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first day of school . . . every day
There’s no word in the language I revere more than ‘teacher.’ My heart sings when a kid refers to me as his teacher, and it always has. I’ve honored myself and the entire family of man by becoming a teacher. ~ Pat Conroy, Prince of Tides On the first day of school, I brought my camera along, excited to capture some of the first marks on this year’s blank slate. New students. New teachers. Another chance to change the world. As I have written before, it is one of the great privileges of my life to work in a profession defined by renewal, revision, and reward. So every year, I send…
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hand ballet
Fourth Day: Celebrating the Ordinary Graceful and elegant, my daughter’s fingers catch the sun spilling through the window. For a moment, I am undone, realizing that my little girl’s hands are those of a young woman. Strong and steady, the real warrior in our house. As though it were yesterday, I remember when she first discovered her hands. For her besotted parents, it seemed an almost magical milestone in her development, as though she were the first child to ever make such a discovery. Her fingers in constant motion, we called it “hand ballet.” Transfixed, as though under a spell, she paid rapt attention, staring intently at those little fingers…
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matchstick men: elevating the ordinary
Celebrating the Ordinary: Day 3 Strolling along the beach on a foggy afternoon last month, it occurred to me that the Morro Bay oceanfront would not be entirely out of place in an early 20th century industrial landscape by English artist, L.S. Lowry. Not unlike his famous “matchstick” people, swarms of beachcombers are dwarfed by three towering smokestacks every bit as recognizable to tourists as Morro Rock, the Gibraltar of California. Every summer, I am surprised to see those smokestacks still looming at the edge of Morro Bay – incongruous reminders of the paradox of progress, rising up in the shadows of Morro Rock, once sacred ground and now sanctuary…
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little houses … for the birds
The boughs of a Chilean mesquite tree hang low in our backyard, weighed down with wind-chimes and things that twirl and spin in warm desert winds. From the uppermost branches, hang bird houses of weathered wood, treasures crafted from trash scavenged by artisan, David Bruce. In his hands, scrap lumber and sheet metal, random doorknobs, rusty garden fixtures, old silver forks and spoons are turned over and into art. For about a decade, Bruce constructed these brightly colored whimsical abodes that could withstand the Phoenix weather. His shop, “Weathered Wonders,” a welcome splash of Dr. Seuss-decor on an otherwise humdrum street in Phoenix, was displaced in 2009 when the ubiquitous Circle K moved in. Were…
