I just wrote the following list for a job application that asked me to detail my “process” to becoming a teacher.  When I finished I stood back and was overcome with a sense of God’s Grace.  I can hardly believe the clear truth, evidenced here, that God takes the dirty, broken pieces of our lives and turns them into something incredible. This process has truly been His doing.  So I thought I’d share it with you all.

• I attended Century High School in Hillsboro, OR where I contributed four years to the newly developing Student Government Program.  I was a member of the Tennis Team, National Honor Society, and Captain of the Dance Team at Century.  I graduated with honors in 2001.
• From 1999-2002 I participated actively with the Oregon Association of Student Councils, where I attended Leadership Training Seminars and Summer Leadership Workshops.  For these workshops I acted both as a student participant and as a Junior Leader.  This experience built my self-confidence and provided me with a wide network of friends, mentors and support.
• I attended Whitworth University (formerly Whitworth College) in Spokane, WA from 2001 to 2005.  I began as a Secondary Education Major, but changed my direction for two reasons.  First, I was concerned that the Education program wouldn’t provide me the depth of knowledge needed in my subject matter to be effective at the secondary level.  Second, as I became acutely aware of the profound impact teachers are able to enact, I began to question my readiness for the task of teaching.
• In 2002 I changed my major to English Dual Track: Writing and Literature.  “Dual Track” consists of fewer credits than a double major, but more credits than a single major.  I also established my minor as Religion and Biblical Studies.  These changes impacted my path in two major ways.  First, my English Major ingnited a absolute fanaticism in me for writing and literature; and second my Biblical Studies minor introduced me to Dr. Jim Edwards, a man who has had a profound impact on my sense of self-efficacy, and subsequently my journey to becoming a teacher (more below).
• At Whitworth I participated in Leadership Development Coursework to enhance my leadership skills.  This acted as a prerequisite for working as a Young Life Team Member, which I did for four years between 2001-2005.  My primary task with this organization was to forge meaningful relationships with high school students in order to inspire diligence, responsibility, hard work and fun.
• In 2003 I left Whitworth for 6 months to travel with a performing arts group to 42 states and five countries, including: France Spain, England, and Canada.  We also spent a week in the Canary Islands, off the West Coast of Africa.  On this trip we performed at least once every day for the first 106 days, each time assembling and disassembling our own sets, navigating our way from city to city, arranging for accommodations, and rehearsing/perfecting aspects of our performance.  On this trip I gained skills in organization, communication and compromise.
• In 2005 I studied abroad in Europe for a term, where I traveled to Germany, Switzerland, Poland, Austria and Czech Republic investigating the primary characteristics of World War II.  This trip was led by Dr. Jim Edwards, who spoke to my strengths, encouraged me to be reflective, and directed me to always ask questions, and not be afraid of the answers.  It is largely his influence that inspires and allows me to take on the task of ‘teacher.’
• During my time at Whitworth I worked as a server, bartender and manager at Applebees.  I know it sounds crazy, but this was a critical time of development for me.  I practiced positive communication skills in stressful situations; keeping my cool under pressure, diffusing difficult situations, and working collaboratively with individuals with whom I disagreed.
• After graduation, I moved back to Portland where I worked as an office manager for Herman Miller Workplace Resource, an Architecture and Design firm in Northeast Portland.  During this time I perfected my organizational and communication skills, and acted as support for sales and design staff.  It didn’t take long for me to realize that this kind of work was not a fit for me, so I began to think critically about my next step.
• During this same time (2006-2007) I volunteered for the Oregon Council for Hispanic Advancement (OCHA) where I taught English to Spanish-speaking teens who who needed to earn high school equivalency.  The students I taught grabbed my heart.  I couldn’t help but remember my strong impulse to teach.
• In 2007 I returned to Graduate School to earn my Masters in Teaching at George Fox University.  I have successfully navigated the MAT program, completing three student teaching placements (Conestoga Middle School, Social Studies/ESL; Lincoln High School, Language Arts; and Aloha High School English Language Development).  I graduate in May 2009 and will be certified to teach Middle School/High School Language Arts, Social Studies and ESL.
• This summer I am scheduled to travel to South America for three months to teach English and learn Spanish at High school in Quito, Ecuador.

When I look at the way he has orchestrated my life thus far, I can’t hlep but trust that He will continue to lead and guide me in the days ahead.  And this time maybe I’ll be a little better attuned to His direction. More to come…

I was standing in line at Sydney’s the other morning when I heard one of the patrons asking the Barista about a piece of art that was hanging on the wall behind the cash register.  The gentleman explained that the genre was called “salvage” art, and that this particular piece was constructed from abandoned junkyard materials.  The artist had refurbished the pieces and arranged them together, and was now selling the piece for several hundred dollars.  I stared at it for a moment, admiring its simple elegance, its grace.  When I reached the counter I inquired about the artist.

“I believe in Redemption,” I told a friend the other night, and he gave me that look (half like he had no idea what I was talking about, half like he thought I was crazy).

“No, seriously, though,” I said, smiling a bit, wishing he would stop looking at me like that.

Redemption:

1. The act of saving or of being saved from sin, error, or evil
2. The act of regaining or gaining possession of something
3. Clearing a debt
4. Buying one’s freedom, to “buy back”

Now that I read the definition, I believe in it even more.

There are some things in life that we get to choose.  Like… Coffee or tea, for example.  Bagel with cream cheese, or without?  There are many things over which we have remarkable control.  As Americans especially, we make (quite literally) tens of thousands of decisions each day, some of which include hundreds of options (picture the cereal aisle at your local grocery store, or recollect your most recent experience selecting a toothpaste).

But there are some things that we don’t get to choose.  Some things that just happen to us.  Yes, some things just happen.

People—those in the Western world, especially (*cough* Americans *cough cough*) resist this notion vehemently.  They feel utterly pulverized by it.  They oppose.  They argue.  They are offended at the suggestion that they do not have control over every aspect of their life; that the universe does not revolve around them alone, that they have limitations of intellect, intuition, physicality.

(And when I say “they,” pretend I am saying, “we.”  I am the worst—the most selfish of us all—and my proclivity to leave myself out of the conversation is perhaps the most powerful example of my implication in it.  I worship my own capability, my own intellect, my own ability to reason, to cope, to perform.)

The truth is: we don’t get to choose everything.  We don’t get to choose our hair color, or our parents, or the country into which we are born.  We don’t get to choose our height, or our gender, or whether or not we’d like to be able to fly.  But that’s obvious, right?  NO one is going to argue with me there.  Here’s where it gets complicated.

Do we choose our talents, or are they inherent to us?  Do we choose our attitude, or is it a reflection of our experience?  Do we choose our “path” in life (like, where should I go to school?  Who should I date?  Who should I marry?  Where should I live?  What should I do for a living?) and, if that answer is yes (and I imagine you’ll say it is) can we make the wrong choice?

I would say: sort of.

I have made so many hundreds of bad decisions in my life I couldn’t list them all here if I tried.  In fact I stopped keeping track a long time ago, when I realized how utterly depressing it was to consider those decisions daily, to speculate as to how my life might have been different without them, to feel the weight of responsibility.

And, actually, I shouldn’t make it sound like those “bad” decisions are only a part of my distant past, as if—somehow—I have overcome that terrible part of myself, that now I am so self-actualized, so mature, that I have been adequately cured of my propensity for impulsivity, for selfishness, even for indecision (the worst paralysis of all…)

No, I make terrible decisions daily.  I should have had cream cheese on my bagel this morning, for example, and now that that pot of French press coffee is coursing through my veins, I am regretting that decision a bit too.

Some days I feel affirmed in my decisions.  I am a teacher, I think to myself, and that is the perfect thing for me to be.  Other days I wonder if I could have, should have, done something different.  I wonder if there is such a thing as a “right” choice.

There are even some things for which I do not wonder, for which I am convinced that I made the wrong choice.  And for those things I weather the consequences daily.  I have wasted terrible amounts of time in unhealthy relationships, striving for the transitory, the inconsequential.  I wonder what my life would be like if I had walked away, if I had opted out before the devastation hit.  Would I be “better off”?  Maybe.  Would I be less petulant, less irascible?  Probably.  Would I be married?  Have children?  Would I be happier?  I could drive myself crazy with speculation…

Even in light of all my terrible decisions, though, I believe in redemption.  In fact, the remarkable part is: Redemption wouldn’t even make sense were it not juxtaposed against my deficiency, my dearth.

I am unwaveringly committed to the belief that there is more than this, that it is not all about me—that I don’t have to carry the full burden of responsibility, the full weight of my own depravity—that I am a part of something bigger.  Sometimes I get to choose, and sometimes I don’t.  Either way… life is hard.  Terrible injustices are served all the time—both against me and (if I’m honest) by me.

Still, I believe in recovery.  I believe in beauty.  I believe that broken pieces of glass and charred pieces of wood, when laid carefully together in a particular manner, catch the eye of a passerby in the most graceful way.  It has to do with subtlety, with complexity, with simplicity, with authenticity, with design.   Salvage art is appealing.  So appealing, in fact, that it might provoke a momentary pause in the midst of a daily routine.  It might catch the eye of a patron standing in line at a local coffee shop; might prompt a serendipitous inquisition as to the nature of the artist.

“Come and let us return to the Lord, for he has torn, but he will heal us.  He has stricken, but He will bind us up.  After two days He will revive us; On the third day He will raise us up, that we may live in His sight.  Let us know, let us pursue the knowledge of the Lord.  His going forth is as established as the morning; He will come to us like the rain, like the latter and the former rain to the earth.” –Hosea 6:1-3

“What great gravity is this that drew my soul toward yours?  What great force, that although I went falsely, went kicking, went disguising myself to earn your love, also disguised, to earn your keeping, your resting, your will fleshed into mine, rasped by a slowly revealed truth, the barter of my soul, the soul that I fear, the soul that I loathe, the soul that: if you will love, I will love.” –Donald Miller

I think the people who teach us the most in life do so without saying a thing.  They are not striving, not manipulating, not even trying.  They just are.  And in their being—their existence—they show us something: about ourselves, about the world, about God.

I have known you a hundred years, it seems.  I have known you since I was seventeen.

I am beguiled to you, not because you are revolutionary.  I am compelled, not because you are, in any measurable way, better than then the person standing next to you.  It is not because of what you have to offer—not because you have the most money, or the nicest stuff, or because you are the most charming, or the most intelligent.  No, it isn’t even because you have the best ideas, or the most talent, or the soundest character.  It isn’t because of your great mind, or your tender heart, your humility, your resilience, your grace—although you do possess so many of those things.  I am drawn to you in the same way that hydrogen molecules are drawn to carbon, to oxygen.  I am drawn to you because of gravity, because of science.

Hydrogen and Oxygen are lured toward one another, not because of their properties, but because of their fundamental structure.  Yes, both elements have properties that are non-negotiable:  Hydrogen is the first element in the periodic table, and boils at 252 degrees Celcius.  Oxygen is colorless, has an atomic number of 8, and a density of 1.429.  But the elements are not attracted to one another because of their properties.  They are not drawn to one another because of atomic weight or melting point, or mass.  They are drawn to one another because of their electronic structure, the number of valence electrons in their outer shell.  They are drawn to one another because of essence.

Still, the properties these elements possess are a direct result of their essence.  Hydrogen cannot negotiate a different atomic weight, for instance, or it would no longer be Hydrogen.  Oxygen cannot adjust its boiling point, or it would cease to be Oxygen.

The qualities about you that prove so transformational, so revolutionary are, at the same time, so undeniably mundane.

I am attracted to you not because of your flashiness, your beauty or your charm, although there is something rather charming about you.  I am attracted to you because of your essence, because of the properties about you that are not negotiable, the properties that they are inextricably linked to your Source, your Inventor.  We are not as constant as Oxygen.  We are not as persistent.  Even when we are gone, Oxygen will endure. But even when we are not constant, He is.  And our properties are inextricably linked to our Source, to our Initiator, to our Constant.

Redemption comes in pieces, like a jigsaw puzzle rationed over time.  Sometimes I look at the picture of my puzzle and it is so disfigured, so mangled, that I can’t even understand what the image is supposed to be.  Some days I wonder if there are pieces to fit these misshapen blank spaces, if puzzle pieces even exist with such jagged edges, such distorted colors and images.  And then I meet someone like you, and those jagged edges don’t look unbecoming anymore.

I have known you only a few days, it seems.  I have known you as long as I have known me.

I was not empty before you got here.  I was not in desperate need.  Or maybe I was, and I was just so wrapped up in my own self-worship that couldn’t realize how needy I really was.  Maybe I was fooling myself to say that I could make it on my own.

It isn’t you who rescues, isn’t you who redeems.  You are only one piece in my puzzle, one missing piece.  Still it is your arrival that reminds me of the open spaces in my picture, my image.  It is your presence that has queued me to my insufficiency, my deficit, my instability, my dearth.  You, somehow—without really saying anything—have reminded me of the One who restores, the One from whom all pieces come.  Without saying a word, you have acquainted me with the One who, above all else, draws us unto Him.

I don’t particularly love this poem, but I am going to post it anyway, as an example of my experimentation with form, etc.  Originally this was one poem, but at the urging of a friend, I split it into two.  I still don’t know if it really works the way I intended, but it acts as an illustration of how we manipulate language and form to communicate meaning.  Also, it is a work in progress…

Oh, and also, (I don’t often preface my poems, but I thought this might help): I wrote this poem based on a story told to me by a friend, about the night he knew that his relationship with his girlfriend had come to an end.  The change was so subtle, he said, that no one would have noticed the shift except for him.  Everything about that night was “normal,” he said.  The couple picked out a movie together, ordered take-out, spent the evening watching the film and dozing on his couch…  but when she left his house that night, he knew that it was over.  And while he felt profoundly sad, he also felt unconscionably tranquil.  He felt heated with anger, but cooled by bitterness; overwhelmed with devastation but also resoundingly numb.

Volcanic Rock (I)

They were in the movie store,
he said,
when he knew for the first time.
She wouldn’t hold his hand while they scanned through racks
and stood in line, and asked about that movie…

While they watched the one they chose, lights low, she slept—head laid soft
on the sofa next to his.

When she woke she didn’t say that she couldn’t stay, she just left—rose, like mantle, quiet under
rock—

Volcanic Rock (II)

She just left—

a simple shifting of tectonic plates.
a low-pressure parting,
a fissure,
a fracture of earth.

And with the TV still on, he felt that sudden dread—felt it rise from inside, like… a ripping of flesh, of lithosphere, a hundred kilometers thick—fresh

lava stiffened
him, numbed him, petrified,
solidified…
turned him jet black, and
brittle.

I think in status updates (thank you, Facebook).  All day I have been musing…

Ally is…  cynical, critical, negative?

Ally is… trying her best.

Ally… wishes she could make you understand.

Ally… knows its not that easy.

Sometimes, no matter how hard we try, it is impossible to really hear one another.  Sometimes we can talk and talk–all day long–and, still, the messages we are sending and receiving are misinterpreted, my “signifier” does not match your “signified…”  (thank you Dr. Sprenkle and History of Rhetoric)

I am dumbfounded.

You and I have come from the exact same place, quite literally.  And yet the locations upon which we landed are so remarkably different.  I am perplexed by the realization that I cannot help you visualize my landscape, that as earnestly as I venture to picture your perspective, the result is incertitude and doubt; the outcome is further incongruence; the ramification is this…

We can’t  even walk beside one another on the sidewalk.

I am wounded by the realization that I do not fit the criterion for your world, altered by the declaration that I am not suited for your domain. And yet these contusions do not suit me!  These injuries are impractical and unfair.  And to combat them…

….I adopt my customary stance, the one for which I have already been rebuffed.

I will quip and swallow.

Refuse to quiver.

I will not waiver.

…..if only I could REALLY make you understand, you might picture where I am sitting.  You might see that I am out of options aside from this…

There is no one charged to my protection aside from ME, no one waiting at home at night with the proverbial “light on.”

I am suspicious, because I have to be.

I am cynical because the world is not always safe.

Because beginnings and endings are not always cut with perfectly trimmed edges.

Because everything in the middle is gray.

Note: In order to really understand this poem you should first read “A Valentine for Earnest Mann” by Naomi Shihab Nai.  This poem was completely inspired by the original, and there are several obvious and intentional parallels.  

You can’t order a husband like you order a taco,

just pull up to the window and say,

“I’d like one with extra salsa, and no cheese,”

and have it handed back, folded and wrapped

all nice and neat.

No, love

is not like fast food.

But if, over tacos, you admitted

that you (too) have always wondered about the

migration patterns of Canadian Geese—

that, sometimes, late at night you watch 

History Network specials about

modern mythical creatures;

If you mused, then, about the words to that song you’d written

in the key of A—you can’t remember them but,

from the flush in your face…

I’d say

I admire your spirit.

And I might feel a little warm inside

at the thought of flights together from the Arctic Circle

to a sultry Florida coast—the thought of

nights spent with you, eating tacos, perhaps

simultaneously watching TV—conceivably,

my feet tucked snugly underneath you

as we settle on the couch.

He still has a smooth chin and baby-blue eyes,

and now

has

this tow-headed two-year-old child

who wanders, like him, looking for something…

he finds

a runaway coin in the corner, an old Cheerio

dusty and forgotten.

The side of the top-load machine shakes

and baby’s hands are placed,

curious…

And, this time, this young boy is dad–

sighing,

gasping for breath,

grasping for tiny arms

imploring his young son to 

“stay close.”

It was his 11th grade English teacher who wrote:

waste of ‘potential’:

“The ability to accomplish or effect something.”

Daddy reaches deep

into his cheap

jean pockets and retrieves

his last sixty cents.  And with

a tender lift to a vending machine,

achieves

a package of circus animal cookies, 

and a giant two-year-old smile.

My poems are stubborn, like hunger.

Airtight

like the lid on the spaghetti sauce jar

I am opening for dinner.

So snug, in fact, 

that I, begrudgingly, ask for your help,

hoping that if your strong

hand

can loosen the hold,

can lessen the grip

of words 

wound so 

tight around

my insides,

then they might slip

from finger to paper,

from abdomen to page–

and we might get to eat dinner.

But even your hands aren’t able to twist, to wrench,

to pry that lid loose, you muse: Its too

tight!  Have you tried the trick with

the knife?

And, with that, I slit its saucy throat,

that obdurate jar, that recalcitrant vessel…

blood-red relish spills

sauce, dressing, guts,

on counter and clothes.

And though–now–I have a permanent

pink stain on my favorite white shirt,

and, in cleaning, you left red residue

on the fridge and floor,

at least we won’t have to eat plain noodles.

Yes, it is in our own battlefield

we feast.

It means: “In talking, we understand each other,” or perhaps more literally, “In talking, we understand the people.”  I am enamored with this concept, and enamored with the beauty of this colloquial Spanish phrase. It demonstrates itself (and it’s logical counterparts: ‘In listening, we understand each other,’ ‘In talking, we understand ourselves’…) perpetually in my world.  And ever since the day I learned this expression it rings interminably in my mind.  It exhibits itself relentlessly in my (at times confusing, at times alluring) path.   

Lev Vygotsky, a Russian Psychologist (turned learning theorist), suggests that it is precisely the outward production of language that expands our ability to negotiate cognitive and emotional growth.  He offers the following analogy: A child works to put together a jigsaw puzzle with her parent.   Initially, she will speak her actions out loud as she performs them.  She will talk about the shape and the color of the pieces, she will hypothesize about which pieces will fit where, about the images she is trying to construct.  Eventually, after the child has completed the task several times–as her cognitive ability grows–her external dialogue will dissipate.  Vygotsky argues: her external dialogue no longer proves necessary, as the process has turned internal, and she is becoming more and more capable of navigating the task on her own.  The external expression of language has (somehow–the explanation is long, but plausible) expanded her ability and bolstered her conception of the puzzle itself.  Not only is she now capable of moving on the more complicated tasks, but ultimately her cognitive conception has been altered irreversibly.

(this is going somewhere… I promise!)

I shared conversation over a few beers with a friend the other night, and was reminded (once again) of how desperately I necessitate opportunities to ‘put a puzzle together’ collaboratively.  I was reminded of how much I need your (’your,’ as in… ALL of your…those who challenge me, inspire me, encourage me) insight, your reflection, your perspective (ummm, perspective… I have so much to say, but that’s another posting entirely…) in order to know where the pieces fit.  I was reminded of how remarkably altered I can be by a single event, how amended I can be when a person is willing to sit on the other side of a table and just nod his head.  And I am reminded that, when I am willing to do the same–when I am willing to make myself available for conversation (that is, willing to drop my defenses and really LISTEN)–I realize how similar you and I actually are; how (in many ways) my experiences are not isolated.  I am reminded that (if I give you the chance) you just might understand.  

Similarly, I am challenged by the realization that (in other ways) you and I are remarkably different; that we come from different places and we sit at different perspectives.  I am both embarrassed by how wrong I have been in the past–embarrassed of my misconceptions, misappropriations, mis-assumptions–and also stimulated by this common ground where we have now met.  I am greeted by the appreciation that (deep breath)… it’s all going to be okay. 

I have lots of conversations with lots of people, not all of which are transformative.  Even this conversation, in and of itself, wasn’t particularly earth-shattering.  What happened there, in that restaurant, didn’t have anything to do with the topics we discussed.  It didn’t have had anything to do (necessarily) with the person I was speaking with, or with the day of the week, or with the time of day.  It had to do with the willingness to speak, the patience to listen, and the power of language itself just doing its day’s work.

It had to do with an inclination to let life unfold, and to revel in the process.

I wish I could explain it better than that.  There may not be a way to put a name to the new perspective, (understanding, capacity) I gained that day.  And naming it might not even be important. That there is no name for the transaction which occurred that day may illustrate Vygotsky’s point perfectly, because what was accomplished that day cannot be measured by external expressions of the experience.  Rather the experience ITSELF was the accomplishment.   The experience itself is what enables me to navigate this complicated puzzle, what empowers me to face the more difficult challenges ahead.

I occupy all hours of the night and day.  At

eight I am leaning

over a bowl of breakfast, over

the Old Testament.

By noon

I am not thinking of you, who

without warning, have

occupied me.

At two I wake, shake from

dream—that same recurring dream—

my suitcase is missing

from an airport conveyor belt.

I am half-asleep, but listing

all of the missing

items—

A pair of jeans,

A book, my favorite

green shirt—

By three I have employed

unrealities, perpetuated,

commiserated,

burnt, torn.

Seconds later an alarm rings

and I return.

I live in a place I do not own, a space

that is barely my own.  A picture

frame, a table, a chair or two, a few

small remnants, an anchor and

hew.