Category: In The News

Beginning of a Great Adventure

Posted on February 5, 2015 by

Arenal Hanging Bridges park of Costa Rica

There’s a big change going on in my writing world, the beginning of a great adventure. And it’s all happening on top of itself, rolling into each other like dominos.

It feels exciting, unsettling, and makes me tremble just a little bit.

But I like that.

I spend my days teaching, my early mornings and late evenings writing, and mothering all the way through.

That gives me a lot to think about.

I spent 2014 with my head down, riding it out, powering through the change. It was rough at times, the vulnerability uncomfortable and the uncertainty intensely painful.

But I made it.

I started 2015 sick in bed, questioning how I spend my days and how it impacts the rest of my life. It was challenging, and the not knowing left me positively miserable.

And then the Universe opened up and my dream of blogging on the Huffington Post came true.

And this week, I was asked to be a part of #WomensLives, a a media partnership between Public Radio International (PRI) and SheKnows Media, created to increase the news coverage about women and issues that impact our lives

And yesterday, I completed my blog update, thanks to great help from Anna Hartman and Jessica Ziegler. Didn’t they do a beautiful job?

2015 is off to a exhilarating start!

 I thought one way I could say thanks for supporting me on this great adventure is to share this beautiful poem by Pema Chodron, words which speak to my state of vulnerability and delirium, and remind me that it takes courage to embrace the ‘not knowing’ and make change.

When we think that something is going to bring us pleasure, we don’t know what’s really going to happen.

When we think something is going to give us misery, we don’t know.

Letting there be room for not knowing is the most important thing of all.

We try to do what we think is going to help.

But we don’t know.

We never know if we’re going to fall flat or sit up tall.

When there’s a big disappointment, we don’t know if that’s the end of the story.

It may be just the beginning of a great adventure.

Life is like that. We don’t know anything.

We call something bad; we call it good.

But really we just don’t know.


Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

More Posts - Website

Follow Me:
TwitterFacebookLinkedInPinterestGoogle PlusYelp

The Right To Die

Posted on January 24, 2015 by

right to die

In 2011, two of my friends were diagnosed with brain cancer. One died six months later. One is still living. Both suffered through the debilitation of brain cancer, the rattling of their lives, and the realization that their life was terminal. Both were too young to have the hammer of disease pummel their lives. They were family men, a teacher and a lawyer and both the kind of guys that laughed and loved and brought life into the world.

At the time they were diagnosed I hadn’t thought much about the right-to-die movement; most forty somethings haven’t experienced a whole lot of death at that point in their lives. But this was different-this was immediate. I saw my friend at work every day, watched his brain trick and tease him until he was no longer the strong, competent, sharp man I’d always known. His cancer left him unable to work, unable to care for himself, unable to live the life he was used to. And ultimately, it was terminal.

The other man is still living with brain cancer. His life is drastically changed as well; he no longer works, can’t drive, and many of the simplicities of life that brought him joy have one by one been taken away.

Brittany Maynard was only 29 when she was diagnosed with brain cancer – have you heard about her? When Brittany’s story went viral, it understandably caught my attention. Here she was, a 29-year-old newlywed, diagnosed with the same aggressive brain cancer that stole the life of my teacher friend. Every time I saw her photo splashed in the media, every time I heard her voice telling her story, I understood.

Who has the right to tell us when we can die?

Who has walked their story, who has lived their pain and agony and suffering, their loss of control and dignity?

I wonder what THAT person would advise?

What gives someone else the right to tell me my life is worth living, when the life I have is plagued with pain and fear and the knowledge that I will die, slowly, excruciatingly, while my family suffers along with me?

I want to know who has the right to tell someone when they can die?

I’ve watched grandparents die in peace, surrounded by hospice and assisted with drugs to ease their pain and anxiety. It was comforting to know that they were leaving this life peacefully and on their terms. They didn’t want chemo or drug therapies to extend their terminal illness. They wanted control, grace, and an end to their suffering. Hospice gave them the right to die.

How is that any different from my teacher friend? From Brittany? From the thousands of adults who are suffering each day and want to end this life with dignity and respect, on their terms?

In my state of California, lawmakers are currently debating the right-to-die issue. Last week, news reports swirled with media surrounding the argument, most notably from the group Brittany Maynard supported, Compassion and Choices. California’s legislation would be modeled after Oregon’s: “…limited to mentally competent patients with less than six months to live and requires they take deadly medication themselves without help from a doctor.”

According to Barbara Coombs Lee, president of Compassion & Choices.””Legislators now understand this is a social justice issue that has huge popular support, and they want to be part of it.”

Everyone’s life is terminal. We will all face the end of our life. Why can’t we offer dignity to those that know they are dying, that know that they will die in excruciating pain and will spend their last days suffering? Why can’t we respect the wishes of those who want to exit gracefully, respectfully, surrounded by those they love.

We have the right to live. We should have the right to die, too.

What do you think?

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

More Posts - Website

Follow Me:
TwitterFacebookLinkedInPinterestGoogle PlusYelp

Every Day is a Gift

Posted on October 27, 2014 by

Getting him out of bed in the morning typically takes multiple attempts and a variety of approaches-literally and figuratively. I start with the quiet, gentle approach – silently walking in, whispering ‘good morning’ to the darkness, and try to locate his cheek amidst the tangle of blankets and pillows and an occasional small-but-furry dog. If I’m greeted warmly, I continue to whisper encouragements. If not, I retreat and try again later.

This Saturday morning was no exception – except that when I make my first ‘fly by’ attempt the sun was beginning to rise and, as he gruffly reminded me, it wasn’t a school day.

“If Cathy can get herself out of bed, load up her wheelchair and get there on time, so can you. You’re not going to let one little leg cast stop you, are you? Now get up. We’re going to be late.”

He grumbled and groaned about why we had to leave so early when the walk didn’t start til 10, but I wasn’t in the mood. Every day is a gift, I reminded him, and he’d better make the most of this one. And remember – it means everything to Cathy to have you there. And she even has a cape especially for you.

By now he was awake enough to process, and realizing the importance of his presence, cast and wheelchair and all, he scooted over and thunked his heavy left leg to the floor. “Ok, ok. Just give me a minute.”

I smiled and backed out of the room. Mission accomplished, for now.

By the time we pulled into Raley Field, all fifteen teens and parents were ready for action. The energy was palpable, and the emotions flowed synchronously with the beat. ALS is a devastating, debilitating disease, brought to national attention last summer with the infectious “Ice Bucket Challenge’ fund raising campaign. But that’s not how we know ALS. Two years ago ALS walked (or rolled) into our lives with the gift of Cathy Speck, a vivacious, feisty and blunt-in-the-best-way-possible spirit who has become both a friend and a paragon of living life every day, in every way possible.

When Cameron met Cathy at school as part of his Peer Helping class, something magical happened. What could a thirteen-year-old boy and a XXXX-something-year-old woman connect over? That’s the real gift here. It’s between them. Maybe it’s her straight talking approach and honesty about dying that intrigues him. Maybe her sarcastic, sassy sense of humor? Her positive attitude about life and living? Lately, I wonder if his ‘broken’ body and fractured dreams have offered him new insight and compassion. I’m not sure that anyone could witness her indomitable spirit and zest for life, even as she’s dying, and not want to learn from her.

ALS walk

I knew she had arrived as soon as I saw the half-dozen bright yellow smiley-face balloons hovering above the crowd. The kids ran for her with the gusto of a crowd smothering a rock star. She’s that beloved, I thought. This isn’t something we see every day at school. This is something extraordinary. Within minutes she called me over. “Jennifer, I have his cape,” she smiled as she handed the turquoise blue felt to me. STOP ALS, it read. We’re trying, I thought. She was ready to roll, so I quickly tied it around his neck and watched as he settled back into his wheelchair and smiled as his friends jostled to be the first to push him into the crowd.

stop ALS cape

All around us thousands of folks rolled, walked and skipped to the infield and began the triple loop of support. Banners and balloons and costumes marched around the track, following Cathy’s chorus of “Hey, hey, ho, ho, ALS has got to go”. With every pass by home plate I looked around and breathed and took it all in – the azure blue of the sky, the scent of sunscreen and happiness, the smiles and laughter and love walking and wheeling along side me. The 15-year-old boys supporting Cam as he wheeled around the first base line, Cathy’s life-long friends gently holding an umbrella over her head, Cameron’s teacher and her son mixing with parents, teachers, and kids in a sea of adoration and support and extraordinariness on an ordinary day.

ALS walk

Every day is a gift. It really, really is.

This post was inspired by The 13th Gift by Joanne Huist Smith, memoir about how  random acts of kindness transformed her family’s bereavement and grief during the holidays. Join From Left to Write on October 28th as we discuss The 13th Gift. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

More Posts - Website

Follow Me:
TwitterFacebookLinkedInPinterestGoogle PlusYelp

Eulogy For The Children of Newtown

Posted on December 21, 2012 by

Mono Lake, considered one of the loneliest places on Earth.

I cannot imagine writing a eulogy for my child.

When I hesitantly turned on the news yesterday, that is what assaulted me: a mother’s last words to the six-year-old son she was leaving.

As the images of his life flashed on the screen, I quickly left the room.  I would share her grief, her sorrow her tears.  But I cannot imagine doing what she had to do.

The community of motherhood grieves in solidarity after the Newtown school shootings.  Not one of us who has held our child, nursed them through illness, consoled them through sadness, beamed with them through happiness, or cradled them with love, can help but share the pain, the agony, and the devastation that twenty mothers in Connecticut are crawling through every day for the rest of their lives.

And we feel the guilt, too.  

Each time my thirteen-year-old son hugs me, I feel it.

When my sixteen-year-old daughter kisses me goodnight, I feel it.

When I crack open their bedroom doors in the darkness, just to see if they’re breathing, I feel it.

My dear friend, writer Dawn Wink, expressed it this way on her blog, Dewdrops:

“ I immediately envisioned the intricate lace of a spider web, glistening with dew in the morning sun. I thought of the strength and tension of these gossamer strands and how the slightest movement or touch anywhere on the web sends waves of vibration through its entirety. How very like life. The web of each of our lives, interwoven and connected. I think of the web of my own life and relationships – of how often I have felt the vibrations of each movement on each strand. Whether they are vibrations of joy or pain, they affect the whole, ultimately collecting a lifetime of experiences.”

I will feel it on Christmas morning, on the last day of high school and the first day they go to college.  I will feel it on their birthdays, on Halloween, and when they walk down the aisle.  I will feel it when they win a race and lose a friend, when they sing along to the radio and when we savor a sweet chocolate chip cookie made together with love.

I will feel it because it didn’t just happen to them – it happened to all of us.

The fear of watching my children walk away is constant; there is never a time when they leave me that I don’t worry.  Irrational? Maybe.  But in today’s world, in my mind, it only takes an instant.  There is no longer protection in the ‘it won’t happen to me’ world; there is simply randomness, the unexplainable, the irrational.  It could happen to me.  I’m not that special.

There’s a reason I’m called mamawolfe.

Protecting and nurturing my children flows through me with uncontrollable strength.  It fills my days as a teacher and my nights as a mother, consuming any sense of relaxation into dedicating my life to make it better.  Irrational? Maybe.

I have a clear understanding of the need to let my babies go, to trust they will come back.  I clearly comprehend the need to stand next to them as they make their mistakes, take their chances, and find their dreams.  

I whisper daily prayers to the darkness, hoping the universe is listening.  I ask for protection, for comfort, for the universe to fold over our children and take them in.  I breathe a ‘thank you’ as my words are answered, and take my gratitude for everyday life with me.

I have had eleven more years of gratitude than many of the mothers in our web.  I get another day, another Christmas, another morning.  

I feel the vibrations, their howls of anguish.  I know the wetness of their tears and the firmness of the arms around us, holding on for fear of crumpling into the wet earth.  I see the pain, the sorrow, and the fear.  

I just cannot imagine writing it.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

More Posts - Website

Follow Me:
TwitterFacebookLinkedInPinterestGoogle PlusYelp