Writing Portfolio T&L 546

Writing Portfolio

T&L 546

I came into this process feeling comfortable with the writing I commit to paper behind closed doors, but hesitant about the writing that would be displayed for others to peruse.  Writing has always been a private activity that is soothing and helps me sort through the buzzing in my head.  Through this process it became glaringly apparent how much the weight of words means to me and how much time and energy I put into selecting the “just right” words in my writing. I found that it is difficult to not write about what I know, which resulted in writing pieces that are loosely based on or inspired by events in my life. The most reflective aspect of this writing journey is that sharing my writing with others is not as alarming as I thought it would be and beyond bolstering my own writing craft it is also essential to quality writing instruction with my students. These writing pieces are ones that I have either already shared with my students or will share in the future. For me writing has become a communal community experience.

Writing Pieces

1.     “Excuse me, Mrs. Holtcamp!”

2.  Compulsion Makes My Heart Feel Light Headed

3. Rainy Detours

4. Tea Song

5. A Place Under The Stairs-Picture book

#1

“Excuse me, Mrs. Holtcamp!”

Sticky paper hearts, obsolete tin-can robots, and color-by-numbers math worksheets are the vivid memories that pepper the inside of my eyelids from the year of second grade. A year that would be marked with the label, embarrassment.

 "Excuse me, Mrs. Holtcamp!” No response, as the addition lesson continues to smoothly play out like a conductor leading a symphony.

With my hand raised high in the air and a lurching feeling growing in my stomach I sputtered, “Mrs. Holtcamp?” “Class, what is 3+4? Use the color key to color in the correct section,” Mrs. Holtcamp commands.

Now the feeling is rising; a gurgling geyser in my stomach. My eyes flutter shut and when they open again the contents of my stomach are splayed across my desk; seeping, oozing, drizzling onto the carpet. My cheeks run crimson and molten. 44 eyes stare as the smell of regurgitated lunch compels fingers to clasp over noses. And all I can do is sit there like an icicle frozen in the mess, pretending that this is not happening. I feel the faint sensation of my body being pulled away from the desk, though I could not say whether it was of my own volition or by teacher force.

The next flash of recognition comes as I am directed to stand by the door and wait. Wait for what feels like a looming punishment. Wait for the texture of flecked vomit to dry on my shirt. Wait while Mrs. Holtcamp recaps the episode to my mom over the phone. Wait as the janitor pours a powdery substance over the goo turning it into crystalized bile. I wait for what feels like the longest time anyone has ever had to wait in the entire universe; at least the immediate universe of a second grader.

I am startled by the embrace of cold air as it sucks its way into the classroom and the awareness of my mom draping me in love, concern, and a mother’s promise that everything will be alright. The worry and discomfort are vacuumed from my conscious as the spattered mess, the janitor’s stringent solvent, and the teacher’s harsh gaze drift away becoming less and less insistent.

I am finally free of the suspended humiliation as I find myself in my own bed entangled in well-worn blankets and teddy bears. The tinkle of ginger ale fizzing in a glass and the hum of a lullaby conspire against my consciousness to rid me of this torturous day and summon me off to slumber.

#2

Compulsion Makes My Heart Feel Light Headed

Checking. Always checking. My heart feels lightheaded, my brain buzzes with bizarre thoughts, and my stomach is flooded with a deep welling feeling of doom. The sensation comes in waves of irrational worry and looping thoughts colliding in the caverns of my mind.

It speaks. I must check. It builds, it beckons, it berates.

Check once

Check twice

Check three times

Keys, I see them, I feel them. Check

Wallet, I see it, I hold it. Check

Phone, I see it, I touch it. Check

Check once

Check twice

Check three times

All is calm. The waves have been quelled and the nagging pressure inside subsides.

And I am free; out the door and onto the street.

I can hear the ding and roll of the street car grinding against the rails. There is noisy chatter from two joggers passing by and the smell of yeast; a thick bready smell that dampens the air as it spirals from the brewery and stings my nose.

Down the block and past the brewery. Another door opens and I am in the coffee shop. The sweet gritty smell of roasted, ground, dripped coffee pulses throughout the place.

Sit, sip, relax, read. My brain is calm. The relentless repetitive inner thoughts are abated and satisfied…at least for the time being.

Glancing at the clock it is time to go, but my feet won’t budge from their position. Cemented and waiting until the urge to check has been compelled to silence.

Check once

Check twice

Check three times

Keys, their glint catches my eye, the cool metal traces my hand. Check

Wallet, the rosy leather exterior is in view, I weigh it in my hand. Check

Phone, the glossy apple comes into focus, I touch the cracks and edges. Check

Check once

Check twice

Check three times

Breath, exhale, breath, exhale. Everything is in order. You are in control. The surge of overwhelming panic is gone. And you are unrestricted from taking a step out the door.

#3

Rainy Detours

“I’ve had as much of this as I can take. One more minute of this dense reading and my eyes will permanently glaze over and my soul will crawl out of my skin.” My brain screamed and threw a tantrum like an incited two year old. I could no longer abate the feelings of irritation pooling inside my head and seeping onto my desk like a thick unstoppable oil spill.

The irritation was severed by the trickle of raindrops condensing against my window and the physical lack of will power to trudge through yet another monotonous reading assignment about the detriments of the education system or the benefits of backward design, or whatever it was that I was presently torturing myself with.

My attention returned to the droplets that were weaving and smashing against the panes of glass. They collided as if hoping that their sheer numbers would permit them to break through.

I slumped out of my chair and riffled through my closet to retrieve my raincoat saturated in the color of Pepto-Bismol. My hunter green rain boots stood at attention by the door, as if they were trying to make an escape. The raincoat felt icy and slick as it skimmed along the bare skin of my arms leaving a trail of raised bumps. The rain boots echoed a suction cup sound as I treaded along the tile floor.

On my way out the door I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I was reminded of an x-ray machine. The transparent quality of the raincoat revealed my pajamas underneath in all of their floral glory. In all honesty I looked like a sleep deprived and disheveled leprechaun who had been puked on by a rainbow. But there was not time to contemplate my wardrobe, not while there was rain dancing and puddle jumping and freedom waiting beyond the walls of my study session prison. 

          When the droplets finally brushed against my skin and tangled in my hair I sensed my breath returning and the awareness of prevailing calm. I whooped and whirled and plunged and cascaded from puddle to puddle. There is something about a rainstorm, like a numbing winter snowfall when all of the sound has vacated. But with the rain there is also a low hum of drumming that energizes and pulses deep in the soul.

With each scatter and sprinkle of submerged dampness I felt relief and release. The intermingling of puddles and rain was the purposeful and purposeless detour that I needed to resume the tedious tasks of adulthood and conquer reality with a commanding roar.

#4

Tea Song

Seasoned hands pluck leaves from gardens of green, black, and Oolong somewhere in China.

Dainty white gloves lift porcelain from delicate saucers somewhere in the Northwest.

Production of baking in sunlight

Consumption of drinking on a cold night

Withering and wilting invigoration bursts free

Developing and maturing the passage of time rapidly accelerates

Bruised, beaten and torn to pieces the leaves are left alone.

Shattered and scattered the ceramic shards are adhered back together.

Revived by the sunlight, melding into their final form

The fragrance is pure; Fresh and Mellow.

Lost in imagination and daydreaming, youth is left intact

The aroma is carefree; Comforting and Zesty.

Grown in lush green clusters at the height of a hillside

Born of imaginary friends and dress-up clothes

Both are elapsed threads of time.

Both are reflections of the past and appreciations for the future.

One from 5,000 years ago

Another only 27 years young

Regarded as a necessary ritual to begin the day

Considered as an indulgence to sooth and stir-up the senses

Respect and an apology steeped in water

Childhood and abandonment tasted in liquid

An anchor to memory, tradition, and belonging

Gathered around a teapot family ties are reestablished somewhere in China.

Gathered around a teapot floppy ears and button noses partake in make-believe somewhere in the Northwest.

Tea is Geography

Tea is Culture

Tea is Remedy

#5

A Place Under The Stairs: click on the link below for my picture book.

http://www.bookemon.com/book_read_flip.php?book_id=609970