"Every Trip is a Quest" (especially to the grocery store)

25 years ago my mom celebrated her very first mother’s day. Not being a mother myself yet, I can only imagine the depth of pride, joy, and sense of fulfillment she experienced on that day, as well as many others over the years. I want to write this blog as a tribute to my mother because I don’t tell her enough how much I love her or how I completely respect the woman she is, and because she doesn’t know—even in the slightest sense—how much she has shaped me into the person I have become.

One of the most significant ways she touched my life was with a seemingly insignificant tradition. Probably from the time I was an infant, my mom would buy me a book (usually from The Berenstain Bears collection…remember those?) every time she would take me grocery shopping. The grocery stores used to have children’s books on revolving racks near the check-out and I remember her guiding me in my selection. My attention was on the most colorful and decorated cover pictures, but she would patiently pick up a book, skim through the content, and show me what the book was going to be about—essentially selling the content of the book and thematic elements instead of the pictures. As an adult, when I retrospectively consider my emotions of excitement and intrigue of these moments, I can honestly tribute that tradition as the cornerstone of my passion for literature. To this day, when I drive myself up to Barnes and Noble, I experience that “school-girl giddiness” when I run my hands over the new, untouched book covers and skim the pages for content (rather than pictures). My mother taught me that books are a gift, in more ways than one. My mother taught me to love reading.

Through the years, unbeknownst to my mother and maybe even myself, I have watched how she handled life and all the love, joy, beauty, and pain that comes with it. I have fulfilled the truth of the adage that foreshadows every child reaching a point where she will truly appreciate the discipline and choices of her parents. My mother taught me what it means to love—which is meant to be simple, but, oh, how we make it so complicated. My mother taught me what it means to be a woman—a strong, independent woman who can make her mark on the word while nurturing her husband and children. My mother taught me what it means to be a Christian who must live by faith and walk in truth.

Mom, I realize now that you are the “citadel” of my life. You are the person I run to first when I need help, wisdom, and guidance and I know that is never going to change. I hope that my life can be a reflection of you and all that you have given me. No words could ever express what you mean to me—but I hope that this serves as a voice and speaks the truth that you have so beautifully spoken already. Happy Mother’s Day.

The Roads I Take

It has been four years since I received my bachelor’s degree, and now I find myself once again making the trek out to Ypsilanti, Michigan—where my collegiate experiences took root. To be honest, I chose Eastern Michigan University for my graduate work because it was “safe” and “familiar” to me: I knew the campus and most of the professors in the English department. But, surprisingly, I found myself intrigued with the concept of walking back down a path I had already taken and exploring it through a different perspective.

Upon my arrival, I noticed that not much had changed. The parking lot by Bowen Field house was as packed as ever, the squirrels just as friendly, and the soup stand in Pray Harold as “charming” as it always was. What changed was myself.

Four years have both flown by, and, at the same time, it feels like it has been an eternity since I was an undergrad student. In four years I have developed a strong relationship with the best man I know, survived the infamous first three years of teaching, lost some friendships and gained some new ones, discovered the emotional experience of coaching, traveled both in and out of the country, and hopefully matured a bit in the process.

Honestly, I have really enjoyed my twenties (and I still have five more years to go!). There is something exciting about the mystery of how your life will unfold in front of your eyes. However, I have not been completely sheltered from the insecurity and anxiety a “twenty-something” experiences in love, career, finances, and other important life choices. My walk through the campus rendered this interior dialogue, which led me to recall Frost’s famous poem “The Road Not Taken.” In this piece, the speaker ponders the age-old dilemma of being stuck at a proverbial “fork” in the “road” of his life. This metaphor is completely relatable in that life is full of moments where we are faced with two or more tough choices and then are forced to choose between them. But what I find truly poignant is the speaker’s attitude toward this predicament. At first he recalls his feelings of regret that he can’t choose both paths (“And sorry I could not travel both / And be one traveler”) but as he reflects back on this pivotal time in his life, he looks back and “sighs” with a feeling of satisfaction and fulfillment. Although he didn’t know if the path he chose was right for him at the time or if it was truly the one that was “less-traveled”, he concludes that his chosen path “made all the difference” and that a “way leads on to way.”

Maybe life isn’t about knowing what will come next at each juncture. Maybe it’s about taking each day as it comes, and doing the best with what you have. I think I once viewed life as linear, in a sense. But I noticed from my own experiences that sometimes you can come “full-circle” in certain situations and take away something new each time you come back around. I am excited about where the forks in my roads are leading me, and it is my hope that “Somewhere ages and ages” from now, I too will look back and feel content with the choices I made and the roads I took.

"The Road Not Taken"

Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Lessons from Mr. Keating

I always look forward to April every year with my talented group of sophomores. This is when we dive blindly into our poetry unit. While some approach the idea of poetry with excitement and energy, most students enter the unit with baggage, misconceptions, and fear—a sense that their vulnerability is about to be tested.

I open the unit with the famous scene from “The Dead Poet’s Society” (this film instills a passion for literature—heck, a passion for LIFE—within every member of its audience) when Mr. Keating (Robin Williams) demands that the students rip and tear and cast aside the introduction of poetry from their text books in hopes to initiate a new way of thinking—one that exists outside rules, forms, and boxes. My student’s laugh at the boys’ reactions: some jump right in and find it immediately liberating to physically destroy the shackles that have become synonymous with all things scholarly. Some look around before they join, seeking the affirmation and approval of others before proceeding in the supposed intellectual debauchery. However, the scene focuses on one student’s obvious inner struggle with the concept of tearing pages from his sacred textbook and his fear of relinquishing the control and learned behavior to experience a moment of free thought and expression. He eventually is encouraged and ultimately persuaded to join his fellow classmates, but through a method and pace that is clearly evident of his resistance: He tears one page, the first page, out of the book in a meticulous, clean rip guided by his trusty ruler.

My student’s label this poor individual as “dorky” in their minds (while a few of them articulate this vocally); ironically, it is this very student that they are most alike when it comes to poetry, critical thinking, and creative expression in general. Why think for ourselves when someone else can do it for us? Why? Because it’s easier; it’s what we know; it’s SAFE.

Last Friday was the first of several “Poetry Fridays” in our unit. It requires the students to bring in an original poem and, much to their chagrin, read it aloud in class. I love the idea of them owning their work and voicing it to the world (or to our small class of about 20).

I am always amazed by the poems. It’s a tangible beauty that breaks the monotony of formulaic essays and rules, and a “four walled” way of thought. When the students rise from their seats and nervously walk to the podium a certain kind of miracle happens. They, perhaps for the first time, realize the power of words and they recognize an ability that some have chosen to keep buried within themselves. They discover that what they think and feel is valuable. They’ve announced to the world: “Here I am.”

In a world that has been transformed by text messages and facebook and twitter updates, we have lost a little of ourselves. Read or write a poem today— and tear a few “pages” while you’re at it.