"What is the book you will always remember and why?"

"A person's a person no matter how small." -Horton Hears a Who

I developed my love of Dr. Seuss a little later in life, but it wasn't the sing-songy rhymes nor the sensical nonsensical invented words to help aid the whimsical rhymes that drew me into the droll world of his writings: it was the "so what" of his writing. Anybody can invent words (isn’t that what babies do?), but not anybody can invent words, have incredible rhyme, and teach us that we need to take care of even the littlest of people, even if the littlest of people reside on a speck of dust. If Horton the elephant can care for the Whos, then I, as a human, can respect and care for fellow humans with the same esteem as Horton. The old adage is that an elephant never forgets, and I hope that I never forget that big, lovable, caring elephant who Dr. Seuss penned into existence and onto my heart.


Word Count: 163

Optimism Wears a Jumpsuit the Color of the Sun

Assignment: Brainstorm what a color looks like, sounds like, feels like, tastes like, smells like, and emotionally feels like.  Take these brainstorms and write a poem about that color.

Brainstorm for Yellow

Sight: sweatsuit the color of the sun, smiling eyes
Hear: laughter coming from the sprinkler
Touch: laundry, bounce fresh, right from the dryer; an encouraging hug
Taste: pineapples (fresh, not from the can), light and calorie free
Smell: vanilla emanating from the outlet
Emotions: cheerful, nice, giddy, optimistic


Subsequent Poem:

Optimism Wears a Jumpsuit the Color of the Sun

Laughter swishing from the sprinkler
Towels bouncing fresh from the dryer
Pineapple refusing to be canned
Vanilla emanating from the outlet
Smiles dancing from her eyes
And Optimism wearing a jumpsuit the color of the sun

Waking Up in the Future

Assignment: If tomorrow morning you woke up and it was 20 years into the future, what would it be like?

Yesterday I experienced something I never deemed possible: I flew. Not just the walk onto an airplane and sit down and fasten your seatbelt and listen to the riveting safety instructions type of flying. The flap your arms until they are sore from soaring against the wind, with the wind, and beyond the wind and probably wake up the next morning with the back muscles screaming at you for doing such an unnatural act type of flying.  Albeit this type of flying was accomplished via the crazy technology of a Wii, but it was flying nonetheless, so when I woke up this morning with no soreness in my back, but a full-out everything in my body feels like it hasn't exercised in 100 years, my first thought is to never go Wii flying again.  Exercise isn't worth this massive stiffness my body is fighting to escape, but then I look outside and my eyes and brain have a very real moment of disconnect before my brain comes to the most logical and true explanation: I've always wanted to have a dream within a dream!  The cause of my optical and occipital disconnect: cars have started Wii flying (minus the whole flapping their wings).

I started to look for the Delorian (you know, the one that runs on garbage and has a flux capacitor) and kids playing with Hover Boards.  Seeing none, I decide to venture forth into this oddly familiar landscape, capitalizing on the freedom of a dream within a dream.

As I step onto the sidewalk, I am immediately hit by a girl zooming down the road. Does she have an invisible hovercraft?

"Watch it lady! I have the right away--I just took flyers ed, I shoudl know."

"Flyers ed?" Back where I come from we called it drivers ed. "

"Oh, driving is so 2010."

"2010? What is that supposed to mean?" My 2010 mind didn't comprehend this dream slang.

"Well, you see driving is the Cell Phone Age."

My blank face communicated a lack of communication.

"You know--something that is so obsolete and lame that no one does it anymore."

"Cell phones are obsolete?"

"Way obsolete."

"But aren't they the wave of the future?"

"What future are you from?"

"2010," I replied boldly.

"Oh, that explains why you don't have the eye." The girl's tone of voice is an odd concoction of innocence and foreboding.

"The eye?"

"The omniscient eye."

The hair on my arm started to stand on end and I began to get this sinking feeling about my dream, which I think is starting to be not such a dream.

Beginnings

Assignment: Beginnings are important. When we begin something new, the element of the unknown can be exciting, scary, exhilarating, and nerve wracking all at the same time.Write about a memorable beginning. Try to capture how you felt.  You may write in either the first person or third person, but it needs to be about something you have experienced.


The ring wound round and round. Back and forth. Off and on. Round and round.
Her knee went up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
The people sitting on the same bleachers as she went up and down and moved way around both up and down.

"Are you nervous?" Her confident sophomore teammate's voice interrupted her ring's round and round just as her ring's round and round went from one piece to two pieces. She held up her broken ring, nodding her head and sending a silent plea through her eyes for some reassuring words.  "Don't worry, you'll be fine. Once you start playing it won't matter."
The girl with the broken ring wanted to believe her, but her knee kept going up and down, scaring off anyone else from that vibrating row.

"Erika, don't worry about it; the hardest thing is not tripping when they announce your name; you are coordinated and amazing."
But the thing was Erika really wasn't that coordinated or confident or amazing; she simply did things to the best of her ability.  Sometimes she was coordinated and confident and amazing, but so many other times she was klutzy and diffident and faltering.  And they were in Hazen.  Hazen, North Dakota. A town that had always been towards the top in everything. They didn't seem to be always winning everything, but they were consistently winning. They were as Class A as Class B seemed to allow. Home of the Bison. Home of a grand gym that she did not feel adequate to play in.

She sat watching the first half of the C-squad game, remembering the few games she had played with them.
She sat watching her fellow classmates and those a class above her.
The clock announced the start of the third quarter. Same old, comfortable old.
The clock announced the start of the fourth quarter. Not-so-same new, not-so-comfortable new.
She did not leave her seat.
She did not go to the locker room to change into her new shiny uniform.
She watched the dull uniforms play out the rest of the game.
The dull uniforms fit her style much better. She liked her dull uniform on her, but her coaches did not.

“Erika, can we see you in my classroom after practice.” Erika nodded her head and followed her coach’s instructions.
The high school classroom seemed oddly dead without any students or basketball players watching film.
“Erika, we’ve been very pleased with your performance on the B-squad and uhh,” her coach went into his deep-thinking posture: the left arm across his stomach, the right elbow resting on the left hand in order to support the right hand’s need to be holding his chin. “We’ve been thinking about moving you up to varsity. What do you think about that?”

What did she think? She thought she was scared. Actually, she knew quite vehemently she was scared. Her comfort zone was being trespassed against, and she did not like it. She did not like it in the least. Why would they want her to play when the most people were watching? Why would they want her to play when the other teams' best players were playing? Why would they want her? Weren’t there other girls on the team that weren’t on varsity that were better than she?

She knew her eyes were projecting the cliché “deer-in-the-headlights-please-don’t-hit-me-with-this” look. Her voice managed to weakly project something as well: “I, uh, don’t really, um, want to be on varsity. [awkward pause where she looked down at her toes] I, um, really like playing on the B-squad.”
“Well, you would still be playing on the B-squad, but, uh, you just wouldn’t be playing on the C-squad and would be playing a few varsity minutes.”
She shook her head and intensified the “deer-in-the-headlights-please-don’t-hit-me-with-this” look.
“Why don’t you like this idea?” her coach queried.
“Isn’t it obvious,” she thought and wanted to say, but instead found her mouth producing these words: “I don’t know. I...I...just don’t.”
“Well, think about it.” She turned and exited the classroom, the hallway, and then the school. She wanted this thought to exit her brain as well, but that was one thing she could not leave.

Four days later basketball practice ended with the death of her dull jersey.She had liked her dull jersey on her, but her coaches had not.

Four weeks later she found herself sitting watching the fourth quarter of the C-squad game with a broken ring in her hand.

She watched the first and second quarters of the B-squad game and wanted to be sitting across the gym with her dull jersey on. Actually, she didn’t really want to be sitting at all. The baskets were talking to her: “Come make my nets sing now. What are you doing with your dress clothes on?” She had never experienced this phenomenon of talking nets which her father had claimed so often to experience upon entering any gym. She couldn’t decide if she liked the talking nets.

Two minutes into the third quarter of the B-game, she stopped sitting. She started walking and then changing and then strategizing and then running and then shooting and  then passing and then stealing and then intermittently sitting. They lost. It was expected. They were a young team, and their only senior was out with an injured knee. That injured knee was why Erika had a shaking knee. A knee that would continue to shake even after the experience of sitting through the first two quarters of a B-game became a regular occurrence.

When she arrived at school on Monday, her seventh grade neighbor eagerly proclaimed the news she had been bursting at the seams with: “I heard your name announced on the radio for the starting line-up." In her best radio announcer voice she imitated,  "Erika Dyk, an eighth grader! You could just tell the announcer was surprised you were only an eighth grader, and I was sooooo proud of you! Just think, you started in the varsity game! Ah! I told everyone that you were my neighbor!”

Nine years later Erika walked into a classroom just across the road from where she had broken a ring during the fourth quarter of C-game. Hazen Middle School. Room 208. A first year teacher who was too swamped with details to have time to let her knee shake.She was too busy getting her room ready and then walking to the printer in the office and then changing the look of her room and then strategizing learning opportunities and then running through the crevices in her brain for ideas and then shooting paper through the copier and then passing new people in the hallways and then intermittently sitting and just soaking it in. This time in Hazen (home of the Bison; home of a grand gym that she still thought she was not adequate enough to play in) she was not sitting on the bleachers destined to be rocking to the cadence of her knee nor wearing a ring that was destined to be broken.  This time in Hazen she was more prepared.  Prepared to start her game on her terms, not the coaches.  She even had some shiny new uniforms with which to start this game.

Two days before she was to meet all her students, she was meeting the copier and becoming acquainted with it. The veteran math teacher stopped her with a question: “So are you ready for this?” His no-nonsense tone was lost to her busy mind.

“I think so. I am ready to get started!” Her positive tone must have sounded a little naïve, a little over-confident, and a little too eager.

“This is not student teaching. This is the real deal.” His serious tone sounded a little more important, a little more experienced, and a little more realistic.

A wave of apprehension washed across the shores of her stomach. Was she ready? Was she really ready? She thought so, but why was she qualified to teach reading and writing to these students who were treading through tumultuous beginnings as well? Erika pushed the thought deep into one of her brain's crevices as she had to keep preparing for her upcoming start.

Two days later she was ten minutes from the bell signaling her official start. No sports announcer or radio broadcaster would be commenting on this start to his audience.  No big crowd of people had congregated to see her make her debut in this starting lineup. No broken ring, no bouncing knee. But a familiar feeling of new beginnings crept into her stomach. Then she remembered those words, "Don't worry, you'll be fine. Once you start playing it won't matter."

So when that bell rang and the ball was thrown into the air, she tipped it into her court and started playing the game.  This time in Hazen she didn't lose.  She hadn't been expected to lose like the last time she started in Hazen, but she didn't think she had been expected to win either.  As a first time starter, no one really knew what to expect, including herself. The final score has yet to be determined, but in this game winning is defined a little differently. Each day where something is learned, a new concept applied, and a mind is engaged in thinking is a win.  Each day where a student gains confidence, finds his or her voice, and discovers they can do it is a win. Each day where a teacher learns from a mistake, stumbles upon a great teaching idea, and connects with his or her students is a win. And so the season continues. Each day is a new game, each quarter is a new game, and each year is a new game. And each game she plays to the best of her ability.

How I Spent My Summer Episodic Style

Piedras Negras, Mexico in June

"?Como te llamas?"

The punk refused to tell me his name. Refused flatter than my pancakes. Refused more obstinately than a brick wall. The punk refused to smile. Refused to look me in the eye. Refused to show any semblance of emotion. The punk, that nameless, attitude-touting punk, loved to color though. He colored his picture with such care that he almost missed his snack. The punk waited patiently for los colores: rojo y azul y morado y verde. He refused once again. He refused to do less than his best. Refused to back down from his creation. He was Michelangelo. He was Vincent Van Gogh.

"We think he can't hear out of one ear." I remember the whispered conjecture from the day before. Yes, Vincent Van Gogh is an apt comparison. One does not need ears to make colors come alive.

I gave him coloring advice in my best broken Spanish; I gave him encouragement with my language-less smile and twinkling eyes; I gave him a box of los colores y mas picturas; I asked for one thing: "?Como te llamas?"

The punk smiled and looked away. He refused to give me his name, but he gave me something better than that (for what's in a name, a rose by any other would smell as sweet); he gave me hope that he was capable of joy amidst the harsh conditions, amidst the bleak poverty, amidst the gang culture.

He got up to get his snack and began to play. Before he left I had one more question for my nameless, artistic punk: "Yo necessito un abrazo. ?Y tu?"

The biggest grin infected his face and my nameless, artistic punk gave me a hug. Of course I forgot my camera, but his hug and smile will be forever etched into my memory, filed under the heading "things that make me smile and cry at the same time."

_________

"I do think we can fit everything into my suburban and your car," my father said with a hopeful inflection.

"If you think we can, let's try it," I responded like the hopeless optimist I am.

One quick hour later we both turned to realists. Fifteen minutes later a small UHaul trailer found itself in our driveway.

"I think we can clean this house pretty quickly once we get everything moved." My father has turned into Danny Tanner.

I briefly turned into a realist: "Hasn't everyone been offering to help with anything? Let's call everyone."

One quick hour later three everyones had arrived with cleaning hands. Two quick hours later the house was much closer to empty and surface clean. Eight horizontal hours on an air mattress and seven vertical hours of miscellaneous packing, errands, and showing the quirks of the house to the new owners later it was time to say good-bye. Nineteen years after saying hello to the spacious backyard where we said hello to our quirky miniature sheltie (and much later said good-bye to); hello to the green and gold clad floors and walls (and very quickly said good-bye to); hello to the warm kitchen where our taste buds and then our stomachs said hello to countless chocolate chip oatmeal cookies, casseroles, cups of Ramen soup, and a cornucopia of countless culinary concoctions; hello to the screened-in patio with our rollerblades and aloe vera plants (and later said good-bye to in order to say hello to a much nicer, extended family room and laundry room) it was time to say good-bye for good. Nineteen years of saying hello to memories and the feeling of home. Nineteen years later it was time to say good-bye. We captured our good-bye of nineteen years (which is only 6,935 days or 166,440 hours or 9,986,400 minutes or 599,184,000 seconds) in less than a millisecond. My father's blackberry hardly skipped a beat as it pixalated us with the UHaul and house in the background. With smiles on our faces and a little sadness on our hearts, I filed this photo into my memory under the heading "things that make me smile and feel a little sad at the same time."

_________________

The shy boys hung tentatively behind their mother's legs. "She's a teacher, so she's really nice; you don't need to be shy or afraid of her."

I smiled as I thought of a few teachers that wouldn't quite qualify as "really nice" in my book, but beamed on the inside at this gracious concept. The mom's words cracked their shyness barrier. The oldest slyly queried, "Want to see my new room?" And thus began my tour of my old and their new home. And what a tour it was.

My feet were guided to the dual rushing waterfalls of their new upstairs bathroom, to their new upstairs bedrooms, to the basement lair, and back upstairs to the fascinating dual waterfalls. And then I, the old tourist, showed my tour guides a new location: the raised closet by the dual bathroom waterfalls. My arms raised and lowered those two boys, bubbling over with excitement, up and down and up and down. Giggles grew into laughter and laughter filled the house.

"Are you boys keeping her from work?" Their mom was a little concerned that they were usurping my time and that I was getting bored with my tour. I reassured her they were giving me a delightful tour that was well worth my time.

The oldest boy stopped giggling for a second and looked at me with quizzical eyes, "You're really good with kids. Do you have any of your own?"

"No I don't," I replied with a smile dancing across my face.

"Why not? I think you should get some."

I filed that moment away in my memory under the heading "things that make me smile."

___________

The father-daughter dance started with a traditional sappy love song about a father's love for his daughter. I leaned over to Faith, "Isn't Laura such a beautiful bride?" When all of a sudden the music shifted several beats and the eclectic sound waves of "Jump On It" reverberated through the air. A choreographed dance ensued for approximately 72 seconds and then the music shifted back to the sappy song.

We laughed.

I filed that moment away in my memory under the heading "things that make me want to get married before my father has a walker."

_____________

Bismarck to Louisville is a major shift in climate, culture, and distance; however, wherever you are, people are people, but they do tend to get a little more non-North Dakotan the farther you travel from North Dakota, which can be a good thing or a bad thing or for lack of a better word, an interesting thing.

Thunderstorms and tornadoes nudged me into the company of four non-North Dakotans. We greeted each other with a reluctant, yet relief-filled hello.

A 55-year-old quintessential traditional Kentuckian woman, complete with shoulder pads, Southern drawl, and horses. She was trying to get home from a business meeting in Chicago.

A sexagenarian quintessential absent-minded philosophy professor who used to be in a rock band, complete with flip flops and a Hawaiian shirt. He was devastated about missing his philosophy conference where he was supposed to present his paper entitled "Much Ado About Nothing" and was now trying to get home.

A 32-year-old quintessential businessman complete with a power suit. He was trying to get home from a one hour job interview.

A 28-year-old quintessential contained free-spirit complete with a two-week old engagement ring and GPS. She was trying to get home from a business trip.

A 24-year-old quintessential anomaly complete with a North Dakotan accent and a backpack full of books. I was trying to get to my sister's in order to move her home to Chandler, AZ.

We said hello and less than 24 hours later we said good-bye. A very memorable less than 24 hours that started at the O'Hare Airport in Chicago and ended at the Louisville airport.

I filed that less than 24 hours away in my memory under the heading "things that make me know that God is in control of the details of my life."

___________

The intense 115 degrees bore down on my pale white epithelial cells. An instant later the cool air invaded  my senses. I pulled the Sears receipt out of my pocket and entered the retrieval code into the touch screen.
"If we fail to serve you in five minutes, you will receive $10 off your next purchase." The screen began to count up. At 2:41 (only 2 minutes and 19 seconds away from that elusive $10), a man emerged from the swinging doors with the dull-edged box holding a sharp looking Dyson vacuum cleaner. We ventured out into the heat. He deposited it into the trunk, I deposited myself in the front seat, and my sister announced she must have deposited her Macy's bag on the top of the car. Thus, we backtracked looking for a Macy's bag melted to the back asphalt. Our backtracking yielded nothing.

I slid out of the air conditioned carrier and entered the Macy's with a tongue full of questions. The nearest associate was a sharply dressed man. My tongue spewed forth questions as coherently as it was capable of spewing. The sharply dressed man did not have an answer, but he was willing to help me out. His tongue passed on the question to another associate. We were not successful in finding the bag. His response, "Well, I guess your only other option is to go back outside and scour the parking lot and get a tan while you are at it."

I wanted to give him a stern lecture on skin cancer and the unsightly wrinkles that such sun exposure would induce; however, I found it within myself to refrain.  And after I had refrained all the way out the door, I had my epiphany.  We had visited the infamous Macy's shoe department before exiting the famous Macy's department store. I went back to the car and sent my also albino sister in this time.  She returned with a Macy's bag and without a tan.

I filed the moment under the heading "things that make me glad I am not superficial and that I have albino tendencies."

The Universal Donor:The Universal Hero

Assignment:
Step One: Brainstorm a list of your heroes.
My parents, Jesus, blood donors (with their red flowing capes!)
Step Two: Capture a moment that explains why your hero is worthy of being looked up to as a hero.

The girl, who could have been anyone, had walked past the double doors, intimidating and welcoming, three times. She was working on her fourth.

"Can I help you?" A friendly voice interrupted her nervous mind's incessant pep talk. This was the moment the girl had been waiting for. Could she walk through those doors and leave a part of herself behind? Could she let that needle invade her arm and suck her blood into a tiny, plastic, vampire-like pouch that was eager for the substance that flowed through her veins? Then she remembered her friend who had been pricked and prodded and had been the recipient of that eager plastic pouch of blood. So with one bold step and one quiet tone, she heard her voice say, "I have an appointment to donate blood."

The friendly voice, which also had a friendly face, took her ID and sent her to the cubicle of incessant questions and then the moment of truth came: the phlebotomist asked for her finger and it took all of the girl's iron will to let the tech test her iron. Sufficient amounts. More questions flooded the air and more questions and more questions until finally the chance to move beyond the cubicle of questions arrived.

The girl was led to the blood drawing chair and dared to watch the needle glide into her arm. "What beautiful veins you have!"
The girl had never before received such a compliment and almost didn't know how to respond, but the politeness drilled into her social schema responded for her, "Why thank you."

The girl squeezed the stress ball like a child eagerly juicing an orange and 9.5 minutes later she had earned her red hero's cape, except it came in the form of a purple spongy band that fit perfectly into the contours of her arm, but that band looked like a superhero's cape to everyone in that room and more importantly to the person who would have her eager plastic pouch pouring out life to them.

An Ode to Showers

Assignment:
Step One: Write down ten things (not people) that you love.

1. chocolate
2. showers
3. bonfires
4. books
5. words
6. writing utensils
7. naps
8. knitting needles
9. piano
10. iPod

Step Two: Pick one from the list and write an ode to it.

I am from the bonfire
Smoke curled in my hair
Your cool creek coaxes the odorous curls free

I am from the basketball court
Sweat cemented to my roots
Your downpour breaks apart the sweaty strands

I am from the classroom
Middle school gym class plays in my hair
Your buckets of refreshing liquid erase its smell

I am from Hurricane Katrina's debris
Mold entangles me, toxic fumes curl around me.
Your trickle does its best to free me

I am from Templo Alleyuia
Primer streaks through my hair
Your outpouring tries to strip my Mexican highlights

You stream, pour, trickle
You clean, refresh, energize

Oh beautious shower how I love thee!
Your various forms never cease to amaze me
I've loved you in basements with spiders
In locker rooms without barriers
In bathhouses with double curtains
In tents with timers
In trailers without vents

And now I feel a need to say one final word to you,
Oh glorious shower--
My sincerest apologies to you I extend
For ever having the audacity to send
These words in the air:
"Showers are overrated."
Oh, sublime, stupendous, sensational shower
Will you ever find it in your heart to send
That comment down the drain?

How I Spent My Summer Poem #1

I worked without pay
But really that's just called love.
I loved without borders
But really that's just what I'm called to do.
I learned about intentional process
But really learned how to reach students.
My body processed climate change
But really that's what it's designed to do.
I hiked along the Pacific Ocean.
I scaled over lava falls.
I raced through traffic.
I dashed through empty streets.
I expored rich forests of books.
I trailblazed combinations of words.
I methodically distributed stuff from one locale to the next.
I began my manifesto against stuff.
(Yet I acquired more stuff.)
My eyes ingested baseballs flying,
a beagle crying,
nature thriving,
privacy dying,
orphans vying,
furniture buying,
and my eyes lying.

How I Spent My Summer Key Word Style

How I Spent My Summer: Keywords from Each Adventure

Mexico: work, love, orphans, poverty, hope
Move to Bozeman: help, organize, new, stuff
Wedding: joyful, friend-filled
Relatives in Bowman: short, unexpected, comfortable
Move to Louisville: unexpected adventure, humid, plants, cramped back, air conditioning
Summer school: writing, connections, possibilities, process
Portland: training (dog and me), quality, outdoors, majestic, nature
Seattle: driving, community within city, diverse, errands, TV, baseball, jeans, people

How I Spent My Summer Boring Style

This series is my attempt to create a fun alternative to the boring "how I spent my summer" essay. So, of course the first thing that needs to be done is to write the boring "how I spent my summer" essay. Enjoy!

I started my summer by going to Mexico on a mission trip with the Bowman United Methodist Church. Then I helped move my father from Bowman, ND, to Bozeman, MT. Then I went to a wedding in Minot and headed to Bowman to visit some relatives who were visiting from the West Coast. Then I was supposed to fly to Louisville to help my sister move to Chandler, AZ, but I only could fly to Chicago due to thunderstorms and tornadoes. I ended up with four other stranded travelevers in a car driving to Louisville. So I helped my sister pack and the movers came and we hopped in the car and drove for two solid days from heat with humidty to heat with extreme intensity. Then I took summer school (the Northern Plains Writing Project) and learned all kinds of cool things and gained confidence as a writer (and started this blog). Then I hopped in th car and drove to Bozeman one day and Forest Grove, Oregon, the next (it is just west of Portland) to visit Kari and Jeremy. We went to OMSI (science museum), Powells (massive bookstore), the tennis court (multiple times), the ocean, the Ape Caves by Mt. St. Helens, kayaking, and dog training. Then I drove to Seattle, WA, to visit my aunt Judy. We went to her company picinic at the zoo, an outdoor movie in the park, ran errands, visited my cousins, to work, to a Mariner's game (they actually won), and kayaking. On my way back to North Dakota I spent a few days with my father and brother in Bozeman. It was a very busy summer.