2013 Come and Gone

Another entire year passed with only two blog posts.  I wonder if I should even continue to have this blog when it obviously gets neglected.  The busyness of my work and my family certainly contributes to the infrequency of posting, but I also wonder if there is still purpose here.

Upon returning tonight, I see there is. If for no one else but myself. I read posts from years ago and marvel that so little has changed or, the very opposite, I read and question, was that really me? And something tells me that whenever we are brave enough to share our story, the world is better for it.

So, as 2013 comes to a close, I have been searching for my new One Little Word. Over the past few years I have selected discover, reach, and courage. Each of those words came to play a significant role in my thinking and feeling for that year, so I wanted to be careful and sincere as I chose the OLW for 2014.  I have decided on cultivate and I cannot tell you how thrilled I am about it.  Already it has given me a fresh perspective and made me take some bold steps in new directions.

I love that cultivate combines the optimism of creation with the reality of discipline.  To cultivate requires a plan, a vision for what could be.  It also requires work, the action to move that vision from dream to reality.  There is an earthiness to the word as it connotes nature, gardening, farming, growing something of use and beauty.  And there is also a sense of industry, tools and science being utilized to achieve the best results.

It is also the opposite of neglect.

As I take on this word, I am eager to decide exactly what I want to cultivate in my life, what it will take to make that happen and what it will produce in my life and the lives of others.

Anyone else choosing a One Little Word this year?

Some Poems to Share

So, I fell off the Slice of Life Train, and thought I would get back into gear with National Poetry Month.  Last year, I completed the Slice of Life Challenge in March AND NaPoWriMo in April.  Consistency has not been my strength, in terms of writing, this year.  But sincerity has.  I am worrying less about response and more about speaking my truth.  So, even though I have not written a poem every day this month, I do have a few to share.

List
It would take a list
to tell you what I love
a list of names
of landmarks
of lost and found
It would take a list
to tell you what i love about
moments that melted time
like when your hand and mine
rested on a common countertop
and we laughed at an inside joke
and just for that half-second I saw
your eyes stop and and soften
and i knew that you
had a list, too.

Annotation
Sometimes I want to mark you
like a book,
drag my hot pink highlighter
right across your mouth
and in your margins,
scrawl a world like
"remember" or ask
"why?"
I would underline your eyes,
comment on your fingers
and before I was done,
I would certainly circle
your heart over and over
until my pen wore away
your skin (just a bit)
and the scar might make
you remember me.

My Faults

It's all my fault

The leaves falling fast

The moon's final phase

The way the days

Never seem to last

It's all my fault

Because I believed you

Thought I had to

If you were mine

If you and I

Were tied like twine

Knotted into one mess

That would always hold

But you never were

Mine or even yours

Earthquakes have no warning

Fault lines are pretend

Until they part ways

So I blame myself

Name myself the creator

Of the day’s end

The fall into forever

Crack in the earth

Birth of our demise

Before we were we

I am the red line

Thin on the map

Miles wide across landscape

I swallowed your lies

The fault is mine. 

When I Am Supposed to be Listening to You Speak

I think about your hands,

what they hold :

the remote control,

cold bottle of beer,

the doorknob for a moment too long,

the steering wheel when all you want to do

is drive,

the ballpoint pen when all you want to do

is write. 

I think about your hands,

what they hold:

a family together

you back

up your promises

down a job

everything in your fist

but not too tight

you let it breathe until it lights 

from your palm

free, but without 

the home of you, I think.

About your hands, 

They hold. 

Word Lover

I love the language

like you

the language you lean on

to let me know something I

shouldn't, the language you

let me lick from the space between us

I love the language you leave

inside your mouth

for as long as you can

until it becomes too much

for your tongue

and the only relief is writing it down

whispering it into text, tiny letters

that tell me tell me tell me,

"I love the language. Like you."

Fries With That (SOLSC -- Day 6)

Tonight I took my sons out to eat after my middle son, Nicholas, completed his Kung Fu testing with a terrific performance. We just went to a fast food place and we had items on the value menu, so it was not a lavish excursion. But they loved it, especially the cookies (which at this particular restaurant are amazing)!And even more than the pseudo-50s decor, or the cheap, delicious burgers, the boys loved the comment cards left at each table. They read each question aloud and conferred about the right answer. They even wrote in their own comments about the deliciousness of those fabulous cookies.

Looking at their three blonde heads hovering over the card, I was reminded that we all want to have a voice -- even if it's just about fast food-- and I am glad the boys used theirs.

National Day on Writing

Tomorrow I will be celebrating the National Day on Writing with my students. In preparation I wrote a response to the "Why I Write" prompt offered by NWP (National Writing Project). This is the latest in a long line of short pieces I have written on this topic. Sometimes, even with things we love, we have to remind ourselves why.

Why I Write Today

I am a writer because whenever something significant happens and whenever it doesn't, I itch to put it into words.

When I walk outside in the morning, I want to describe how the fingertips of air touch my skin. When I drive to work, I want to list all of the adjectives I can that describe the sound of my car -- the whir, the grumble, the sigh, the buzz of tires on asphalt.

When I talk with someone, I imagine the words being typed across a screen or written in a notebook. I imagine what that conversation would look like in the pages of a paperback, black type on rough vanilla pages.

I see my words popping up in speech bubbles, filling all the empty space between me and you.

I write because I am breathing, because I am living, because I am loving you and this is how we kiss.

#Poemaday 18 and 19, Lesson Learned and Warning to Poets Who Write at Night

I sat at the computer last night to work on my poem, but sleep proved to be a stronger adversary than I had imagined.  Sadly, I had to go to bed before I could write.  So, the goal tonight -- double the poem fun!

#18

Lesson Learned
what do we have against empty?
the glass half so, equals pessimism
undeveloped land, bare walls, prolonged silence
each begs for filling
 --condos, knick-knacks, an awkward joke --
sacrificing quality for company.

perhaps too quickly we let empty go
when instead we should revel in the room,
the unlabeled map, the peace of no words.
instead of filling up, maybe we should be clearing out
that's what you taught me
when you left me

(intentionally blank)

(but ironically not blank at all)

you taught me
empty promises are all I have to hold.


#19
Warning for Poets Who Write at Night
Beware the words coming at you,
flinging themselves like lemmings from a cliff.
They seem too small to say anything worthy;
they dart like shooting stars burnt out before they touch the earth.
Your eyes begin to close,
even so, between eyelids and darkness
words find way to paper.
Netted fish, they squirm and jump,
trying to leap back into the night sky.
Nonsense and philosophy all at once, the words and lines are
mute planets finding their own revolution.

And just as your chin hits chest, your fingers
slide across the keyboard -- sleep seems the victor --
yet, these words proclaim:

Listen!

and then the truth comes out --
what was hidden in the sunlight
glows on midnight's stage.

Put down your weapons, let the prisoner go.
Another poem is free.

#Poemaday 17: Playthings or Poetry

Thanks to @budtheteacher for another prompt that took me in a very different direction than what I had imagined.


Playthings (or Poetry)
You are my companion on wild backyard adventures,
my solace on rainy indoor days
and in those troubled times,
my last goodnight before dreams take me into sleep.
I build with you, color with you,
pretend and pretend and pretend
with you until I am  not sure
where pretend ends and real begins.
I bounce you around
and make you tell stories,
toss you into the air
and leave you sprawled on the floor,
evidence that we are not idle,
evidence that we are working, thinking.

Picking up the loose thread of any of a thousand tales,              
each day we see the world through my wise child eyes.

#Poemaday 12: Boundaries

@budtheteacher strikes with another prompt today: Are you going to cross this line?


Boundaries

It all depends.

Will I be in or out?
Spectator or player?
Alone or with a team?

Who put the line there?
Who's watching?
Who's on the other side?

No wheelbarrow, no chickens. 
Only an arbitrary line seeking
to tell me the rules,
in other words,
keep me where I am.

#Poemaday 9: Hang Your Hopes

@budtheteacher's prompt is here -- both the photo and the quote pushed me into new thinking.

Hang Your Hopes

Like sugar spilled on a tablecloth of sky,
the stars remind me of sweet what-might-have-beens.

Like us, spread across what we thought was love,
but turned out to be just what was there,
falling into the arms of others before we knew us was real.

Like me, basking in the softness of your old light,
believing it is a wish that might come true,
but knowing it is only what somewhere was me and you.

Coming in Last

Last is a place most people don't want to be.

Few choose to be last in line or be picked last for a team or come in last in a race.  Last means waiting and slow. And in a world as fast-paced as ours, last feels like almost not being there at all. Last feels like losing.

I haven't gone back to check each day, but during the Slice of Life Story Challenge this month, I have been last or close to last almost every day when I posted my slice.  Being on the West Coast contributed to that, but I also usually reserved writing my slice for the very last piece of my day.  I wanted to be sure all that was going to happen for the day had happened.  I wanted to fall asleep with words still rearranging themselves on my mind.  I wanted to eulogize each passing day with my words.

When I went through the Writing Project Summer Institute in 1999, I wrote a poem that began, "My time to write is morning..."  Now, the quiet and calm I like to write by comes with moonlight instead of the sun.

March has given me a new appreciation for last.

Writing In Circles

Does anyone else ever feel like they are writing in circles?  I begin to type and after a few sentences think, "But haven't I said this before?"  I try to push myself into deeper earth, and I think that I am discovering new feelings or perspectives.  But then I stop and read what is on the screen and realize I have ended up in a place I have been too many times before. Very familiar territory.

And then I question -- Maybe this is the place I need to be.  Maybe resolution has eluded me and I am here again to find some kind of satisfaction. Maybe life gets so busy with the details and the daily demands that writing is the only way I remind myself of what I really need or what I really feel or what I cannot continue to ignore.

Sometimes writing can be a journey across a crowded map, a navigation of new lands.  But sometimes, writing is like a bird building a nest.  A return, over and over, flight after flight, day after day, to the same spot. A gathering of twigs, leaves, moss, trash -- layer upon layer -- all tucked and intertwined. Writing is like anticipation on a tree limb, first home to something that will eventually take flight.

Could You Repeat That?

I have been thinking about repetition.  What do I repeat?  What do I like repeating and what do I repeat so much it makes me want to climb the walls?

I don't like repeating fights or failed cooking attempts.  I don't like repeating my name or mistakes.  As a teacher, I know I need to repeat instructions, but on the 42nd round, I start to show signs of impatience.  I don't like repeating after others and I don't like it when my children repeat things I didn't know they had heard.

But there are a few things I do not mind repeating.  Goodbye kisses and pregnancy stories are high on the list.  I need to repeat praise more often at work and home.  I will repeat "when you were a baby" tales as long as my boys ask for them.  I love you.  I could repeat that to the men in my house a hundred times a day and some days I do.

And this -- writing at night, hemming my day in words --is something I could repeat for the rest of my life, an I love you to myself. 

Too Many Choices, No Direction

Tonight I have too many ideas from which to choose. 

I could write about my six-year old being sick and how he calls me each time he heads to the toilet.  I guess I make good puking company!  Tending to a child who is ill is actually one of the greatest blessings -- sure, there are the bodily fluids to deal with, but the tenderness can be excruciatingly wonderful.

I could write about class today.  Students were writing their essays about what they will seek and what they would sacrifice.  One young lady came to my desk and asked me, "Can I give my essay alternate endings?" My laughter burst out of me and broke the silence of the writers before I could catch it.  It was like she wanted to create the special edition DVD version of her essay.  Does this idea make anyone else smile?

I could write about how lately, I have been saying hello to this boy who spends his entire lunch period standing against a wall all alone.  Each day, I walk past him on my way from my classroom to my office. I smile at him and he smiles at me, too.   And lately, I have started talking to him.  A simple hello at first, but today, whole sentences!  He never says much back, but he returns my smile each time.  I want to be able to address him by name, but I am not sure how to get it.  Wouldn't it be weird to just walk up to a random student and ask his name?  I feel like it would.

I could write about how my husband thinks my first statement about there being wonderful in the kiddo's sickness is its own wonderful nonsense, or, as he put it, "the craziest thing I've heard."

Too many ideas tonight and already, my time is up.  I know because my eyes are closed.

Seek & Sacrifice

Each quarter, I give my students a big question to think about as we read, write, and learn together.  This quarter's question was this:  What will I seek and what will I sacrifice?  On Wednesday, they will be writing in response to this question in class and they will need to include how our readings from the year have contributed to their thinking. For my Slice today, I want to begin my own response to this question.

I seek wholeness.  In my family, in my work, in myself.  I want all of the empty spaces to be filled.  Writing helps me with this.  Like the protagonist in Ellison's Invisible Man, typing his invisibility onto the page, art allows me to leave a piece of myself on the paper.  And when I do this, when I leave my flesh and fluids there in ink on the sheet, it is as if my body redoubles its efforts and not only regenerates the part of myself I let go, but actually takes up even more space within me than it did before.  I seek this growth.  I want to feel my cells multiplying.For this, I must sacrifice my comfort and my privacy.  I must be willing to be transparent -- to be my same self regardless of situation or circumstance. I need not fear light; instead, I should welcome it. I imagine Ellison's protagonist with those 1369 lightbulbs illuminating every square inch of him.  Or Tess standing with strength in her white nightgown baptizing her dying child by candlelight.  I must sacrifice anonymity.  To become whole, I must come out of hiding, let the light reveal my imperfections and leave my mark.

Saturday, Slow Down!

On my husband's Disney-focused blog, Days in the Park, he sometimes features a "Saturday Slowdown," a post detailing a place in the park that is perfect for a little relaxation or some time out of the California sunshine. For me, Saturday and slow down rarely go together. I often think about my Saturdays weeks ahead and allow myself to imagine accomplishing great feats of organization, cleanliness and domesticity. A typical in-my-head Saturday to-do list might look like this:

Make the boys a bountiful, wholesome breakfast
Do several load of dishes
Vacuum thoroughly, moving furniture when needed
Do five loads of laundry and put away all of the clean laundry from last week
Organize all photographs from 2004 - present
Scrub toilets until they look new
Dust
Alphabetize our 500-DVD collection
Establish a disciplinary system that guarantees peace and brotherly love
Give myself a perfect pedicure

Of course, I never, ever have a Saturday that even comes close.  Most of the time, half of the day has zipped by before I even commit a list to paper, let alone cross anything off of it. Breakfast this morning was frozen waffles and pre-cooked sausage. I think my youngest son was still in his undies at 2:00 in the afternoon today.  I didn't dust.  I didn't organize.  I certainly didn't get a pedicure.  And now, it is nearing 10:00 pm and I can't believe another Saturday has slipped away.  What is there to show for it?

I guess I did a few things today. I did take Michael to his GATE test this morning and treated him to a McDonald's shamrock shake when he was done. I did present the technology inservice for teachers beginning the Writing Project Summer Institute at UCR. I did play a round of iPhone Scrabble with Nicholas and laughed when he played the word "fub" which sounded so silly to all of us.  I did get to have my four year old, Lucas, crawl in my lap and call me his "bewuvved". I do get an hour of quiet time with my husband, time for both of us to talk and share and let go of all the cares and worries of the week. 

And I do get to sit here now, writing.  It may not be sparkling toilets, but it certainly makes me feel ready for the week ahead and even the speedy Saturdays to come.  And who knows?  Maybe a pedicure is in the stars for sometime soon!

Battle or Bliss?

All day the question haunts me: what will I write about?  Ideas flit about me and I swat at them like they are tiny gnats before I realize they might be the ticket to today's piece.

What will I write about?  Will I write about my distracted students -- so eager for the weekend, but still mired down in the difficulties of their calculus test and their econ homework?  My boys - the way they want to be close to me, but already know they are supposed to be pulling away?  My husband -- how he "dances" with me by standing still and smiling as I twirl around him? Will I write about bedtime -- the bathroom trips, whines for water, one-more-kiss requests and stifled giggles from under the blankets?

I'm not sure today what I should write about.  I just know that my heart gets pushed and pulled in seventeen directions each day and by the end I can hardly describe what has happened or how I have felt.  I am not sure what to write about, but I know that I am blessed and burdened in such a wonderful way.  So many people to love, so many needs to be met. Study guides hidden under notebooks, half-hugs and wrestling holds replacing super squeezes and tenderness,  a stiff sway instead of a round-the-room waltz.  A mini-battle instead of unblemished bliss. 

I am not sure what to write about, but I write anyway. Because sometimes what is is better than what might be.

A Me of Multiple Identities

The last two months have been absolutely crazy.  It began with a jam-packed November which included my first trip to the National Writing Project's Annual Meeting, held this year in Orlando and continued through Thanksgiving, the blur that was early December and finally the merriment and mayhem of Christmas and Winter Break.

I've decorated; shopped; wrapped; baked (to the detriment of my family); nurtured sick children, a sick husband, and a sick self; assessed students on a semester's worth of work; and spent way too much time on my new phone (LOVE that I can play Words with Friends anytime, anywhere).  But through the cloud of all this activity and chaos, my mind keeps returning to an idea I happened upon while in one of my sessions at the NWP Annual Meeting.  The session focused on the new book, Because Digital Writing Matters and the concept that struck me was that of multiple identities and how students today need guidance and instruction in terms of how those identities are formed and conveyed.  In the past, we had our various roles -- mother, teacher, church-goer, poet, friend, wife, and so on -- but to some degree we could control which of those identities others had access to and how each of these identities was presented.  Today, those multiple identities bump up on each other, overlap each other, become almost indistinguishable at times.  When I write a blog, its public nature means that my mom can read it, my brother, my husband, my pastor, my student, my student's mother, my aunt, my principal, my long-lost boyfriend from kindergarten -- and strangers by the thousands (or the dozens anyway!).  How do I acknowledge and respect all of these pieces of myself and still be transparent and sincere in what I share here?  When my audience is so broad, yet so potentially personal, how do I share my heart without crossing the line?

I don't have a clear answer, but I believe the best way to discover how to balance these multiple identities is to face the challenge they present as directly as I can.  I need to keep writing.  I need to keep asking myself how these readers of many sorts might respond to what I share, but I also need to remember that ultimately, I have to honor all of who I am.  I tell you, it certainly provides motivation to be a person of worth and integrity.  When each identity has its own space and expectations, we can rationalize the inconsistency of our attitudes or behaviors. When all of our identities are exposed at once, hypocrisies and weaknesses are much easier to see.

The multiple identities of Lucas: good, bad...you know the rest!

The Big Idea in my AP English Literature class this year is "Somebody Worth Being" and while I certainly intend for my students to grow in their reading and writing skills over the course of the year, I believe the most important learning will be in relation to that concept.  How do we become people of value and substance? Maybe it begins with all the parts of who we are making peace with each other so that we can approach the world with confidence and courage.  Writing is the way I make that peace.  How do you make yours?

Two Blogs in the Family

As some of you may be aware, my husband, Chad, writes his own blog at Daysinthepark.com. Tomorrow, he will feature his newest guest blogger, me!  Check out the post I wrote about our anniversary and Disneyland's Holiday Tour.

Writing, On Purpose

I want my students to love writing.  I want them to know the power of language and I want them to wield their word power thoughtfully and with purpose. But what purpose?  And whose?

We (meaning us crazy, dedicated English teachers) often say we work to instill a love of writing in our students; yet, we determine almost all of what (and why) they write.  How can that inspire love?

We love that which helps us be our best selves.  We love the friend who gives us honest, sincere advice.  We love the parent who encourages our endeavors.  We love the job that allows us to change the lives of others.  We love the hobby that provides a vehicle for our creativity.   We love the spouse who listens to us so we can face each new day with confidence.  We love the child whose sense of wonder at the world and lack of restraint when doling out kisses gives us a fresh perspective and renewed hope.

So, if we want students to love writing, the purpose must be personal.  As Jim Burke stated in his blog this week,"all writing is personal, an extension of ourselves, a record and part of the process by which we create ourselves."  If all writing is personal, what is the writing of our students saying about them?  What are we giving it a chance to say? If all we do is teach students how to address a prompt on a standardized exam, we have not really taught them to write.

And, "So what?" some might say.  So, not every student leaves his English class itching to write. So, not every student enjoys composing an essay.  Is that so bad?

I might not think so if I had never seen a writer be born.  If I had never seen the excitement that comes when she finally has just the right words on paper to explain how she feels.  If I had never seen the pride that comes when his words make people stop and listen.  If I had never seen the one who blends into the background finally find that words are a way to stand in the spotlight. But, I have. And I have seen the struggle and the shame of those who cannot express themselves through writing.  They hide their thoughts and, in turn, themselves, fearing that someone will see them as less because their knowledge of grammar is lacking or their words become a mud puddle on the page.  When we teach our students to see every piece they write as a reflection of self, when we teach them how to balance writing for a purpose determined by someone else with writing for a purpose they determine, we give them the armor they need to walk in the world with a wonderful knowledge of and peace with who they are.

The blogging bug has bitten some people close to me.  I could feel threatened -- hey, I'm the one who blogs around here! -- but I'm not, not at all.  I know what writing does for me (see my About Me page if you have not)  and I am learning that it has the same effect on almost anyone who finds the courage to do it. Anais Nin said "the writer shakes up the familiar scene and, as if by magic, we see a new meaning in it."  I believe, as if by magic, when we are writers, we see a new meaning in ourselves.


 
PS: Blog away, boys.  Write until you love it.

Did You Get That On Film?

My mom called yesterday and told me that while re-storing her Christmas decorations in the garage she had come across some of my childhood toys and belongings.  "I found a diary of yours," she said quite casually.  Heart. Stopped.  Remember, this is the same woman who has told me to be careful about what I write more than she has told me any other piece of advice.  I have started and stopped so many different journals in my life that I have lost track of many of them. I always expect one to spring forth from a once-hidden nook and expose some wild secret.  Maybe that moment had arrived! But then, I breathed.  I am 36 years old, I thought.  I cannot be afraid of acknowledging who I have been.  Any diary she has found was from another life, one that has shaped me but no longer defines me.  And then she said, "I'm pretty sure you wrote it when you were in kindergarten."  Any lingering fears were now gone -- what could I have possibly written in kindergarten that I would be ashamed of my mother reading?

It actually was not the content that she was caught by, but the fact that at five years old I had kept a diary of legible, coherent entries at all.  "Who does that?" she exclaimed. 

Later in the evening, my husband and I watched a short documentary piece on Coach Nick Saban.  Any of you following Chad's blog know that he is an Alabama Crimson Tide fanatic and looking very much forward to attending Thursday's National Championship game, so any coverage associated with the team becomes mandatory viewing.  The documentary focused on Saban's childhood in Carolina, West Virginia, a town of 500.  It was a sweet piece on a coach often described as gruff or unfriendly.  The tenderness with which his hometown people spoke of him was sincere and let us see a different side of him.  One anecdote that stood out to me, though, was when Saban's childhood friend recalled a time when they were young and he came over to Saban's house.  He found Nick watching 8 mm film of a football game they'd played.  "Want to watch film with me?" young Nick asked his buddy.  Not exactly what kids usually want to spend their afternoons doing.  Unless , of course, watching film is what you are meant to do for the rest of your life.

On New Year's Eve, my family and I watched Travis Pastrana break the world record for jumping a car over 250 feet across the Long Beach Harbor. As we waited for the climactic moment to arrive, we were shown home videos of Travis as a boy, maybe four or five years old, taking off on a motorcycle.  Even at a very young age and well before he could even hope to have a license, Pastrana was already driving toward his future vocation.

No matter the vocation we choose, risks are involved.  Saban is about to coach the biggest game of the year in college football and every decision he makes will be scrutinized.  Travis Pastrana risks his life with the stunts that he performs and must find peace with his very possible demise each time he climbs onto a motorcycle or into a race car.  But when we see footage of them pursuing these dreams as young boys, we don't criticize their lack of sophistication or the mistakes they make. We don't wish they had stopped and turned their attention to other activities. We find the vision of a child engaged in what will be his life's work tender and heartwarming.

As a teacher, I am responsible for guiding young minds and hearts.  This is a risky endeavor at times.  When I comment on an essay or critique a presentation, how will my words impact my students? When I write and share my ideas in a forum like this, will it in anyway influence their perceptions of me? Their parents' perceptions?  My colleagues' perceptions? How much of myself can I reveal without making myself too vulnerable?  I am just beginning to let go of the writing I did in my younger days and not let the lessons learned in various stages in my life haunt the person I am now.  I am still trying to determine how I can pursue truth in my writing and maintain my identity and respect as a teacher.  But one thing I know for sure, even if my mom doesn't have it on film, I was writing my life even back in kindergarten and I cannot let a little apprehension keep me from the big game.

Summer Musings #1

So, last year I only blogged for the first couple of months and then life took over and I didn't return. But, now that the school year has closed and I re-read the posts from early in the year, I am re-inspired. I tried so many new things with my classes last year, that perhaps sustaining them all was too much to ask of myself. Now, I am reflecting on what I appreciated and enjoyed last year and I begin to imagine this coming school year and I am rejuvenated! Plus, how can I hope for my students to see the beauty and purpose of a writing life if I do not engage in a writing life of my own?

This needs to be a priority -- not only optimism, but also necessity for an authentic experience with my students compels me to pursue it.