in a cradle eleven years ago can become a gaggle of kids gathered tonight around the only table they know, practicing a gift of love that anyone can know and live and create and sustain, for if we have faith in love, then we have faith, and it is a faith worth living, if only to give a bit of light to the mystery. Merry Christmas
by Fitz | Dec 10, 2013 | Essays, Journal, Teaching
Just closed the lid, so to speak, on what seems to be weeks of school-related paperwork. I am excited to go to my classes tomorrow with only those classes on my mind–not the letters home to parents, the secondary school recs, the grades and comments to homeroom teachers, but just a bunch of teenagers looking to get through the day with a bit of joy, a tad of knowledge, and hopefully sloppy joes for lunch–and not much homework. This feels like the time of the school year when we produce too much and harvest too little as we feed the insatiable measuring machine.
I wonder sometimes why we assess “when” we do. The notions of terms or semesters is pretty ingrained in every educational system I know of, but I just don’t know the real reason. It is a sincere question. Maybe we should learn in short stretches of time–like three months or so, such that the year is divided into fourths and one fourth is rest and the rest of the fourths is, well…the three legs of the race…and that would work, right?
I really have not met anyone that has a massively compelling reason why we stop the wheels and give a semester grade except for because–it’s the end of the semester.
Not the most profound question to cast out there, but it is the question that is sending me to my sleep.
If you have the answer, let me know.
by Fitz | Dec 10, 2013 | Essays, Journal, Teaching
How about we all take the bull by the horns and make this blog thing work! Your job this week is to do something with your blog that is powered by the passion that is in you. Passion is the one thing you have some control over. There are plenty of smarter, more gifted, and more interesting writers out there than me or you–but there shouldn’t be a more passionate writer. For better or worse, your blog is you–as my blog is me, and until you want a better you and I want a better me, readers will find another place to go.
(more…)
by Fitz | Dec 7, 2013 | Journal
It has been a long time since I wrote a simple old “this is what I am going to do today” post. So this is what I am going to do today: [and trust me, it will have nothing–absolutely nothing–to do with school work:)] Before the true winter settles in, I am going to try and install a wood stove hearth in our family room AND install a stainless steel chimney outside. I never like starting things when I don’t have a clear visual in my head, but for this, I can’t afford the outrageous price that installers charge–usually much more than the usual carpenter’s wage. I have my permits; I met with the inspector, an I am confident that I’ll figure it all out. I’ll even take some pictures because I finally figured out (actually Kerry from camp just figured out) why my iPhone takes such horrible pictures–the lens was dirty.
Maybe I won’t be able to figure things out.
We’ll see, I guess.
One last sip of coffee…and here I go…
by Fitz | Nov 28, 2013 | Journal, Poetry
I am surprised sometimes
by the suddenness of November:
beauty abruptly shed
to a common nakedness—
grasses deadened
by hoarfrost,
persistent memories
of people I’ve lost.
It is left to those of us
dressed in the hard
barky skin of experience
to insist on a decorum
that rises to the greatness
of a true Thanksgiving.
This is not a game,
against a badly scheduled team,
an uneven match on an uneven pitch.
This is Life.
This is Life.
This is Life.
Not politely mumbled phrases,
murmured with a practiced and meticulous earnestness.
Thanksgiving was born a breech-birth,
a screaming appreciation for being alive—
for not being one of the many
who didn’t make it—
who couldn’t moil through
another hardscrabble year
on tubers and scarce fowl.
Thanksgiving is for being you.
There are no thanks without you.
You are the power of hopeful promise;
you are the balky soil turning upon itself;
you are bursting forth in your experience.
You are not the person next to you—
not an image or an expectation.
You are the infinite and eternal you—
blessed, and loved, and consoled
by the utter commonness
and community of our souls.
We cry and we’re held.
We love and we hold.
We are the harvest of God,
constantly renewed,
constantly awakened,
to a new thanksgiving.
*Have a great Thanksgiving!
by Fitz | Nov 26, 2013 | Essays, Journal
The house is quiet earlier than usual. I can hear Margaret playing her guitar and singing in her bedroom—door closed as she would have it, but still beautiful to hear. It reminds me of Kaleigh when she was younger singing her heart out, as if the world didn’t really exist outside of her room.
EJ and I played some banjo and guitar earlier tonight. He has some pretty fast fingers on the old “banjer” and a good ear for music. At some point all of the kids, sans Charlie, were playing something: Tommy on the trumpet, Emma on her new ukelele—even Pipo picking up a few chords on the guitar. We were talking about music at the supper table, and I noted that I have never met any adult who regrets playing an instrument. Maybe something actually soaked in. On Saturday night, we took all the kids to a party at Tom Cummings house and there was a big jam session going on all night. EJ and Emma sat in a for a bit, but at least all the kids got to see the purity of experience that music brings to a community. I do want all my kids to play something, and I want them to find joy in music. Really, all I want is for them to experience true joy, and that’s what music brings to life—done right.
I can’t figure how music is done wrong. I love traveling around on Sunday mornings giving guitar and song-singing advice to a few young teenagers. They are all earnest, sweet, and love their music. My only regret is that I really can’t do the same for my own children. I teach them on the rare occasions when they come to me for some advice, but we don’t have the spare cash to give them lessons. For the most part they have done well with our rather feral approach to music and have “figured things out” on their own, but there is always this pang of guilt that I haven’t given them the same kind of chances to have a teacher, guide, and mentor for weekly lessons, though I guess they have all had plenty of chances to have a heck of a lot of fun with music at pubs and campfires, concerts and camps, and living room jams and long car rides.
I should stop now, lest I indulge even more in one of my deepest fears—the fear of becoming that overly proud parent who somehow manages to spill out the accomplishments of their children to anyone willing to listen.
But damn, Margaret does sound good.
