Happy Holidays!  I've had a lot churning inside for the past few months. As usual, I wrote a few blogs and abandoned them to google heaven. They were too much about the nuts and bolts of pedagogy, and I have realized I need to just speak my heart.

On Friday before break, the faculty played the 8th grade boys in the annual basketball game.  The boys have won once (twice according to some sources who refute a score from 15+ years ago) in the past 22 years. Danny is an amazing athlete, and I love watching him play in this game.  

This year, as I watched him, for the first time in five years, I wasn't afraid.  I wasn't sitting with my knuckles in my mouth, worried someone would elbow him in his fragile frame.  I wasn't worried he'd list to the left and fall.

I watched him play, and I watched what has changed.  He plays once a year, and so he doesn't know how to play defense without his left arm.  He told me the next day how he needs to step to the left so he is defending with his arm.

I'd seen that.  I'd watched him play a game that wasn't his.  

So, instead of being afraid, I sat and watched who he is now.  I had a moment of sadness.
  
I don't do that much.  I was told on February 11th, 2011 that he would die.  I was told that for weeks and months, that he probably wouldn't survive.  So, I have lived in gratitude that he lived.  I haven't thought about what he lost.

But Fridayy morning, watching him play a game with new rules, for the first time, I felt sad for what he lost.

Then, of course, within seconds, I realized the luxury of that thought.  

Danny and I are so fortunate, and we know that.  We have so much.  I'm humbled by him.  When I asked him how the game went, he said he had fun, but that he would have liked to have made that 3-pointer.  That was the first game he's played in that he didn't score.  

And he was okay about that.  And I was more than okay to realize I went from fear to sadness to gratitude.  Yes, he isn't the same physical being.  But how luciky are we?  Everyone changes.  Everyone grows older.  We all must face realities that aren't easy.

But how lucky am I that I'm married to a man who faces life with humility and courage.  

That same day, I opened up dozens of cards from my students.  They were sweet, thoughtful, grateful.  At the end of the day, students were in my room for the afternoon social.  I had six boys, and they said, casually, how great of a basketball player Mr. Cribby was.  They saw what I missed.  They saw him steal the ball, turn it over, grab it, throw it.  They saw all of what he did, what he could do.

Their eyes were wide with respect.  These kids only know Mr. Cribby with one arm.  They saw a great basketball player.  A great role model.

I'll tell Danny about this blog once I post it.  

Be well, everyone.

Gratitude: perspective.
Goals: perspective.

The past few days have been rough. Yesterday, our students were more distracted than they were on Halloween.  Today, so many of my students were upset about the election.  I cannot speak about my beliefs, but it is my job to help my students. It is my responsibility to help them feel safe and cared for.  Some of my students were scared, and they needed comfort.  

It is a fine line, to balance my care for them, my respect for them, with my responsibility to be an adult who is safe no matter what. I cannot say to them I’m excited for the election results or devastated.  I have to meet them where they are and help them feel safe.

Our students were amazing today.  They respected each other and supported each other. I didn’t hear gloating or complaining.  The students who were upset tried to keep it to themselves.  The students who were happy kept it to themselves.

They were what I hope for our country.  They were so mature, reasonable, honest, but discreet when they needed to be.  

I was late for school this morning because I came upon an accident at the end of our road.   The emergency vehicles were there, and I couldn’t get by until the firetruck left the scene.  I saw the car, and it looked really bad. My heart jumped to worry that someone was very hurt.  I texted my teammates that I’d be late, and I drove on.  I pulled over again, realizing that I needed to deal with the anxiety that the scene had instilled. When I got to school, nearly fifteen minutes into our first class, the walls were open for our team time, and our students were all working.  One of my students looked up from her work and said, “Good Morning, Ms. Cribby.”

That simple greeting lifted my heart. I have written about how, when losing our friend, my students help me.  I’ve written this version so many times.  But, how can I not keep writing this truth?  How can I not stop and take note of my gratitude?  

A former student from over twenty years ago posted on my blog today. She found it through social media, and she posted a comment that was sweet, funny, and inspiring.  

The gifts of being a teacher are resplendent.

I love teaching.

As most teachers do, I reflect daily, moment to moment on what I am doing, and what I can do better.  I’m so excited by how technology has transformed learning.  I have stepped back more and more, from being at the center of the room. I am truly a facillitator of instruction, and it’s exciting and elucidating. At first, it was hard to give up the stage, even as little as I was on it.  But now, it’s exciting to see students grapple with problems they identify.

It’s about the process of learning.  It’s not about what I can give them for knowledge.  It’s not about a content I need to cover.  It’s about what they want to learn.  It’s exciting to have students approach me with questions, and most of the time, I ask them if they looked at the resources I gave them, and they didn’t, so they move on, and they fly again.


But, all of that stepping back.  All of that me at the back of the room, literally.  All of that...does not mean I am not relevant. It makes me wonder sometimes, of course.  It’s so new.  It’s not though.  I have always sought to give students choice and to make them find meaning on their own, with my guidance.  I just get to step way further back now.  And it’s exciting.  

But  again, I’m not irrelevant.  I frame their learning, and I give them context, passion, choice and voice.  And I am their teacher, and I try so hard to keep them safe so that they can risk and grow.  And our conversations are real.

Gratitude: being upheld to be my best because I am a teacher.
Goal: making sure all the people in my life know my gratitude for what they give me.

​

I was talking to a district teacher coach the other day, and I made the statement that I work less because of technology.  Of course, it’s more that I work better, but that’s a cliche I’d like to flesh out.  The procedures I can put into place in the classroom because of technology allow me to streamline how I give feedback to students.

Instead of lugging a stack of papers from school to home and back again (we commonly call that giving our papers a ride or a field trip), I can give students feedback in real time.

Instead of writing a bunch of feedback on a paper, I can give students an almost infinite amount of support in the form of exemplars, student collaboration, online research, exemplars, exemplars, exemplars.

Instead of teaching the whole class the same thing at the same time, I can give them access to support from exemplars, student collaboration, online tutorials, and online programs that let them proceed through concepts at their own pace.

Those are a few quick examples of the exchange of the “work smarter not harder,” but the essence of this comes in the form of how these proccesses allow for students to self-evaluate constantly, for me to step back further and further from the teacher as center, and for students to own their own learning.  Ironically, the most I ever read about this is for teacher reflection, like this recent Edutopia post, not student.  This is a great article, but why aren’t we applying this to student learning?

I feel more empowered, in that further stepping back, to step back completely.  I am truly a facillitator.  The tools I’m discovering to improve that practice are frankly, within my own imagination.  

I’ve always taught a workshop, student choice, student-driven classroom, but until a one-to-one device ratio, I have not felt the ability to make this possible for all learners to stretch and grow to their full desire.

I’m able to meet them where they are, and they can take themselves wherever they want to go.

This is an odd place for a caveat, close to the end of this blog entry, but here I go.  I don’t know how useful this blog is for anyone.  It’s philosophy verging on cliches and platitudes.  But, it’s why I need to blog.  

When I started this blog (the blog site, not this entry), I was almost physically shaking with my excitement for what techology was allowing me to finally be able to do.  It wasn’t about “wow, how cool is this,” or “wow, this makes this easier.” I was never interested in this app or that app.  I was excited about what students could do on their own.   It was about the limitless possibilites for students to learn their passions, interests and fly.  

Since the time I started this blogsite, I have settled into a routine of class procedures that are efficient and effective, and I’ve been happy in a relative plateau.

Now, with my new 6th graders coming in, I’m shaking again.  I’m starting over with a group, and the possiblities are blowing further open, and my brain is storming with ideas.  I can barely attend to a moment because I’m reaching into possibilities.  

I started this blog with how I’m working not as hard.  I think, if I were to sum it up without a cliche, I’d say I’m working funner.  

It’s way more fun to meet students in the moment of their work, chatting in real time, on their documents or in person.  It’s way more fun to pop onto their Google Doc and ask a question and have them answer it immediately.

And it’s exciting to push them every time they make a statement.  And they have to answer that question, that probe, because it’s a living document, not a piece of paper with a grade stamped on it.

And it’s exhilirating when they realize that they’re discovering things about themselves and the world.

I am loving teaching now, more than ever.  I engage with students more frequently and with more depth.  

My husband, who teaches science, told me the other day that he has been loving teaching science so much more lately.  He said, “I feel like I get to do that workshop thing with science.”


So, he thinks it’s funner too.

Goal:  everyone gets that that whole “funner” thing was on purpose.  I also would like to add some student exemplars to this blog.  And..a side goal to my students who read this blog: I’ll try to make the next one funner.


Gratitude: I get to teach where I do, when I do, and with the people I do.  ​

Everytime someone comments on how long Danny and I have been together, Danny likes to say: “long time to be towing the anchor”.  He likes to say a lot of things like that.  I think it’s funny.  I think he’s always funny.


We just got back from our annual summer trip to Maine the other day, and I’m exhausted.  I spent yesterday snuggling with our cats.  Our older orange tabby kept meowing at me all night when we returned, and all he wanted was to snuggle.  So, I slept in and snuggled.  Then, I took a bath and went back to bed to nap and snuggle with the cats.

I was interrupted a few times because Danny found a new building project, and I had to hold some boards.  I had to hold more boards today.  In the two days since we came home, I guess I did a few things. I did all of our laundry.  I did some cooking, reading, writing, and I also held some boards.  

Danny designed a new cabinet, cut boards, started the new shelves, made a few trips to get mulch in Boulder, did some weed-wacking, mowing, watering, dishes, litter boxes...I could go on.


We love our lives. He jokes about towing the anchor, and, frankly, sometimes, I think he is.  But he doesn’t mean a word of it.  He loves to work, and he hates to have help.  He hates that he has to ask me to hold a board, though he’s gotten better at that.  He thanks me for my patience when I help him with his building projects.  

I thank him for his patience with me and my desire to read on the couch and snuggle with cats.  

Tomorrow is our 31rst wedding anniversary.  I asked Danny today what he wanted to do.  He looked at me, then smiled.  “Oh, that’s tomorrow.”  I know what he wants to do.  He wants to keep working on his new project.  

We’ll go to dinner later. Or, I’ll make some dinner and run to town for some champagne.

He’s not towing an anchor, and he did not forget our anniversary.   

I don’t want dinner.  I don’t want flowers. I want what I have: Danny playing cribbage with my father every day while we were in Maine, listening to the stories he’s heard for 35 years, Danny driving us around Maine to see people, Danny taking care of the plants in my writing studio he built me, Danny kissing me on the cheek every morning, while I slumber, after he’s made the coffee, watered our garden and deck flowers, and fed the birds.  


I am lucky.


​

This has been a pretty emotional roller coaster for a few weeks now. Three weeks ago, our Aunt Fran passed away. Aunt Fran is Danny’s maternal aunt.  She and Uncle Don welcomed us and our cats  into their home in Eaton thirty-one years ago.  We were both twenty-one, just married and looking to move out to Colorado, simply to make a change.  

We were married, had two cats and a Volvo sedan.  Aunt Fran and Uncle Don opened up their home to all of us.  They poo-poohed our idea to have the cats live in the garage.

Come to find out, our cats were still kittens.  They climbed their draperies, carried loaves of bread up to the second floor and hid those loaves of bread under their beds.  Aunt Fran and Uncle Don thought it was funny and charming.

Every night, after dinner and dishes, Aunt Fran and I would drink tea and watch MASH.  We laughed together.  Danny and Don were sometimes with us, sometimes they were in the garage or outside working.  We were family.  It was the easiest, most comfortable time of my life.

I felt loved, welcomed, and even more a part of Danny’s family.

We have so many memories.  The cats destroying thier house, while Aunt Fran laughed at their antics.  Uncle Don, who “hated cats” got down on all fours and rolled his round tin of chewing tobacco for the cats to play with.  

Yesterday, Uncle Don passed away.

When your favorite people pass, the memories flood you with pictures, images, laughter, and that indefinable feeling of how blessed we are when people impact our lives.  That impact could be in a flurry of a summer, or a lifetime.  Or a moment.  

Here is the apex of this roller coaster.  I have so much gratitude for Aunt Fran and Uncle Don.  They make me smile.  They made me laugh.  They were the most generous of souls I have ever known.  

Here is the floor of the coaster.  The world of beautiful souls who touch us, who make us think, feel, be loved, and who we lose.  

It is sad.  It is hard.  It is excruciating.  

Here is the hope.  People who touch our lives.  People who instruct our lives, who teach us to not be selfish.  People who teach us to be kind instead of right.  People who fight public or private battles but who do not complain.  Our friends and our family who teach us how to be better.

These people give us hope.  We can live in hope.  We can snatch the moments of love and hold them.

I am holding the love of Aunt Fran and Uncle Don.  I’m holding on to the lessons I learned from them about love and acceptance.  I’m treasuring their love and all they gave us.  

Tomorrow morning our community is coming together in love and support of our Happy Smackah, Frank Buck.  The Happy Smackah is a tangible way to grip the rope of love that binds us to reality.  I am grateful.  

​

It's the month of gratitude, and I've been posting my daily gratitude on social media.  I am fortunate that I have a choice, each day, what gratitude I will share. My daily routine, every day of the year (except of course, for exceptions), is to wake up to my gratitude.  

I haven't been posting in the morning though, because I have wanted to see how the day transpires, to see what organic gratitude most stands out.  This morning, I thought I'd end up posting my gratitude for veterans.  I knew what I wanted to say in thanks, but I also knew I wanted it to be more specific than thanking our vets, those I know, those of my family members, those we have lost.  

And so I am.  But I have too much of a story about what transpired today to simply post my gratitude on social media.  I have a story about today.  I have a story about me and my students, and I have a story about how our empathy rose today, for a particular group of veterans.  

We read the story, "Stop the Sun" by Gary Paulsen.  It's a story I've read with my 8th graders for years.  It's a compelling story about a 13 year old young man whose father suffers from PTSD or "Vietnam Syndrome".  This boy does not understand his father, and his father is closed off from his past.  He is so normal, being embarrassed about his father's "strangeness", torn between his confusion and his desire to know his father's pain and help him. 

We discussed Vietnam and PTSD prior to reading it, and then we read it together.  We all read it as we listened to the audio recording.  

I'm going to interrupt the story here for some backstory.  I woke up this morning, thinking, as I said earlier, about my gratitude.  I thought about veterans, and I thought about veterans with PTSD.  

I've suffered from PTSD for the past four years, since Danny got so sick and almost died. It was the daily and hourly stressors of the ICU experience with Danny's battle.  I am much better now, but I still have it.  I think I'll always have it.  Time and lots of therapeutic help have helped, but I feel like I'll always have it.  

So, back to my classroom today.  When, in the story, the Vietnam vet talked about how he could not go there, back to his trauma and how he would not let his son go there, I became overwhelmed.  My throat closed, my shoulders shrunk in, my head pounded, and I knew I needed to cry. I needed to cry not weepy tears, but full on release of tension tears.  I slipped to the back of the room, and I let myself cry silently, and I pulled in deep slow breathes, and I looked at my teaching partner who, thank God, saw me, and just took over.

We asked our students to write responses to the story.  Emily and I both wrote ours as they wrote theirs.  We linked ours to the agenda, so that they could read ours after they wrote theirs.  The room stayed so quiet. We were all in deep reflection. 

In my response, I wrote that the very little bit of trauma I experienced, in relation to veterans of all wars, made me humbled and empathetic and completely grateful for people to give their lives beyond all of our comprehensions for us to live the lives we have.  

I also spoke about my own PTSD.  I'd shared this before with my students.  I ask students to risk all the time, every day. I ask them to show themselves, be vulnerable, take risks in writing, take risks in how they express themselves.  I ask them to do things I am willing to do.  

That is not different because I went through a traumatic experience.  I share my writing, my fears, my thoughts.  My moments where I show my deepest humanness ( I will not call it frailty, for it is not), are my most profound moments in the classroom. It is not profound because I shared; it is profound because they all share.  They all write, think, reflect.  We are all so equal.  It is about utter honesty.  

And back to today.  Our students responded so deeply to the story.  Their responses were about how moved they were and included these thoughts:  "I'm so sad", "I'm humbled", "I've never thought about this", "I'll never think about any of this the same way again", "I need to go back to my own writing because this makes me too sad", "I had no idea", "I'll try to find a way to honor a veteran".  

And many responded deeply to my reaction.  One student talked about her grandfather, a trauma surgeon in Vietnam, and his story moved me to tears so that once again, I could not talk.  Later, that student approached me to apologize for making me cry.  

I assured that student that making me cry was nothing to apologize about.  I told her how lucky she was to have such a hero for a grandparent, and that his story made me humbled, but I was also sad for all his trauma.  Her grandfather was a hero.  I thanked her for that story.  She thanked me.

I had many students tell me stories today.  I looked into a lot of eyes today.  

I have a lot of gratitude, and today, my gratitude spans generations, quite literally.  I have gratitude for the gift of my profession.  I am a teacher, and I get to learn every day from so many hearts and minds.

And much bigger:   I have gratitude for all the soldiers, medics, surgeons, nurses, volunteers of wartime.

My gratitude:  all of our veterans.
My goal:  we don't forget.