The Days of Day

Some people go to jobs every day where they come home frustrated about the dwindling spirit of humanity.  I, on the other hand, get to go to a job every day where I come home with stories .  Some of them are like static in my brain-space: stories of people being unreasonable.  Some of them are like razor blades: stories of people being abused or hurt or in pain without any recourse or exit strategy.  And then, there are other days where I come home with a story that is more beautiful than any garden, more refreshing than any barefoot day.  And here is one of them: My speech class consists of nine students.  At least five, as far as I can tell so far, are Advanced Placement students, preparing to place out of college courses with their knowledge and well-developed abilities.  One seems to be more interested in his outside interest of rapping than school, and one is so quiet I'm not clear on who she might be yet.  And then there is Mario and Isabe...

This is the kitchen project we just finished.  I designed it all with enthusiastic agreement from Tom and the boys.  I think I'm fixing up my heart for the next chapter. .... I'm home with a sick boy today... not sure if he's more sick in his body or in his spirit, but a moment of being still never hurt anyone.  And here I am being still, taking the time to tiptoe around my sure-to-feel-neglected blog.  I'm writing, quite certain that whoever used to follow my writing has long since moved on to other trails through the woods, but knowing that this matters. I've spent the day doodling and exploring the blogs and work of other artists, artists who manage to put more time, more drama into their creating.  I've felt inspired enough today to plan out the shelf-lets I want to build in the library to display our printed Instagram photos and the prints of Marcus' incredible panoramics that he took in Home Depot.  I've drawn a kookie bird covered in feathe...