"Crayola doesn't make a color for your eyes..."

"...spring-green is much too yellow
sea-green is far too pale
cornflower is way too mellow
so i'll try again and fail
there's no way i can capture
the way you make me feel
one look from you is rapture
whether blue or green or teal
no color qualifies
that crayon's telling lies
crayola doesn't make a color
for your eyes...

hey look it's periwinkle
so sure i got it now
But you wink and there's a twinkle
in your eye and still somehow...

crayola doesn't make
a color for your eyes
There is no way that
i could possibly describe you
crayola doesn't make a color
to draw my love..."
- Kristin Andreassen

My friend Susie posted this video of Kristin Adreeassen's "Crayola Doesn't Make a Color for Your Eyes," today, and I immediately knew what I wanted to write about.

Eyes. 

Mary Baker Eddy, in her "Glossary" of spiritual terms found in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, defines "Eyes" as:  "spiritual discernment, not material but mental."

How then could you choose a color for your eyes?  It would be like choosing a single color for joy, or love, or home.  Can you imagine the sadness that would descend on the world if  the word "home" was defined as "blue", even the most perfect shade of blue.   Every house, in every land, blue...or green, or yellow. 

Can you imagine if there was a crayola with the word "body" on it?  As if there was only one perfect color for a person's skin.  Oh yea, they do have that don't they...it's called "flesh"...hmmm...I wonder, do they still make a crayola with the word "flesh"  printed on that narrow strip of peach paper with black stripes and bold block lettering wrapped around a crayon? Now that I think about it, it's kind of creepy actually...

Which brings me to....well, where it brings me.  The story.

I was teaching Kindergarten in a relatively small Southern California town surrounded by Los Angeles County on three sides, and the ocean on the fourth.  I loved my class of eager students.  We were a diverse group -- five of seven continents represented by 35 students and one teacher.  I loved walking onto the playground in the morning and hearing the buzz and chatter of almost twelve languages blending as parents said "goodbye" and siblings called, "see you later" to one another in the language used at home, but usually left outside the gates at school.

One of my favorite projects each fall was to unroll large sheets of butcher paper onto the floor of our classroom and have each child (and teacher) stretch out on top of their sheet, so that another child could trace the outline of the his/her body.  Then each one would fill in the outline with a "self portrait" of how we saw ourselves.

Pencils, crayons, scraps of fabric and glue, buttons, strips of lace, and shoe laces would contribute to a fully fleshed out version of how each of us thought we looked.

It was a fun beginning-of-the school-year project and did a lot to help classmates get to know one another through the other's eyes.  After we'd finished our large paper doll selves, we'd hang them on the walls...after introducing them to the class in a series of presentations.  "Hi, this is Amy.  She is five years old.  She lives with her Nonie and Pop Pop while her mom goes to school.  Her dad is away on business for a few years...."  And later in October we would dress our paper doll selves in Halloween costumes. 

At the end of the year we would do the same project over again and see how our concept of  "self" had changed.  It was always most apparent  when we'd introduce this new self (who was now graduating from Kindergarten and was ready for first grade) to the same children we hadn't really known in September, but who were now as familiar to us as our siblings.  "Hi, I would like you to meet Arturo, as you know, he loves to read and do math.  His favorite song is "Thriller" and he can moonwalk.  He has new baby brother that he thinks is too noisy, but he is helping his mom by not telling her to take him back to the hospital."

I loved this project.  Sometimes the introductions were sweet and funny, and sometimes they were sad and full of despair.  Either way we were  going to be a class, a family and we would be there for one another.  We were all in it for the long haul.  We would learn and we would grow.  And it would be fun most of the time, and hard some of the time.

This particular year, I had a little girl in my class named Marguerite.  Her family had recently relocated from San Salvador and she was the only one who  spoke any English...at all.  She was a fragile and shy as a small fawn caught in the middle of an urban park and I could feel her heart beating wildly as I gently placed my hand on her shoulder that first morning.  In that moment, I knew that she would be my tracing partner for our whole-man self portraits that afternoon. 

Over the next few days I got to know Maggie (as she asked to be called) and we laughed about how much more tracing she had to do than anyone else (since I was the biggest kid in class), how funny her braids looked after being traced, and the odd shape of our feet.  

Soon it was time to fill in the blanks.  We drew in fingers, eyes, nose, mouth...and for some freckles, long (mostly just wished for) fingernails, and pierced ears.  It was a fun, noisy time of day...and we thoroughly enjoyed watching one another come to life as our flatter selves took on personalities.

When it was time to color in our selves, however, the mood changed (as it usually would each year).  Choosing the right color for hair, skin, hands, lips made everyone a bit tense.  I watched as Hispanic children wrestled with the right shade of brown, tan, or beige.  African-American children struggled with why they were called "black" and what did it mean that they wanted to use the same shade of brown as their Hispanic classmates.  Asian children wondered why someone had suggested yellow as a skin color and no one wanted to be "white"...except those who just didn't want to do any coloring at all.  We spent hours talking about colors and how they didn't define us accurately.  I remember "Maggie" being the last to choose her skin color.  She chose "rose,"  a soft strong pink, because she thought it was the most beautiful...and she wanted to be seen as beautiful and sweet like a flower. 

But it was the shift that came with the choosing of eye colors that astounded me that year.  Our joy returned.  Everyone felt that they could mix and match colors for their eyes.  We spent one afternoon moving from person to person, just looking deeply into eachother's eyes, trying to describe the colors we saw, to one another.  There were stripey blue-green eyes with spots of gray, deep brown eyes that sparkled with golden glitter, and gray eyes streaked with purple.  There were eyes like shards of pottery, and eyes that looked like the ocean on a summer's day, eyes as dark as a midnight sky and eyes as pale as the blue snow of the arctic. 

I will never forget, however, the color of Maggie's eyes. Once we'd finished our describing exercise, and were sent off to color in our own eyes..supplementing those one-on-one shared descriptions with visits to the long mirror in the back of the room...we were alone with our flatter selves.  I came up behind Maggie kneeling tenderly over her paper doll self in the far corner, and almost gasped.  She had painted rainbows in each of her eyes and sprinkled the paint with glitter.  Then she had drawn a big eye on her chest where her heart would have been and painted it in with a glowing, glittering sun...again, spirinkled with glitter. 

I kneeled down next to her and watched her work, her forehead crinkled in concentration until she sat back on her bottom and heaved a big sigh.  I asked her if she would tell me about her eyes...especially the one in her chest.  She said that the eye in her heart was the one that was like the sun.  It made everything she saw turn into rainbows even when it was gray and cloudy in her mind. 

I've never forgotten it.   I ask you, "who was really the teacher that day?"

What color would your eyes be?

Thanks Maggie...who introduced her end-of the-year self portrait to us as Marguerite with confidence and joy...I love the color of your eyes...

Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"Lay down your burdens...I will carry you..."

"Lay down your burden, I will carry you
I will carry you, my child, my child
Lay down your burden, I will carry you
I will carry you, my child, my child

If I can walk on water
And calm a restless sea…
I give vision to the blind
And I can raise the dead…

And I see those sleepless nights
And I count every tear you cry
I know some lessons hurt to learn

Lay down your burden, I will carry you
I will carry you, my child, my child
Lay down your burden, I will carry you
I will carry you, my child, my child.."

I love this Amy Grant song, "I Will Carry You," from her Rock of Ages – Hymns & Faith CD released in 2005.  There is something so comforting and holy for me in listening to it.  It reminds me of days when I was a little girl starting at, yet, one more new school.  And I really was a little girl.  I was only 4'10" when I graduated from high school and that was after a serious growth spurt.  I don't think I ever started in a new school without teachers and classmates thinking I was much younger than I was...like years younger. 

Teasing and bullying seemed to be the most consistent thing about grammar school and junior high.  Whether it was a tiny schoolhouse in an Iowa farm community or a sprawling suburban junior high school I could count on one thing, if you were new and different, liked to read and weren't particularly good with balls – kickballs, basketballs, tetherballs – you were going to be poked at, pushed around and laughed at.  I really didn't like new schools.  I think there was a part of me hoping that if I read everything I could get my hands on, did more homework than was assigned, and aced every test,  I would be smart enough to be exempted from going to school.  It wasn't that I didn't like learning.  In fact, I loved learning. I loved reading about new ideas, distant places, and periods in history when nobility and courage trumped what neighborhood you came from or what kind of car your parents drove…whether you bought a hot lunch or carried a recycled brown paper bag.  I loved discovering that there were laws that governed the universe and formulas for solving equations.  I loved the learning...the pure joy of exploration ideas, plumbing the depths of creativity and discovering the adventure within myself.  I did not like "going to school." Teachers, administrators, other children...they terrified me.   It's probably why I became a teacher and administrator. I hoped I could do it differently, with more awareness of what it was like to be a "new kid," to be different, to feel afraid.  I still have that hope...a different career...but the same hope.  Today I realize that most teachers and administrators share that same great hope. In fact, at our daughters' school this topic is being actively addressed spiritually, while at the same time students are learning how they can take a stand against acts of unkindness.   But I digress...again.

I had attended 11 schools by the time I graduated from high school and I was not proud of it.  I felt like a gypsy with a trail of tears.  Just when I would begin to feel like I had made a friend or found a route to school that didn't involve walking past a house with a big barking dog, it would be time to move again. 

The most consistent good thing about going to school, however, was coming home to my mom.  No matter where we lived, she was there.  Walking through the front door...of whatever house we were living in...was like stepping into a warm bath after trudging through a bitterly cold blizzard.  Her love was a place to rest.  She didn't see me as a bookworm, a scaredy-cat, a midget, or an over-achiever, she saw me as…me. In her heart I could relax. I didn't have to "be like a duck and let it rolls off your back" or "hold you head tall and walk through the storm" in her arms.  I didn't have to worry that if I cried it would make me look weak and therefore even more fun to tease.  In the kitchen with her on those afterschool afternoons I didn't have to be an example of resilient grace and unflustered poise for my younger siblings.  I didn't have to pretend that I liked moving from house to house and going to another new school so that my younger brothers and sisters would be fine with it too...in the warm kitchen, in her arms, I could just be me. 

I can remember so many days when I would find her in any one of those dozen or so kitchens, and she would smile, and every tense little molecule in my being would turn soft again.  In her presence I could speak without stuttering and listen without straining to hear the question so I could be sure to get the answer right.

Today is no different.  Sometimes, when the world around me seems all too ready to pounce on our perceived mistakes, weaknesses, insecurities…our humanity…I will find myself wanting to walk through that front door and search first the living room, then the bedrooms and finally find her in the kitchen…really knowing she was there all the time...and collapse into her arms.  I know that when I find her face, I will be able to really breathe again in the presence of her acceptance and love.  Throughout my life I will often pick up the phone and call her just to hear her voice.  When she isn't home (or her cell phone is out of range) I remember that her love, no matter how unconditional and constant, come from a greater source…God.  It is in those moments…when my mom is not available, or able, to take my call…that I stop, close my eyes, draw on the memories from my childhood, and walk through a different door where  I can still drop my heavy bookbag, shrug off my cardigan, kick off my penny loafers, and pad through the house in my knee socks to find Her.  My Mother God is always there to open her arms and tell me She loves me and that I am good enough for Her.  In Her arms I can breathe deeply, cry a little if I need to, and always feel at home. 

"…I see those sleepless nights
And I count every tear you cry
I know some lessons hurt to learn

But, Lay down your burden, I will carry you
I will carry you, my child, my child
Lay down your burden, I will carry you
I will carry you, my child, my child"

Some lessons do hurt to learn…but I am -- gratefully -- Her child, Her child.
Kate

"Turn around...turn around..."

"Where are you going my little one, little one
Where are you going my baby my own
Turn around and you're two,
Turn around and you're four
Turn around and you're a young girl
Going out of my door..."

Sniff...sniff, sigh….oh my gosh... it is way too soon…

Today is the first day of school…again.  It is happening far too fast these days. I want to slow down the calendar, the clock, the seasons…whatever it takes to hold them right here...at ten.  I like ten.  Ten was my favorite age to be, to teach, and to dream out from.  I love the kinds of conversations the girls and I can have right now.  I love that we can talk about feelings, choices, abstract concepts…like appreciation and affection…and love.

I love that all conversations about boys include a facial expression somewhat akin to how they look when they eat plain yogurt with wheat germ…a silent, "not too disgusting, but certainly not my choice unless I would starve without it in the wilderness…"  The other kinds of conversations about boys will come later...but for now these "looks" are perfect.  Tolerant...but not giggly.

I love that they took responsibility for their own reading lists this summer and that they know more about how to re-configure a network connection on my computer, than I do.  I love that they still call me their favorite "snugglebuddy" at bedtime (including the snuggling) and yet are able to make their own PB&J sandwich for lunch.

I love everything about being their mom…except how quickly it is all going. 

But I know...don't I...that progress is a law of God…and I love every law of God…so in reality I must realize my love for their progress…even if it makes them taller than me in the next few months. 

And progress, being a law of God includes innocence, purity, grace and childlike wonder.  I must remember...no adults of God – just children.  But, oh my goodness...as Paul Simon sings,

"These are the days of miracles and wonders"

I think the "miracle" is just that we get to do it…this extraordinary thing called life and motherhood and fatherhood and sharing space with eachother in this moment of eternity.  And the wonder…oh my goodness, the wonder is in every second, every moment that I feel God's mercy in giving me "a second chance"…a billion times a day…to do it better…to be more childlike (myself…through their example), to be more patient (with myself as I rush blindly around trying to keep everything "on task") to be more filled with…yes, wonder.

So…as we drove into school this morning and Emma read the first part of our Bible study readings aloud to Clara and I in the car (like I said it's happening way too fast) I couldn't help but think that, like Simeon who was recorded in the Chapter of Luke as having "waited for the consolation of Israel", we too can see progress as innocence, as a childlike purity, an infant hope…in ourselves and others…no matter how many first days of school we have experienced….as students, parents, teachers, administrators, counselors, lawmakers.

The sun has already taken on that golden light of "back to school"…I don't know what this year holds for each of us…but I know it will be good…progress is a law of God.  I'm counting on it.  I'm counting on it to keep us all filled with the wonder of being ten…or seventeen, or thirty-two, or fifty-three.  Counting on it...as we walk out the door in brand  new shoes and with freshly sharpened pencils, 200 sheets of lined notebook paper and a clean three-ring binder under our arms ready to innocently (and expectantly) greet the Christ-child being born in our world each day…in the classroom, on the floor of the Senate, in a shelter in Baghdad, or as we sit at a traffic light during rush hour.

"…Turn around (turn around)
Turn around (turn around)
Turn around and you're a young girl
Going out of the door…"
- Harry Bellafonte

have a great day...and be sure to eat all your lunch,
Kate

The First Day of School

As a former teacher and prinicipal....and for that matter,  student....I miss the sounds of "the first day of school"...squeals of recognition, the clatter of books falling from lockers, the roar of a hallway as students hurry to the next teacher while still connecting with friends they may not have seen since before the summer sun turned their hair blonde and their skin bronze, the unique quiet of a high school when classes are in session....and somewhere from the dark recesses of my memory is the sound (and smell) of the mimeograph machine cranking out stacks of worksheets....and the color of purple....everywhere...

Today as three of our children dressed in outfits that were carefully chosen (well, at least for our elementary school-age twin daughters) and laid out the night before on top of invisible people at end of their beds and with socks tucked into new shoes peeking out from the dark regions beneath the dust ruffle, I was reminded of all the years when I had the privilege, as principal,  of being that first handshake that greeted each student at the front door of the school at the dawn of a new year.

I think, though, that my favorite moments were as a teacher waiting just outside the classroom door for each youngster to find their room after looking on the bulletin board outside the main office for their class assignments.    "I got Miss Davis....I got Miss Parker....I got Mr. Burns"  you could hear them shout to one another as they passed in the hallways making their way to a year-long destination they would come to know as well as the route from their own front door to their bedroom at home.  I would keen my ear to hear the first "I got Miss Clark" and my heart would leap at the sound of my own name and the way it was said, by a second grader...with her parent in tow, making their way to my room. 

Anyone who thinks that the first day of school only provides a heightened sense of what to (or not to) wear on the part of students... has never been a teacher.  We are not only thinking about what skirt to put with which blouse, knowing that this is the mental photograph of "Miss Buchanan" that little Laurie will take home with her tonight and carry around for 40 or more years...just the way we have done about Mrs. Kearns from Kindergarten in 1959....but we have an entire classroom to dress up.

Where do we put the weather bulletin board?  Where will we read outloud to them for quiet time after recess each afternoon?  What will we write on the blackboard on that first morning.  Do I write my name before they arrive and have it there or do I write it as I introduce myself to the class?  Will we have Harriet the Hamster there on day one or wait for the unit on nocturnals later that week to bring her in?  Do I start out with bulletin boards on "What we did this summer" or do we head into the "Fall Harvest" right away.

These are the surface questions that have poked at me in the middle of the night for weeks by the time I am standing in that doorway waiting for my new best friends to arrive. 

On a deeper level I have been pondering how I am going to receive them mentally.  Am I going to "remember" that Johnny had a problem with anger management on the playground last Spring or am I going to greet only the sweet boy I know that His Father-Mother God (and his mommy and daddy) see him to be.  Will I anticipate the need to break up the clique of 5 little girls who only play with eachother on the playground every year or will I see, coming through the door, in-clusive, generous, open-hearted ambassadors who themselves are eager to greet a whole new group of friends and make them feel welcome.  Am I going to see myself as Miss Blake the teacher who always goes over the top for the annual art show (as if it is a reflection on her own creativity and sense of organization and style) or am I going to let myself grow more generous and flexible and see this year's art show more fully represent the breadth of creativity and individuality brought by each member of the entire faculty and student body.

We each prepare for the first day of school on so many levels.  Parents work all summer to find the courage to let another "grown up" become important in the life of their precious new Kindergartner.   Administrators pray through class assignments, teacher/assistant appointments, and budget allocations.  Teachers grapple with learning and teaching modalities that will best respond to the unique needs of the children entrusted to their wise discernment, school bus drivers get a good night's rest and yearn to feel the peace of knowing that every turn, every stop will be governed by and guided with a divine hand.  


And students....students hope.  They hope that this year they will, as one child recently said to me, "....find out I am smarter than I remembered to be last year".   They will hope, and hope, and hope.....that they will have friends, that the teacher will call on them, that they will have become stronger at kickball, that they will not be asked by the music teacher to "mouth the words" (this summer alone I heard from five grown ups that they had experienced this as a child and didn't sing outoud for decades because of it)....they will hope that their handwriting is posted on the bulletin board because it is so lovely, or that the boy with the locker next to hers will be kind and not tease her because she wears braces.  They will hope that their teacher will see how hopeful they are.


If there is one quality I think is most present in the hallways, classrooms, gyms, lunchrooms, auditoriums, and playgrounds on the first day of school it is hope. 

So today, as I cherish "the first day of school" from my office I will pray that hopes are realized.  That hope springs eternal, that hope is NOT  just the absence of apathy, but the presence and power of the Divine pointing the way towards what our all-powerful God is promising to each of us for this year. 

May every "first day of school" hope be fulfilled by the presence of goodness, grace and affection....with the gifts of intelligence, flexibility, joy, appreciation, thoughtfulness, strength and purity.

I can't wait to hear how your "first day of school" went....everyday this year!



K