This year, I am determined to be more unproductive. My goal is to do less and less – to move slower and slower until everything stops. I and the whole world will come to a sweet and silent stillness. And in this stillness, a great shout of joy will arise. We will all be free – free from the advice of ancient ages, free from the whining voices, free from the incessant objections of the responsible ones.
In this new world, it will be abundantly clear that the bare branches of the winter trees are our teachers. In their daily dance of moving here and there, we will see once again the true meaning of our life. In the wind song of their being, we will hear God’s unmistakable voice. We will follow what appears before us – what had once been difficult will now unfold with ease.
~ Hakuin Ekaku
I love this idea from Hakuin Ekaku of being determined to do less to do more. Being me, I’m on an endless quest for stimulation – my mind spins and cycles to the point where some days I feel like a pinball being batted around and never making it into the jackpot slot.
I cherish my still moments, my quiet times to center and breathe and just be. I know that it is precisely in those moments – usually early, before dawn, lit by candlelight and fueled by coffee, that I do my best thinking and find my best self. In these months of darkness and retreat, gazing out at the starkness of my backyard trees, watching the winter birds feast on seed and flit from bare branch to branch, I’m reminded that now is the time to think deeply, to listen, and not to miss the great joys that are right here, right now, in my life.
I’m determined to do less. What are you determined to do this year?
I found this poem on one of my favorite inspirational websites, First Sip.
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.
On January 21, 2017, I joined over 20,000-plus other like-minded souls at the California State Capitol for the Women’s March On Sacramento. I wasn’t prepared for the enormity of the event; I had no idea that when I left, I would feel so energized, so heard, or so replete with joy. This is what democracy looks like.
When we set out on foot, first to cross the swollen Sacramento River, I wondered if there would be anyone else who showed up. It was early, and quiet. We meandered towards Southside Park, and I had my answer.
Thousands showed up.
To be honest, it was a bit overwhelming at first. There were so many signs, costumes, and smiles. there were men and women, children and elderly, mobile and non-mobile. Queer, straight, white, black, brown, all kindred spirits fearlessly flying their frustration with the new administration.
I had to walk around to take it all in. The crowd never ended.
Some people were clearly first time activists; others, I could tell, had been here before. And the children, their gently hand lettered signs of hope tinged with fear, stole my heart.
As we marched lines of folks gathered on the sides to cheer us on. They reached out of second story windows and snapped photos from balconies.
We chanted. We helped each other. We united.
This is what democracy looks like.
I’m positive the event coordinators were overwhelmed with the numbers, announcing that they couldn’t start the program because there were some who hadn’t yet left the starting point, miles away.
But when the mayor took the stage, and politicians from school boards to city councils, from Congress to State Controller, we listened. We heard the calls for getting ‘fired up’ and ‘fighting back’ against the Capitol’s west facade, flags flying at half mast.
The rain held off while we heard about women being ‘Raped On The Nightshift’ – female janitorial staff who used their courage and voice to legislate change.
We chanted for human rights, for women’s rights – for grabbing back.
And we felt the power of the 2.5+ million women, men, and children worldwide who were chanting with us; I knew my sisters and friends and my community was with me. It was like one huge book club discussing our thoughts on a recent novel we’ve read, looking for common threads and weaving in our personal stories.
We vowed to ‘stay loud’ and to fight back, to speak up and defend the rights women have worked so hard to earn.
I stood behind a 95 year-old-woman, wheelchair bound, who wiggled with excitement and energy right along with me as her daughter wiped away tears. I pushed my former students in front of me, young women curious about their future, and felt their eyes on me as my fist rose in the air time after time.
I stood alongside a Vietnam vet pushing his wife’s wheelchair and watched his eyes, eyes that have seen more horror that I hope I ever know.
I heard the rage of a queer woman of color, recently elected mayor, who fears for her daughter’s future.
I felt my grandmother’s spirit pulsing through my chest, a woman who spoke four languages yet never went to college – an immigrant who left a secure life in South America to follow her heart to the United States, and a woman who taught me to say what I think and have compassion for all.
And I wept silent tears as I realized that this moment was just the beginning; that I am tasked to push back for my daughter, for my son, for my mother and grandmothers and all those phenomenal women that have come before me and paved my way to this moment – to this opportunity to show my love for my country.
THIS is what democracy looks like.
And I vowed to use my words, my platform, my writing, my teaching and my parenting not to make war with those that differ but to hold them accountable for THEIR words, THEIR actions. To remind them, over and over, that it is love, not hate, that makes America great. To ensure that this movement – this march, this gathering of humans who are looking to put their voice to the voiceless, to extend kindness to those who are hurting, and to show my children that I will walk the talk for what I believe in.
This is what DEMOCRACY looks like.
I’m not ready to make nice. I’m not ready to give in, to get over it, or to go back.
I’m ready to be loud. I’m ready to be heard. I’m ready to fight back. I am no longer accepting the things I cannot change – I’m changing the things I cannot accept.
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.
I have a small whiteboard that hangs in my laundry room, right above my key holder. I’ve placed a few magnets there with inspirational quotes to read each morning as I head out to work. Last fall, it turned into my official countdown clock. The days and nights between summer and Thanksgiving are endless when you have a junior in college: things begin to get real in a startlingly different way.
Freshman year smacked me in the face. I wasn’t ready for the physical ache I would feel when I walked by her open bedroom door and nothing changed, day after day. I wasn’t ready to close the door, either, so I just avoided looking as much as I could. I counted down the moments from when she gave me a fist bump, jumped out of the car and made her way into the dorm alone, leaving me to drive across three states without her.
When you have a freshman:
When you have a freshman, it’s really ‘all about me’, as a friend so wisely recounted. The contact is limited as our babies tentatively try to fly on their own. I remember the struggle to decide to text or not to text, or if it would really be OK to pick up the phone and see how she’s doing. Those were the longest three months before Thanksgiving EVER.
Her freshman year winter break came and went. Her eagerness to leave was palpable; I was the only one dreading the airport that year. She spent her summer months away from home, too, choosing a paycheck over the comfort of her light-blue bedroom walls. No point in counting down to anything that summer.
When you have a sophomore:
Sophomore year I was more optimistic. Autonomy from dorm life seemed to agree with her, and suddenly her classes became more interesting and personalized. Gone were my worries of her ‘making’ it academically – she seemed to have the school part under control. When you have a sophomore in college there are a few perks. While my nervousness about the day-to-day activities decreased, my curiosity peaked about her future. It was hanging right there in front of her, somewhere. Would she connect with her Spanish class, or decide on an internship? Would adding a restaurant job open her eyes to the realities of hard work and relying on tips?
I should have known she would be fine. Things always have a way of working themselves out, don’t they? Zipping along, she had a series of firsts: first voter registration, first apartment lease, and surely many she didn’t tell me about.
When you have a junior in college:
Last summer, I noticed a transformation in my daughter – not just that she’s looking more and more like a grown woman physically, but that as she nears the magic age of 21, she’s subtly growing into herself. We spent very little time together; she chose to stay in her cozy college apartment, alone. , and that was it.
Counting down to Thanksgiving felt interminable; the green numbers eagerly wiped away each week, then each day, and finally I had her in my grasp. I think she got tired of all the hugs.
The magic of winter break wasn’t lost on me – when you have a junior in college, you learn to cherish the moments together as if they were snowflakes ready to melt. Every walk along the creek, every coffee date and cookie baking session I knew was a gift; the countdown begins to look like a bittersweet exchange of childhood for adulthood. My child begins to look like an adult; soon, the fulcrum will tip, and her decisions will seem to put all my childhood questions to rest.
When you have a junior in college, there is less past and more future. There’s a bearing witness to the unfolding of life, an undeniable concreteness of all the ‘I wonders’ whispered over diaper changes and sippy cups. Her eyes tell her stories and glint with the yet-to-be-determined. There’s a comfortable uncomfortableness that the decisions are hers to make, the adulting is closer than ever, and that the security of childhood still hangs by a whisper and the green tallies on the whiteboard are ever increasing.
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.
Even when I can’t find the time/inspiration/concentration to write, I try to always pay attention to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life. I used to print out all my photos, hand write captions in photo albums and stick the images onto the pages, gently smoothing back the plastic to protect the memories from sticky fingers turning pages. I think my last albums were from 2007, when I began collecting photos on floppy disks, then CDs and now in the cloud. I must say, while I don’t take quite as many snaps of my kids now that they’re teens, looking back on 2016 I am pleased that I caught so many of these ordinary moments that might have otherwise slipped my short-term memory. I’m grateful to be able to share my favorite moments of 2016 with you. Thank you for being part of my mamawolfe community, for your thoughts and comments and likes and shares. I’m looking forward to thinking deeply, loving fiercely and teaching audaciously with you in 2017,
Thank you for being part of my mamawolfe community, for your thoughts and comments and likes and shares. I’m looking forward to thinking deeply, loving fiercely and teaching audaciously with you in 2017,
December – I don’t always remember to have a family photo taken on Christmas, but this year we all managed to squeeze onto our sofa. As the kids get older, these moments of togetherness become so treasured. I wrote about turning 51 and my nightmares about the election results. As I love to do, I’ll ring in the new year in the mountains with these three people that make my life so extraordinary.
November – I always think of my son as a wanderer; he loves to go alone, to explore, to get lost in the moment. This image of him on Carmel beach was exactly one of those moments; we were all up at the car and I had to go back to search for him. I stood and snapped this photo without him noticing; so grateful for these small moments as reminders to slow down and just be. I wrote a bit about the presidential election, teaching, and the not-so-ordinary month of November.
October – To be honest, this photo just makes me smile. I went back to San Diego for a conference this fall – I say back, because in the late 1980s I made S.D. my home. I’m a completely different girl now, but I still find myself most comfortable hanging out with people who think out of the box. This night was a good reminder to remember who I am and what I believe in, always. This month I wrote from the heart about teaching and Trump.
September – When my kids were little, I loved throwing birthday parties for them. We invited the whole family, ate and drank and celebrated together in our backyard. These days, birthdays are celebrated much more quietly. September is always a month of new beginnings when you live as a teacher – and this year, we celebrated Cam turning 17. Bittersweet moments – he reminded me the countdown now begins to adulthood and leaving home. Glad one of us is excited about that! I only wrote a little – a sharing of a favorite Mary Oliver poem.
August – This summer, my two babies took off on a solo backpacking adventure – they hiked and camped and drove all around Wyoming, just enjoying being together. Although I didn’t hear from them too much, and I worried more than I should have, the moment they texted me this photo I knew that all would be well. I feel such gratitude that although they’re not living in the same home anymore, they love each other this much. I wrote about family time in Tahoe, sending my girl back to college for her third year, an awesome trip to Blog Her in L.A., and how much I love my ordinary life.
June – We celebrated Lily’s return from hiking the Camino de Santiago in Spain and her turning 20. The shooting in Orlando left me feeling sad about the fragility of life and committed to help end gun violence. I finished school, and spent the month reflecting and resting.
March – I wrote a lot about motherhood, working and mothering, and equal rights. We had a rare ski day together at Tahoe; rare because I actually skied with my kids rather than watch them fly down a race course!
February – I found myself taking daily walks, searching for some center. My girl got a ‘real’ job, I hunkered down at home and read a lot of poetry from Mary Oliver,Jane Candida Coleman and Thich Nhat Hanh.
January – I was looking for joy everywhere – it was a hard month. Concussions, avalanches, and loss were surrounding me. I tried to focus inward, to be present and to pay attention to the beauty around me.
I’d love to continue this amazing life journey with you over on Instagram – you can find me at mamawolfeto2.
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.
It’s broad daylight on an ordinary day…or so I think. Over the loudspeaker, the emergency message screams to “pack all your belongings and get out!” Disoriented, I spin and spin until I realize I’m alone and lost in a New York City nightmare, away from my family.
Why am I here? My mind races to center, to grasp any sense of normal.
I can’t move fast enough, and I’m isolated. My children…..I can’t find you. You’ve disappeared, dissolving into a murky future that doesn’t make sense. Why can’t I find you? I always, always know where you are.
Frantically I search for everything I know to be real. I’m in my house now, pawing through my childhood treasures, scooping figurines and trinkets with broad strokes into a bag as would a burglar. With each movement, my mind flashes back to small moments of beauty, happiness and joy. Where to begin, where to end? The clay figurines, so thoughtfully crafted with childhood fingers…the bookmarks they made in preschool, the framed photos of us smiling at the parade.
I move from room to room wondering where I will put all this, what bag or box will be big enough, sturdy enough, to contain all that is dear to me. What will I forget? How will I choose what to carry? What will I leave behind, remnants of everything I once had?
I think of my husband, thirty years of him by my side, and I return for more. Remember my wedding dress, our box of letters from college. Our rings – I must get our rings. My children – where are you? Desperately, I run down the hall to their room…but it’s not there. I’m somewhere else, someplace I don’t recognize. Have I been here before?
Breathe…think. You can do this. Opening the door, I’m outside. The sun beams down as I approach the outdoor cafe. I see the complacency on their faces, the men who sit outside with their coffee and cigarettes. They smile, the edges of their mouth crinkling up in dominance. They know they’ve won. They think they’ve got this. They wouldn’t let
Right and left, I see bodies fleeing in desperation, moving chaotically as they search for helpers. I know I can’t be the only one…just breathe. Say excuse me, there must be some mistake. I just need to get past you…
They wouldn’t let me, though. They chuckle, and remind me to hold close to what care about – they are coming, and I’ll need my armor. This battle will be relentless.
Squinting at their glare, I contemplate my next move. They’re running now, saw small pods of people flowing down streets and alleyways, towing bags and boxes of their lives. I feel my anxiety throb, my chest heaving for air. My hair covers my face, my hands strain to hold tight. I’m lost, alone, petrified.
I stretch, desperate to see over their heads…swiveling to my left as the formation, comes towards me. I freeze, pulling my life towards my mouth paralyzed with terror…
I shoot out of bed, fumbling for my pulse. This is it. It was pitch black as I run for the front window, pull open the curtain and gazed out at the empty street. Silence. I’m alone. A shiver runs down my spine as the wind picks up, rustling the ocher leaves down the deserted sidewalk.
Pulling the down comforter guardedly under my chin, I withdraw to my refuge. My pulse calms as I settle in. I am home. Motionless, my body stills. I make out the quiet breathing echoing down the hall. Cola cocks one eye towards me from his dog bed, then gently settles down with a sigh. All is as I know it to be in this moment.
No more watching the news before bed, I promise as I will myself to sleep.
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.
