life and write

Fifteen years ago art met education in my mind, my work, my furiously swirling pen. I could no longer facilitate, walk into, away from workshops after school, in school and not wonder what happened after we stopped writing, talking, thinking creatively, critically, honestly, imaginatively. I was curious about the students I worked with, curious about their writing, about the teachers, about whether artists can make a difference in “Education”, creatively creep through the high pressured policy crevices, and work on the in between narratives bubbling inside of classrooms? I wondered as an artist, if I could be a part of the change, the shift, the sway of learning, in spaces that are filled with young minds.

I don’t consider myself a “teacher”, but rather an artist teaching. Do you know any teachers?  I often watch educators in their classrooms and marvel at their command of myriad knowledge and their beautiful dance with the material. I often work closely with teachers, who are talented, highly capable and absolutely thorough in the craft of engaging learning in the classroom. I suppose as an artist teaching, working with those teachers, sometimes I feel my role is to ask what else or to take creative risks classroom teachers can not always take (in plain sight). Let’s forget about the test for the moment. What are we now going to do with what students just learned? How can we take what we learned and do something interesting with it? How are we going to make it stick, apply it somewhere else, relate it to real life?

I watch young people think and pretend not to listen. But after years of teaching, I know better. Students are listening, waiting for the moment to shine brightly. However, their opportunities for that moment seem to dim with each year in school. How is that possible? We all have our theories. And of course education policy keeps changing in response to those theories. As an artist working in and out of classrooms, I see that glimmer in the faces of students, teachers, and I’m fascinated by it. However, I am practical and understand that I’m not in that classroom every day.

There is so much more to the story, and I am curious; interested in teaching and learning, interested specifically in writing in the classroom and beyond the classroom. I am interested in shifting learning spaces, creative practice and honoring the creative space in learning, from critical to creative, practical to imaginative. I am interested in teachers, students, artists, and what we all can do together.

With so much recent public discussion about the politics of parenting in this macro, policy shifting sense, I’ve been thinking a lot about the dozens of micro choices we make as parents every day. Every moment seems to be a shifting, a debate within ourselves as to how to parent, and what we do about time.

The other morning as I gathered my things, a bag on each arm, my wedges (and my flats), a snack for my commute, my three year old, with his pleading brown eyes looked to me and said, “I want to go with you.” It was in that split second that I had to think, to possibly craft a response, a clever one, a concise one (as I was already a bit behind schedule). I thought to myself, I needed to let him down easy, counter his request with a promise to pick him up from school or take him to school the next day. But in that split second, or maybe many more seconds later, I realized where I was headed (work) was fixed. My job (though I had a big program going on that day) wasn’t going anywhere, it would be there when I got there, even if I got into the office just a few minutes later than I had planned. I would still be early and prepared, the work would still get done, and the program would still go on.

But back in the living room with my three year old, I considered there might not be another ask if in this very moment I said, “no.” My husband questioned whether or not I had time to take him to school, but I thought to myself, “I could make time.” It was such a simple request. He wasn’t asking for anything unreasonable, it wasn’t a major crisis, it was an ask for more time. Time, the thing we all seem to grapple with; and as a parent, the thing that seems to elude me every single day.  In that very moment my son just needed more time with me, and as I rounded out all of the reasons (or maybe excuses) for why I could have said, “not today,” or “maybe later,” I simply said, “o.k.”. He put on his socks, his shoes, and his coat; then grabbed my hand, looked up and smiled. “I’m going with mommy,” he announced. In that very moment nothing else mattered but his hand in mine, walking out the door to school, to work, together.

I don’t miss those bunches of strands I left on the floor by the chair in the beauty shop. I walked away from that shop, not with clinging swirls on top of my head, against my cheeks, but with my own revised ideas on beauty as robust and brilliant as the thickening wind I can now feel behind my ears. I left on that floor in the shop time I’ve spent manipulating, fussing with that hair for it to at some point during the day to fail me.

There is something unpredictable about our hair and in some ways that is magic, but in other ways, it is demanding, of our time, our money, our self-esteem.  I sat in that chair thinking about how much time and money I’ve spent trying to make my hair behave in rain, in wind, in transit, in love.

I should say that I have not given up on those strands dusting the tops of my shoulders. Instead, I gave in to time and space for me, my family, my life. For now I’d rather wake up in the morning, sit just a bit longer, write, wonder, feel the still curling in short wisps on the back of my neck.

At some point in our lives we all contemplate change. Maybe it’s not a big haircut, but surely there is something we all have changed about ourselves. Think about a time when you changed something in your life to make room, make time for something else. How did it feel to initially to make that change? How does it feel now?

When you reach for your keys and unexpectedly find the tiniest of socks in your pocket…

_____________________________________________________

“Eat lunch with your child day”—My six-month-old isn’t “eating” much other than a bottle and a few bland purees, but hanging out with him in the middle of the work day had little to do with food and more to do with precious time.

This fox hat was far too cute to leave at the store. My seven-year-old seems to think the baby looks like a Pokemon character. My three-year-old wishes this hat were his. My husband and I keep thinking this time with the baby is going by much too fast.

“Beautiful Distractions in 21st Century Learning”

When we think of potential distractions in a typical K-12 classroom, we might envision: students passing notes, staring out the window, doodling, whispering side conversations, or, heaven forbid, texting. What if we could design learning environments as experiences with built-in intentional distractions, allowing a complex and dynamic learning process? In this kind of learning environment, we would embrace, even engage distraction: a choir of inquiry, a beautiful collision of difference (in opinion, perspective, experience), or a flexible lab for hands-on, interactive problem solving. What if engaging distraction is learning?

http://tedxtalks.ted.com/video/Dionne-Custer-Edwards-Beautiful



(still) photo credit: Christian Long

Write because it’s Sunday (or at least it was yesterday when I wrote this).

Write because the baby just delivered an inevitable (and disgusting) teething trilogy of carrots, milk, and who knows what else all over my husband’s sleeve. “Better him than me,” I thought to myself because secretly I’m maneuvering, trying to carve out a few minutes to sit down to write soon.

Write because the sprawl of wooden Jenga pieces will not put themselves away and picking them up from the floor at this very moment will not matter even if for a few minutes while I finish this sentence.

Write because Sunday evening the family finds itself tired of each other in this small space and scatters in wiggly bodies and exhaustion throughout the house to the various crevices of play and solitude.

Take this brief yet brilliant time to scribble, type, or think about the next line, fumble through an idea, pretend not to hear the baby stirring in his crib upstairs. But even after the dishwasher is loaded for the night, clothes set out for the morning, and the lunches are nearly made, that corner in the living room where I want to curl up with my journal or laptop may just have to wait. Finish the sentence, the final thought, then put it away, the baby is still stirring upstairs and would rather fall asleep in my arms.

And even after the kids are asleep and I softly step from their room back downstairs, I remember to write because while the laundry won’t fold itself, the next sentence or page or idea I’m working on is far more interesting than a stack of folded towels. Write because even if for the next few minutes, the laundry can wait.

Why do you write?

Leave a comment below or on Twitter @lifeandwrite #Writebecause

I’ve been engaged in myriad conversations over the past few weeks about creativity. This subject keeps coming up. Where does creativity come from? How can we encourage it in children, in ourselves as adults? Why is there a battle in education, in our homes, in the workplace between critical and creative thinking? Why do those spaces want to choose between the two—which is more rigorous, beneficial, salient? Why can’t we (as humans) young and older practice both in learning and in the wider part of our lives? Why does education (and often other aspects of our lives) strip us of our ability to see our creative selves, think creatively? I keep coming back to some of the same sensibilities. We have to undo what it is that blocks us from wonder, play: stress, excuses about time, space, money, fear.

I work with young people on how to “undo” some of that fear of creativity before they reach adulthood and can’t find that sense of wonder anymore. I work with adults (other educators/parents), to encourage, give “permission” to allow room in their lives, their student’s lives, their children’s lives to think creatively, to wonder. I watch my own children access their creative selves everyday. They remind me how it’s is done…

I typically use the funnel in the kitchen pouring liquid, grains, from one container into the next. But when my three-year-old gets a hold of the funnel he is much more imaginative. That sputtering sound I heard the other day was no trumpet but rather my three-year-old composing his best kid rendition of some unknown tune on his newly imagined funnel horn. And while I thought that horn might be the only trick he had up his sleeve that trumpet quickly became a birthday hat for his younger brother (not sure if the younger brother was thrilled about that). But you can’t have a birthday hat without birthday cake, so my three-year-old ran to the other room and brought back the small plastic containers I use to organize stuff around the house, for his pretend birthday cake, when the funnel had one more magical use, as the candle on top.

Now I will have to go back to using my funnels in that same old boring and practical way. But next time I use that funnel I’ll remember metaphor, and how even kitchen utensils have creatively secret and interesting lives of their own.

What toys? Kids find play in anything, everything.

Happy Friday!

There are so few times that I can grab the hand of my seven-year-old and hold on. He is getting older, wiser, and more independent. He is engaged in the world in ways that encourages him to peel away from me, stand on his own, challenge me gently with his blooming ideas.

I can however, often count on the vulnerable space between his long arms around my waist after a long day, around my shoulders, around my heart. I hope hugs will always be allowed between mothers and sons.

And no matter how old he gets, I hope we can continue to share in those precious, important moments, to hang out. This morning was exactly that kind of opportunity. I wanted to take him with me to vote. So as my oldest crawled out of bed and found his way through the earliest parts of his day, I invited him to join me. He smiled widely, then reminded me, “Mom, I’m not 18, I can’t vote.” I smiled, then said, “that’s o.k., you can help me.” He agreed.

So this morning, as I stood in line to cast my ballot, instead of offering my dangling arm for my son to cross, slide his fingers in the cusp of my grip, follow me towards the future—I found myself looking for the pale of his open hand, the sort of his swinging arm, the uncertainty of his stride, his head held high. We were there to vote, and engage with all that comes along with that responsibility. I walked him through the process step by step. And as we stood there waiting, I searched for thoughts of my son’s future, his rambling dreams, what I wish for him, what he doesn’t yet know to wish for himself.

Today when I voted, I was reminded that I spoke not only for myself but for my sons, with my sons, with the sons and daughters I’ve never met, the ones I’ll never meet, the narrative of their lives unfolding and uncertain.

Then finally inside the open wings of that voting machine, my son and I stood together, as we read each of the choices, and I carefully pressed my finger against the touch screen. We listened to the tapping ticker of the ballot box, watched the stitched mark across the curling tally, held hands without saying a word–voted.

“Maybe writer’s block is that space between writing something and wanting to write something good.”–Lamar Jorden, poet, Louder than a Bomb

Next time you have a chance to write (maybe right now), look outside the window. If you have to commute, you probably can’t write, but you can do the looking and notice something inspiring. Now back to the looking…What do you see? You know what you see is not what anybody else can see at this very moment, so it is absolutely your experience; lend it some details, imagery, metaphor. What do you see? If you’re in the mood, go outside, take a closer look. If you’re driving or riding, you’ll have to just use that imagination of yours. But if you can walk outside, use some additional senses you couldn’t use while you were inside. What do you see (smell, hear, feel) now? Look down at your paper or keep it in your head until you get to some paper–I do not condone creative writing and driving–but creative thinking and driving is o.k..

Now get to some paper…what will you write: colors, sounds, texture, temperature, details from some obscure point of view, whatever. Now, ask yourself, what else?

Somewhere there are butterflies without their wings. Those golden, red, spines lie on their backs, already tired of autumn’s bitter song.

photo credit: Christian Long

Big Idea: “Beautiful Distractions in 21st Century Learning“

After weeks of preparation, TEDx Indianapolis came in with thunder, emotion, energy, and left with an opportunity for reflection and a call to action.

Indianapolis was a thoughtful host (city) and many thanks to the International School of Indianapolis, Big Car, and the Indianapolis Museum of Art for making this event so successful and possible in the first place. I was humbled by the chance to share the stage with such a smart and colorful array of thought leaders, action seekers, compassionate strategists, and dreamers.

And what I learned in participating in this event was that creatives, educators, activists, entrepreneurs, citizens. leaders are moving towards human-centered work, and that work will be the change we hope to see in the world. And that design, creativity, education, possibility is bigger than all of us, but it will take all of us to see the fruits of those creative and compassionate initiatives and endeavors realized.

And for everyone who made this possible, allowing me to “try out” my ideas on them, and those that shared their support through action, thoughts of encouragement, human touch, and the heart, thank you. This was a whirlwind experience. What a moment. All of you (and you know who you are near and far), thank you again for making this possible.

PS–I thank my loving and supportive husband and partner for holding down the fort at home, my seven year old for his sentiment, for his thoughtful inquiry, for sitting with me through countless rounds of rehearsal, and for hugging me at least a dozen times (with tears and sincerity) before I left. I thank my three year old for following me around the house as I “talked to myself out loud”, and gave my “speech”. And I thank him for sharing his “speech” with me. And to the baby for just being cute, cuddly, cool, and never fussy as I held him channeling words and revising on the spot, or sat him in his bouncy chair while I rehearsed. This is love. Life is learning and that is a “beautiful distraction”.

I have an open mind and those that know me know I have a quiet crush on style and aesthetic, but I never imagined curiosity would find me walking down a runway with painted face, channeling my inner fashion model, fully dressed in condoms masquerading as couture. But now I can happily or embarrassingly cross that one off my bucket list.

Kaylene, a young, up and coming designer and my partner in crime created a design that enlisted hundreds of condoms, she then twisted, pulled, cut (the lace applique on the bodice is all hand cut), bloomed, stitched, and adhered to create a dress that raised wonder about how such a thing was possible and awareness about women, healthcare, and access as a part of Condom Couture 2012. Here is where art thinks outside the box, walks the walk, and meets healthcare, social change for an interesting, unexpected, highly entertaining conversation. Fun. #YOLO

I would rather write instead of fold bright-colored miniature sized cotton shirts, iron tiny pairs of jeans; match countless socks missing their mates. I miss my mate too, but before I can lie with him at the end of the day, I hang shirts and tees, stack slacks and sweats, empty children’s play into a tidy closet bursting with speckles of dry dirt, shoe laces unraveling, the slight indescribable smell of boys.

I would rather polish my lines of poetry or write an essay about love or life or anything other than loads of clothes we line dry to preserve their wear. Come to think of it, kids don’t grow as fast as we’d like to think. We often inadvertently shrink their clothes and wonder why those brand new clothes don’t fit after a few rounds in the laundry. I learned years ago the dryer is not a friend to the hem, the sleeve, the growing child, and in the shallow of parents’ pockets. The dryer is also not a friend to the would-be writer; still its domestic ordinary finds its way into these lines.

There is no room for words spun into beautiful swirls of nonsense; my room is spinning with circular baskets covered in persistent grass stains and mysteries crumpled up in pockets. I tell my son to empty his young and curious life in the palm of his hand, so mom (or dad) can wash away his play in eerily quiet, high-efficiency, low water.

This is parenting, not poetry, not playing with words, not research, not writing—or maybe it is. I uncover those elusive lines in unexpected places, under the piles of laundry where life hides and unfolds its lovely narratives.

I don’t know about other writers, but for me, Monday is a notorious day for writer’s block. Maybe it’s all the things I’m trying to bounce around in my head, on my calendar, on my family’s calendar. Maybe it’s just the weekend spilling over into the beginning of the week. Whatever it is, I often wake up and feel a little stuck when it’s time to write.

If you’re feeling this way today or any other day for that matter, try first reading someone else’s writing (or if you’re an artist, looking at another artist’s work). I find that often works for me.

Take a look at this Hurston line and think about it. Then take the line from the top and finish it off with your own writing, (only use the first few words of this line). The words “So much of life” can be taken in a number of directions; see what you come up with and please share your thoughts or drafts by leaving a comment for others to get inspiration. Don’t stress about the perfect line, just see what happens.

So much of life in its meshes! She called in her soul to see.—Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God

So much of life is stepping into the empty space of tomorrow with the fullness of yesterday.

So much of life, her years curled up in wrinkles and salt stains on cheeks, now covered with that half smile, and whole hope in her voice.

Now that I have my writing ritual at least started for the week, I need to get myself ready for work and the kids ready for school. Good morning.

Looking down on my sometimes messy, hip, and hectic life I stuff in my bag including: keys, calendars, smart phone, snacks for the kids, bills, oh, and my journal. Somehow my creative self stated in bold black ink is still hanging around, a bit torn and tattered after six days, but ever-present and encouraging.

This reminds me that no matter how busy we are, or how doubtful we can sometimes feel, our creative selves will continue to remind us, be present in bits and pieces, coincidental moments, and small quiet statements on name tags inside our bags, in journals, on sketch pads, in music, on stages, and just in and about our lives.

Last night he walked in his sleep, found our bare
feet at the edge of the bed, buried his fingers
in the wrinkled cotton sheets, climbed past pillows,
and curled his warm body in the valley
of our dark mounds. Too sleepy to carry
his tears and aches back to bed, we let him
stay between us. Turning in his heat atop
the cool covers, he struggled to breathe through
his tiny clogged nostrils, rubbed his swollen eyes,
cried out for our hands, our kisses, sympathy
for his cruel ill, fever, and sleepless night.

Somehow this poem found itself between a high fever, a 24-hour virus, 36 hours out of daycare, and one sick day from work.

Typically mornings in my house have a certain rhythm: the high and low pitch of my husband and two-year-old breathing (or snoring) in harmony, the flushing stream of vapor from the humidifier, the occasional thump as I stub my toe on a miniature car or action hero, the edge of the bed, or some other object in the obstacle course of my house.

I usually spend my mornings alone with a crowd of thoughts, words, writing, as I sit at my computer, switching back and forth between emails, the morning news on my smartphone, and a list of tasks in my head I need to complete before our collective late morning dance out the door to work and school.

But this morning was slightly different. This morning between the shadows and single light I work by, there were footprints; bright colorful remnants of baths the night before, the memories of laughter and water splashing, sleepy eyes and happiness.

Sometimes when I wake up, the sunless morning feels slow, a calm waiting against the cool wet window pane. I scribble down words as my writing finds its way in the dark of the early day. This morning between writing and sunrise, I stumbled into colorful footprints, bright beautiful interruptions of my quiet thoughts. Those footprints kept me company, distracted my anxious “writer’s block”, warmed my bare feet tapping, my still fingertips.

I left the strand of toys in the tub while I showered, washed myself with those footprints, my feet standing in between the busy circles and squares, the Legos and plastic rings, the water splashing with colorful joy, remnants of happiness, their childhood happiness—and mine.

Good morning…

The gifts are wrapped (or rather put in colorful little gift bags), but before we venture out into social swarms of little people running, jumping, and eating cake, I need a bit more time to convince myself I can get through this action-packed day. We parents do this all the time. Work like mad during the week, then get to the weekend and exert more concentrated energy than we do during the entire workweek. How is that possible? Probably because kids have a kind of supernatural sustained energy that defies gravity and all logical thought. And keeping up with these kids on weekends is another supernatural wonder we parents engage with, employing a magical concoction of sheer will, determination—and love.

Unfortunately there is no rest for the weary. My husband and I have two birthday parties to get these boys to today. Sure, I’m on the verge of exhaustion, but what am I going to tell my kids, “guys, no birthday parties today, mommy is tired.” I could tell them that, but then I would have to watch their bright smiling faces turn into puffy wrinkled sadness, accented with droopy shoulders, and maybe even a high-pitched voice for dramatic effect. Just the thought of their harmony of disappointment willed me a slight burst of energy. This morning it was my turn to climb out of bed, whip up some oatmeal and bananas; stand in the cloudy morning light, a cup of warm and sweet in my hands—grace.

Between sunrise and walking out the door,
we wake in quiet. Slow steps drag the slick
wood floors, then build into stress and scurry.
Our shoulders miss each other as we dart
across the hall, rushing, streaks of color
blend and blur. Dashing in and out of rooms,
we are graceful, swinging arms and short strides
crowd inside the narrow hall. Sometimes

we get distracted, our mornings sound like
the crash of Legos and race cars, the light
switch on and off, the television flickers
and hums, the water runs. Between current
events and bickering, you and I shift
and dodge for a glance in the mirror.
The bathroom seems small today, we forgot,
“good morning.”

On the way out the door, somehow, I fit
one more thing in my arms. My left,
a right angle, uncurls, heavy round bundle
laughing or crying, my right shoulder draped
with bags, hand holds umbrella, and tiny
brown fingers, clinched tight. Between
baby gurgle and spit, the click and bend
of my heels, his small steps quicken. You wait,
as I grab one more thing, then out the door.

But what if sunrise were different?
If morning stirred with calm, breakfast, a kiss
before brushing our teeth, thirty more minutes
in bed. No hurry, confined to the second hand.
The sun paints the floor a warm streak, our feet
golden, and facing each other. We stand there,
late today, still on time for tomorrow.

Dionne Custer Edwards

Some writers have a ritual: write in the nude, sip on a glass of wine, listen to music, or brew a cup of coffee or tea. Some writers have a place: their desk in their home office, a cozy nook in the den across from the fireplace, or the coffee shop on the corner. I don’t subscribe to any of those rituals on a regular basis. I wish I could adopt a certain type of routine, but between the everyday hectic and getting sleep at night, I just haven’t figured out my formula. As a matter of fact I’ve probably at some point explored all those options or ones just as similar, symbolic, or inspiring, but none have stuck at this point.

I guess the truth is I write any way that I can: on the edge of my bed with a sleepy toddler resting near my hip and six-year-old racing cars on the floor around my ankles. I write on the backs of receipts and brown paper bags, I write on the backs of envelopes (What else is junk mail for?), and write out loud into my tape recorder. I scribble down words and ideas for writing on anything I can get my hands on if my journal isn’t around.

Maybe this unorthodox random rhythm of writing is just what works for me, for now. My commitment to writing is there, but the place, time, and amount of writing vary like the blur of my busy days. I’ve accepted that the only way I can squeeze in a thoughtful, creative word or two between working full-time, cooking dinner, the dishes, laundry, packing lunches, tucking the kids in to bed, and late night political debates with my husband, is to claim those words, go after them, and tuck them in to whatever space, nook or crevice I can find.

To be honest, when I really think about my commitment to writing, I’m far too busy (aren’t we all) doing everything else to really write like I want to, or need to. But I’d like to think that maybe the “everything else” feeds my writing. So in some ways that busy, hectic life has some redeeming qualities and is bound to show up in the writing. And when I’m tempted to harbor a little writer’s guilt, I try to remind myself that these days I write because I love to, not because I necessarily have to. And if I’m not writing, I’m definitely reading, or at the very least, thinking about writing. Does that count?

Here’s to a new year not bogged down by resolutions, but freed by options, and hopefully some of those options will lead to lots of writing—-we’ll see. Happy New Year!

Some of us can’t remember the last time we’ve had to blow the dust off of our resumes; others have dusted them off, tuned them up, and are back in the job game. And still others are exhausted looking, hoping things will turn around soon. In our house, unemployment was an unexpected and awkward blow to my husband (who hasn’t been unemployed for any real length of time since he was teenager). However, at the same time, that space away from work provided a moment of clarity and consideration at the midpoint in his career in civilian life and at the 20-year mark in his military career. So what’s supposed to happen next? It was time to pause and think about that for a moment.

So even as unemployment was a shock to our pockets and our lifestyle, as we’ve worked to be resourceful, it was also an opportunity to reconsider how much “value” we’ve put on work, on our jobs. Not just having a job, rather how we work. Not that we don’t both need to work, it is a necessity for us. But I guess we’ve been thinking more about how we work, and how we spend our time (physical and head space) away from work. I think my husband (and a bit of his old school thinking) considered that giving 11 years to a company meant something. And I think 11 years does mean something, the question is, to whom it means something to.

I think a lot about issues of work/life balance. I have these conversations with colleagues and friends all the time. I’ve also had many conversations with my husband around these issues, and we’ve been re-evaluating this idea of how we work. It can be complicated in a culture that still places such value on what is perceived as hard work. I think balancing a full work load (in or outside the home) with personal relationships or a family is hard work. I’ve wondered over the years if we placed as much value on cultivating our personal lives, raising our children, keeping our relationships in tact, taking time out for ourselves, what difference that would make in marriage and divorce rates, education, health care, and yes, even our productivity at our jobs.

My husband and I went to a workshop a few weeks ago and the facilitator asked us: Do we feel we’re spending our time on what matters? What is the legacy of that time? What lifetime “deposits” are we making in ourselves, our relationships, our families? Those were BIG questions that moved me to think about an analogy someone shared with me years ago. When we are on our death-beds, what will be the legacy we leave: a resume and other career accolades or vibrant memorable moments we’ve shared with the people we care about? I know that’s a little disconcerting and extreme, but it puts this idea of time into perspective and it makes it much more concrete. And I think to some extent we can have both, but I also think that if we are honest with ourselves, really honest, in the quest for work/life balance, especially in our current structure of how we work, there will always be a sacrifice for one or the other—work or life. And often what I think happens to many of us is we live in the grind…and the busy of our lives is just a part of that grind. But all of that going and going changed when my husband was laid off. All of sudden there were new things to contemplate. There was a different grind. We faced new, different challenges and responsibilities. The idea of what we believed about work had forever changed.

As the kids of “Baby Boomers”, my husband and I bought into our parents’ approach to work and labor, a steadfast work ethic without any room to breathe. But in our contemporary lives, what we had to remind ourselves was that our parents had “jobs” so that we could pursue careers, and there is (or should be) a difference in that “work”. With technological advances, now more than ever before, the children of “Boomers”, the thirty and forty-somethings, ideally should have much more wiggle room in how we want to work, where we want to work, and even when we want to go into the office. The challenge is finding a company, a career that embraces that balance of work and life. Unfortunately, that kind of reality is still out of reach for many of us. However, I do think that more and more job seekers who are either unemployed or looking to change jobs or careers are thinking about their approach to work and how work fits into their lives rather than the other way around (work dictating their lives).

Though the shift is slow, I see glimpses of the most creative, entrepreneurial, and resourceful job seekers creating their work, and determining how much time they will spend on that work. In this new day of unemployment, I think more and more professionals looking for work or changing careers are weighing the benefits and consequences of certain jobs, the costs to their relationships, friendships, marriages, and families, and looking to create work environments that allow for healthy personal lives.

And while that proverbial paycheck is still the grand motivation for many, I’ve personally noticed a slight (and endearing) shift in my husband. He still wants a “big” paycheck and is willing to work hard for it, but I’ve also noticed how thoughtful he’s become about the time we spend with each other and the time we spend with the kids. I think the “time off” from work was a moment to consider how little time we had to devote to family when both of us were in our “daily grind”. So while we can’t just give up the grind exactly, we can look at work/life balance differently, with a new perspective, and with the commitment to all of what’s important. We can’t all just only work, can we?

I was talking to a friend the other day and told her it was parent teacher conference week and that I had scheduled a parent teacher conference for both my sons. She understood why I would have one for my 6-year-old, but she inquired why I have one for my 2-year-old. She asked what could I possibly talk about in a parent teacher conference for a 2-year-old. As I thought about it, I laughed because at first thought, it does seem a little ridiculous doesn’t it?

I know…but it fact, I really appreciate this extended moment with my youngest son’s daycare provider/educator. Usually at pick-up and drop-off, we’re in such a hurry, and in a flurry of tears and/or goodbyes, that we just don’t have the time to truly inquire about how our kids are doing. And granted we can schedule a time whenever we want to observe our child and/or meet with their teachers but I find this gesture by his childcare provider a little more intentional, strategic (if you will). We of course get updates daily on his potty training progress, what he eats, how long he naps, and how his mood was for the day, but the parent teacher conference (or the need for one) in a Montessori school is more about what your child is discovering all day, and how those discoveries influence cognitive development, emotion, and physical growth. And for a parent who works all day and often wonders what my child is up to in childcare, I look forward to these twice a year rituals.

I’ve been going to parent teacher conferences for my son since he was six months old and quite frankly, I appreciate an in-depth update on how he’s developing–not just if he spit up that day or had a tantrum–but how are his fine motor skills and language skills are developing. What does he seem fascinated with from day-to-day? How are his social skills with his classmates? As a parent I have a grasp of how my child is developing, I know my kid, but I find it useful to have his daycare expert give me insight as it relates to early childhood development (something I’m not as versed in). I’m an expert at being a mom, I read a lot about raising my kids and I admit I know a few things from experience, but my son’s childcare providers are experts in early childhood education, and I appreciate having their insight and feedback on what we can be working on at home, and how we can partner in my child’s development. Plus, they document his growth and experiences, and selfishly, I love flipping through his album of images that show me exactly what he’s up to all day and how’s he’s grown over the months. This gesture alone is priceless and at the end of his three-year cycle in the infant toddler room (before he heads to children’s house), the school presents us with this photo album as documentation of his experiences of his first three years in Montessori. So I guess aside from the opportunity to see how my youngest son is developing cognitively, emotionally, and physically, the parent teacher conference is a sneak peek into my 2-year-old’s curious little world–where there are bits and pieces I miss as a working mom. And in this day of busy working parenting trying to balance raising little people and earning a living, I guess I’m lucky to have a daycare provider that meets me halfway in my efforts. “It takes a village.”

After I remove this cap and gown, the tassel brushing against my cheek, I will remember how much I miss sitting on the edge of my children’s beds, watching them sleep, kissing their fingers or their cheeks. I will stay up late at night talking with my husband about nothing or about everything, instead of rushing to the computer to finish a paper or read a chapter for highlights and understanding. I will take off this process and mourn the three years of space I gave this curious unknown. I will enjoy making dinner at 5am because I want to make my family home cooked meals, not because I won’t be home to sit with them and eat. I’ve waited so long for the slow stir of morning waiting for me on the other side of this degree. And now I will walk in this quiet space, relish in this room to breathe.