tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19530527606108557192024-03-12T21:59:02.259-05:00Shades of GrayNothing is black and white.Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.comBlogger134125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-44550253978565689122022-11-13T01:40:00.006-06:002022-11-13T10:37:44.816-06:00Tomorrow I Leave Home<p> <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px;">Tomorrow I am leaving home.</span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;">To be fair, I have left home many times. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>To move to my college town, to move down the road, to move to another city. But I have never left this home with the knowledge that I could not one day return to it when needed.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.6px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;">Today this is my family home. In a matter of days, it will be yet another memory of times gone by. Today it belongs to us. In a few days? It will belong to someone else.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.6px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;">But that fireplace? We’ve taken countless pictures in front of it. Hung stockings on it. Displayed Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, and birthday cards on it.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.6px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;">That den? It has seen fights and movie marathons, late night dance parties, and clanking glasses on New Year’s Eve.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.6px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;">That backyard? It has seen birthday parties and dogs running, clarinet quartet practices, sun bathing, family portraits, and bbq’s.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.6px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;">That kitchen? It has hosted graduation parties and Thanksgiving dinners, unnumbered home cooked meals, and deep chats over wine and late night snacks.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.6px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;">Those bedrooms? They held my secrets. From pop star crushes on taped up posters to whispers with best friends. Poem writing and music blaring. Book reading and tv watching. Endless night and day dreaming. And growing pains galore.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.6px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;">That living room? It has seen tree decorating and many sweet Christmas mornings, wrapping paper everywhere. Conversations with friends and thunderstorm viewing parties.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.6px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;">This house? It has seen it all. Good and bad. Joy and heartache. Tears and laughter. Every. Thing. These walls, they hold it all. They keep me safe and promise home. A place to always return to. A place that knows me better than I know myself.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.6px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;">This house has known me at every stage from 9 to 32. To say it holds a piece of my heart just doesn’t do it justice. It holds a piece of who I am, of who I was. Even though I haven’t actually lived here in years… it has always been home base.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.6px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;">And I’d like to write about how I hope that whoever lives here next can love it and grow with it as I did. But right now, I can’t. Because this is my family home. And to imagine anyone else living in it just feels insincere. This is our fireplace. Our den. Our backyard. Our kitchen. Our bedrooms. Our living room. OUR HOME.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.6px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;">And I know the sayings. Home is not a house. Home is where the heart is. Well… for about 23 years this house is where my heart has been because it has held the people I care about most in this world. So yes, home is about people, but home can also be a place that brings you peace. A place that stood sturdy no matter the storm. A place that brings you comfort and joy and safety and the strength to weather every storm.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22.6px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;">By next week this house may no longer hold the people who I love, but it will certainly still hold a piece of my heart. I think it always will.</span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO-3KJYKnYTgYYntEb0e7OP_3bH9mtEP6Xne_cgdaJt3K3hVQCJVscl18oosgyu8hDtWknoLfL2LPDhp1DPnxn08W2XLgws2ka6atASNGILq56fW8_I3Rf6rtwin6rO_JWEaoJ43MK-fuMsBj0YovNYnMppCQOYmMFzCyOnJu3nRXgsgYefN9c4Q/s720/2DABB75A-E96E-4CC5-9E5D-B8213DDC7FB5.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="496" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO-3KJYKnYTgYYntEb0e7OP_3bH9mtEP6Xne_cgdaJt3K3hVQCJVscl18oosgyu8hDtWknoLfL2LPDhp1DPnxn08W2XLgws2ka6atASNGILq56fW8_I3Rf6rtwin6rO_JWEaoJ43MK-fuMsBj0YovNYnMppCQOYmMFzCyOnJu3nRXgsgYefN9c4Q/s320/2DABB75A-E96E-4CC5-9E5D-B8213DDC7FB5.jpeg" width="220" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ0STJU-IOjLXOd8oXXQ-Xt3Z4GVNybx_0Fa28Dw_TYuU-6zQRlIScVdyFkEqK3qQ_dbsO7Z98E5qXXI_gHAT56EFIY_9R85lBaOOKcu3jert0ZLT9UIQBMyGvpPlVM0XEt50xLRd7K1g1pUyLyknKS81Ru9RVKwmP-kR_iZj842l70uT7ShCz0Q/s320/FC597430-2380-451D-8C7E-32E0283BB822.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 18.9px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-size: 18.9px;"><br /></span></p>Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-38622912157369743012022-05-21T21:02:00.007-05:002022-05-21T21:17:33.918-05:00To Sacrifice<p><span style="font-family: georgia;">There's a red scarf doing a beautiful impression of a chaotic pirouette on the sidewalk outside of my little cottage. It whips this way and that, as though pulled towards the heavens by an invisible string while also being tethered to the ground by another.<br />Somehow I relate.<br /> <br />The storm that has been threatening to make an appearance for hours is finally here and I can feel the electricity in the air. Smell the humidity that sits heavy in every molecule. Somehow, the wind picks up even more and the scarf flies off into the trees with a gaggle of dead leaves. Do leaves travel in gaggles like geese? Perhaps it’s a swarm. Or a murder. A murder of leaves. That feels appropriate.<br /> <br />I set my wine glass down and walk far enough to the edge of the porch that I can feel the wet wood under my bare feet where the first few drops of rain have landed.<br /> <br />I pull the heavy blanket that’s wrapped around my shoulders tighter, as though that might protect me from something. Anything. Perhaps myself.<br />If only.<br /> <br />And then I do the thing that if I were watching a character do in a movie would make me roll my eyes and talk endlessly about how no one actually does that.<br /> <br />I drop the blanket from my shoulders and I step out into the rain, hair whipping around my face like a dark witch in a novel, and I let the cool drops soak through me to my very bones, hoping the water will clear away every last memory that’s haunting me.<br /> <br />And I speak the words I swore I never would.<br /> <br />“Earth below<br /> Sky above<br /> Hear the words my lips now sew<br /> Take thy love<br /> Close thy eyes<br /> Be only things he will despise”<br /> <br />And in the instant the last word slips through my lips, something is torn from my soul. Something I refuse to think about. And a gut wrenching sickness settles into my bones creating a hollowness I’ve never known but will now become quite dependent on. Because I know as long as I feel that emptiness…. Somewhere, somehow, he’s safe.<br /></span></p><div><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1lDFVSl26_1n88h_99qSz6jbsR3y5rG6ZzHiQ9RviwRCmblYOaGw_6P1jqVsmtc_qJWOu_VjHGrzFQWGYXVzwAW7rgrWy3IwfwUhX0lPYkWHgtYZ--OYaBtYl_D--agHozeNxTFZRoVLzDGXgsSYwYXnrYMDYR7xfAeR9BpdZKTrjll6QsHUeXA/s1358/Screen%20Shot%202022-05-21%20at%209.02.07%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="902" data-original-width="1358" height="394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1lDFVSl26_1n88h_99qSz6jbsR3y5rG6ZzHiQ9RviwRCmblYOaGw_6P1jqVsmtc_qJWOu_VjHGrzFQWGYXVzwAW7rgrWy3IwfwUhX0lPYkWHgtYZ--OYaBtYl_D--agHozeNxTFZRoVLzDGXgsSYwYXnrYMDYR7xfAeR9BpdZKTrjll6QsHUeXA/w593-h394/Screen%20Shot%202022-05-21%20at%209.02.07%20PM.png" width="593" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p></div>Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-31054903170740760512022-04-24T21:32:00.007-05:002022-04-24T21:40:34.910-05:00the irrationality of anxietyMy anxiety comes and goes.<div><br /><div>When I was younger I could see it coming, perhaps because I lived in a near constant state of anxiety, so it was almost always present even if only in the background. I would see it coming. I'd sit in a corner and wait for the shadows to come like frenemies I'd invited to a play date.</div><div><br /></div><div>But as an adult, more often than not it comes on slowly and unexpectedly. It sneaks in between moments of content and calm and even happiness. It slithers around my body slowly... constricting one minuscule heartbeat at a time, getting tighter and tighter the more I acknowledge it. I can keep my mind controlled, or rather occupied, for a little while, and it'll relax and release only to tighten around me again the moment I let my guard down.</div><div><br /></div><div>It never starts as what I would call anxiety. It starts as stress or worry or fear or doubt, and never one of them, but a combination of several. It causes simple things to make me cry. It causes all things simple to become complex. And I can never pinpoint one thing that would make it stop or even one thing that made it start. Which makes it impossible to understand, which makes me frustrated with myself.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>Even if I were to list out every single thing I am currently worried about and then below each thing write out exactly why that is not a thing I need to worry about, it wouldn't make a difference. Knowing intellectually that everything is fine and there is nothing to panic about, does not stop the panic. Does not stop the fear, the worry, the sadness, the upset, the overwhelming feeling that something is wrong. Because anxiety is not a rational emotion or state of being.</div><div><br /></div><div>My anxiety is like when you wake up from a terrible dream, or at least you think it was terrible, but you don't really remember it. You just know you were in a bad situation and there's this lingering feeling of unrest and lack of safety and fear that there's something wrong. And it's irrational, because you're safe in your bed and you're alone and the doors are locked and your pets are sleeping soundly beside you but none of that matters because knowing it's irrational doesn't stop the feeling. And no matter how many lights you turn on or prayers you say or episodes of Friends you watch, that feeling lingers for a while... until at some point it goes away. And you manage to forget the hold it had on you.</div><div><br /></div><div>But when it's anxiety and not a dream, you can only forget about it for so long. You go back to normal, whatever that means, until it shows up again. And just like that you're back, and there's no fixing it and there's no rationalizing it, and there's no way out. Until there is.</div><div><br /></div><div>I realize this is my experience with anxiety and not everyone's. I would imagine it's different for every individual. A lot of us are going through it. Whatever "it" may be. Even if we rarely share. It's easier not to share because being vulnerable sucks sometimes and can often trigger other issues. But writing helps me cope and understand myself a little bit better. Sometimes. And maybe someone who reads this (most likely someone I know) will find comfort in knowing that they're not alone. That anxiety is messy, stress is messy, emotions in general are messy and you never know who is going through a messy internal struggle on the inside, despite what they express on the outside.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I'm out of words. Goodnight. I hope your Sunday evening is less tumultuous than mine and that your work week starts off with a bang tomorrow! Like... a good bang. Not a scary one. :)</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe I should rewrite that last bit... never mind. Bye.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqE52KM9GvjzCxH8fPLXnxYEJFMxqWkGrH3uOgWpHnMMxt9v8NW7pFBmJ2sVtX77oJ9ug43Z80QIcCAjMBX28C4iHnoTXSSqAhYXhun3GPO-ML2vbot4yoDkRc0jMqk0CqljS-OftfZURSMIAEv5ciStEUdxWKUe0cokiXF8Uc4LfjjNV8ItmRsA/s991/413da280559053.5ce4b13f5f573.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="991" data-original-width="900" height="421" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqE52KM9GvjzCxH8fPLXnxYEJFMxqWkGrH3uOgWpHnMMxt9v8NW7pFBmJ2sVtX77oJ9ug43Z80QIcCAjMBX28C4iHnoTXSSqAhYXhun3GPO-ML2vbot4yoDkRc0jMqk0CqljS-OftfZURSMIAEv5ciStEUdxWKUe0cokiXF8Uc4LfjjNV8ItmRsA/w383-h421/413da280559053.5ce4b13f5f573.jpg" width="383" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(art by <a href="https://www.behance.net/alterlier" target="_blank">Carolina Rodriguez Fuenmayor</a>)</div><br /><div><br /></div>Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-47387283340677979132021-04-04T21:42:00.003-05:002021-04-04T21:44:52.669-05:00An Invisible Battle<p><span style="font-size: medium;">There are a lot of reasons why I write blog posts. Sometimes it's just to figure out how I feel about something, to clarify my own thoughts. Sometimes it's so that people will reach out and I'll feel less alone. Sometimes it's in the hope that I'll help someone else feel less alone. Sometimes it's just to vent, to air out frustrations and feel seen and heard. I think tonight's post might be a combination of all of those things.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Let me start by saying I'm fine... in the grand scheme of things. I just happen to be in a physically and mentally challenging season of life and in some moments it feels like this is going to go on forever. In moments of clarity, when I'm feeling good and giving myself some grace, I know that it won't and therefore I'll say it again... overall I'm fine.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But sometimes I'm not. Right now I'm not.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm going through some health issues, the details of which are not important, other than to say that they're making everyday life a little challenging right now. Some of them are issues I've dealt with on and off for basically my entire life, but they just seem to be getting worse in the last year or so. Most of the time I can just deal with the symptoms and no one even has any clue anything is going on. That hasn't been the case several times in the last several months however and it's getting hard to ignore and pretend I'm fine. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But, almost worse than the symptoms themselves, is the anxiety that comes with not knowing what is causing them. And seeing doctors who also don't know what's causing them. At least not yet. I feel crazy going to my doctor's offices over and over again for the same issues, but we're working on finding the root causes. And because none of us have magic wands we can wave and get quick answers, it takes time. Time in which I'm feeling like crap, missing work, taking meds that may or may not be helping and also may or may not be making me feel even worse. And don't even get me started on the rest of life that just piles on top. Like a torn apart apartment that has been a disaster zone for almost 2 months, looking for a new apartment, a pandemic, and a school year that feels like it's never going to end (this is my disclaimer that I love my job and I love my kids, I'm just exhausted... all teachers are).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I am burned out. I don't know if it shows on the outside (I really hope it doesn't), but maybe that's part of the reason for this post. If I seem like an anxious ball of nerves, this is why. If I seem like I'm avoiding a conversation or being social, this is why. It probably has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with the fact that I just feel physically bad and right now I'm using all my energy just to get through the days. And it's hour to hour. Sometimes I think I'm imagining the worst of it. That it isn't as bad as I thought it was yesterday (or whenever), and then it hits again and I just want to crawl into bed for days.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Whatever is going on with my health might end up being nothing serious and I'll look back a month or more from now and think how melodramatic I sounded writing this and realize I had nothing to worry about from the beginning. Trust me, I hope that's how this goes. And even if it doesn't, I'll handle whatever is thrown at me. I'm tough, probably tougher than I give myself credit for. But right now, in the moment, things kinda suck.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Things suck for a lot of people right now. Most of whom don't spend their Sunday nights writing down their inner-most thoughts so that other people can read them. Which is why I think we should all give each other some grace. Not just this year, but always. The quote about how everyone is fighting their own invisible battles has been going through my mind a lot lately. Be kind to people. Be kind to yourself. Give grace when you can. We all deserve it sometimes.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So here we are, at the end of the post where I always try to wrap things up eloquently and make it sound like I knew what I was going to write from the start, when usually I just kind of figure it out along the way. I can say that tonight I feel a little better having written this, organizing my thoughts, and also getting my worries out of my head and onto paper (or a screen as it were). I feel like someone will read it and understand, even if many don't. Hopefully someone else who is fighting a battle I don't know about will feel a little less alone and a little more understood. And maybe I'll be reminded to take my own advice and give myself some grace like I just advised everyone else to do. ❤️ I guess only time will tell.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WLlXRozzJ4U/YGp4bVJ86XI/AAAAAAAABRU/F3vTilh8uHEsXFAwiBCNaknpg8BO-qLIACLcBGAsYHQ/s744/be%2Bkind.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="744" height="215" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WLlXRozzJ4U/YGp4bVJ86XI/AAAAAAAABRU/F3vTilh8uHEsXFAwiBCNaknpg8BO-qLIACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h215/be%2Bkind.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-9817445041436237652020-12-31T21:02:00.008-06:002020-12-31T21:49:31.620-06:00Quiet Hopes on the Eve of 2021<p>Every New Years Eve I feel the need to start something new. I stopped making "resolutions" years ago but that doesn't stop me from feeling that overwhelming emotion that is most often called hope. Hope that this year will be the year that... fill in the blank. The year that I stick to writing in a journal every day. Or do another 365 day photo challenge. Or meditate every morning before work. Or post at least one blog a month. Or work on some flaw about myself that I hate. In that sense, this New Years Eve really isn't much different. But there are some ways in which it is different. And I don't know if it's because I'm different, or because this year has been different, or both.</p><p>For me there's a ritual to New Years Eve. Getting dressed up (even on the years I just sit at home with family), and watching the ball drop, and cheers-ing at midnight, and hugs and kisses with friends and/or family. But this year feels different. For so, so many reasons. This year I don't care about watching the ball drop or watching the performances leading up to it. I'm also just over live Zoom calls with celebrities and social distanced interviews, so I'm sure that's part of it. I also don't feel the need to cover my face in make-up just to make myself feel better and pretend that at midnight everything starts over. We know that's not true. Deep down, we know.</p><p>But I still have the hope. That this year will be greater than 2020. It has to be. How could it not? Statistically what are the odds that it's anywhere near as awful as this past year? I'm not superstitious but I should probably still knock on some wood now, right? Things will not change over night, but how can I not have hope that slowly, maybe painfully, eventually, things will get better? Maybe on it's own... maybe through a lot of work on my part. </p><p>This year my hopes aren't loud. They aren't things that I'm going to shout to the universe and post on social media. They're things I hold a little closer to the chest. They're deep desires and painful wants and desperate needs.</p><p>I'm going to enter this year more quietly, more thoughtfully, more introspectively, with the knowledge that I have the power inside myself to make changes that I know are necessary, regardless of the crazy happening outside of myself that I absolutely cannot control. Because if 2020 has taught me anything it's that we have little power over the world around us. But if this crazy never ends, if the world around us continues to plummet and we find ourselves in a never-ending spiral of despair and death and tragedy and injustices, then we have to find ways to survive. I have to find ways to survive. And that is through a lot of small things that need to change inside myself. In my heart, in my mind, and in my soul. </p><p>So here's to the little changes we all need to make. Here's to the self-care and the rituals and the relationships and the nourishment and the love and the hope and all the things we need to consume more of in the coming year to better ourselves, for ourselves, regardless of our surroundings. Here's to knowing ourselves better and being patient. Here's to always growing, always learning, and most importantly... always hoping.</p><p>Happy New Year's Eve</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A8MiziJPVgo/X-6QkGcp8_I/AAAAAAAABP4/K2taO72oRTI1tPF3mfaD9vhbGwll62MwgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1920/sparkler-677774_1920.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="426" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A8MiziJPVgo/X-6QkGcp8_I/AAAAAAAABP4/K2taO72oRTI1tPF3mfaD9vhbGwll62MwgCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h426/sparkler-677774_1920.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-3891278925560373312020-10-17T09:50:00.003-05:002020-10-17T14:48:43.523-05:00We Choose The Stories We Live<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xp1H2iQE5ZE/X4sDgAk0czI/AAAAAAAABNw/43uL1lZk_t8-65UlJN7VTUl-s7KoSEiuACLcBGAsYHQ/s2842/IMG_7907.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1107" data-original-width="2842" height="250" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xp1H2iQE5ZE/X4sDgAk0czI/AAAAAAAABNw/43uL1lZk_t8-65UlJN7VTUl-s7KoSEiuACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h250/IMG_7907.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><p>I have tried, and probably failed, for years to explain my love (and what some would call obsession) with Magnolia at the Silos. Especially now that I live in Waco and am often surrounded by people who are indifferent or even dislike the Magnolia aesthetic and empire, I find myself trying to rationalize even in my own mind why I have been and am still so drawn in to what Chip and Jo have created. I've struggled to put into words the affect the company, design, and buildings have on me but as I was looking at images of their fall displays this evening (of which I haven't had time to see in person yet) it dawned on me why I have such an infinity for all things Magnolia. It's because the story they have created has allowed me to, on many occasions, just breathe. Just be. Just enjoy.</p><p>That might sound silly, so let me explain. I have always cared about what I surround myself with. I am a nester, a collector, a designer, and a decorator. I shape the world around me (which is usually just my apartment) to tell a story about who I am and how I see the world. It's as simple as the plants I choose to nurture in my space and as complicated as the people I choose to invite into it. What and who I surround myself with matters. And the environment in which I live shapes how I see the world and who I see myself as. I don't know if that's just me, or if everyone reading this is thinking "Duh. That's what life is." But either way, here we go.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LafHE1v3mUc/X4tJEHWsCMI/AAAAAAAABOk/GqeCLo20RYgoUa1fMm2lm8Cqebnemm_eACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Snapseed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LafHE1v3mUc/X4tJEHWsCMI/AAAAAAAABOk/GqeCLo20RYgoUa1fMm2lm8Cqebnemm_eACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Snapseed.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>Over the years I have walked into friend's homes (whether dorms, apartments, or houses) and saw that they had blank walls, or mismatched ugly furniture, or things hung in odd groupings with little rhyme or reason behind their decor choices and wondered how they could even stand to be in there all the time. Cheap picture frames hung too low to the furniture, rugs placed in awkward spots and couches turned at odd angels sent me into a tailspin of thoughts about how these people could possibly be comfortable in that space. It was a mystery to me.</p><p>Having grown up a bit I now understand that not everyone thrives on aesthetic beauty or intuitively knows how to throw a cozy living room together, but my need for order and beauty in my own spaces hasn't changed. Now don't get me wrong, I know I have lived a life of privilege that has allowed me to have nice things, either because of my parents' generosity or the paychecks I now receive for the great job that I have, but regardless I've always had the luxury of being able to focus on beauty in my life, and not just survival. That does not go unnoticed by me, and I am extremely grateful.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8LKc8wT3Sho/X4sDxtgMVxI/AAAAAAAABN4/AaE8SGSKDkcLoS8cnJkL3WK5PD0eDA5GgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_1522_Facetune_18-10-2019-23-43-17.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1171" data-original-width="2048" height="229" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8LKc8wT3Sho/X4sDxtgMVxI/AAAAAAAABN4/AaE8SGSKDkcLoS8cnJkL3WK5PD0eDA5GgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h229/IMG_1522_Facetune_18-10-2019-23-43-17.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p>Walking into Magnolia, Magnolia Press, or Magnolia Table you see immediately that everything is well thought out. From the seasonal displays to the messages on the mirrors in the bathrooms, to the fonts used on tags and menus, there isn't a single thing that has gone unnoticed or over looked.</p><p></p>For someone with obsessive compulsive tendencies and anxieties, walking into a place designed by Joanna Gaines (and her team) is like a breath of fresh air. There's nothing out of place or disorderly. There's nothing that doesn't fit or seems thrown together at the last minute. For someone like me there is a calmness to order and beauty and a well thought-out design. The musicians that Chip and Joanna hire to bear their souls on stage, the causes and families they interview and donate money to, the food they offer on their menus and the values they choose to highlight all tell a story about how they see the world and they welcome everyone else into it.<p></p><p>Magnolia is thoughtful and proof that there's someone else out there who sees the world in stories and moments and possibilities just as I do. It creates a world of hope and thoughtfulness and love. It displays messages through its images. Messages that say how you see the world matters. What and who you surround yourself with matters. The stories you tell yourself matter.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RVgGn7tuTA4/X4sECafzqJI/AAAAAAAABOI/QXrl63ZERsUDbNxB67bRssSNzjSa823-QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_0064.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RVgGn7tuTA4/X4sECafzqJI/AAAAAAAABOI/QXrl63ZERsUDbNxB67bRssSNzjSa823-QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/IMG_0064.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>It's this time of year that I'm usually getting really excited in anticipation for the fall Silobration, celebrating Magnolia's birthday at the Silos. On a late, chilly October evening (usually close to or on my birthday) my mom and I bundle up (most often with raincoats and boots) and stand in line for hours and talk to strangers, most of whom are tourists (which I once was also) just hoping to get a single evening of the promised Magnolia magic. We all file into the grass in front of the Silos stage and sing along all night to my all-time favorite band who sings music that absolutely speaks to the very heart of me. Our feet would be killing us and we'd both need to pee but not want to lose our spots, and our noses would be frozen and usually there's someone standing in front of us who is way too tall to be at the front of the stage but for a while none of that matters. Because we're bearing witness to moments of great art and faith and stories and thoughtfulness and hope. And in the great chaos that is life, time slows for just a moment and I can breathe. I can appreciate the moment and all the beauty in it.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SHzt5ntwjb0/X4tJqzEXJNI/AAAAAAAABOw/SEOwThk8imEXaON3BFPhH-ZghkgTab-OQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_1520_Facetune_18-10-2019-23-43-36.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1105" data-original-width="2048" height="216" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SHzt5ntwjb0/X4tJqzEXJNI/AAAAAAAABOw/SEOwThk8imEXaON3BFPhH-ZghkgTab-OQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h216/IMG_1520_Facetune_18-10-2019-23-43-36.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>This year, for my first time in five or six years, I am going to miss this story being a part of my birthday. I am going to miss a chilly evening on the lawn, possibly being rained on, near Halloween, with the stars above and bright stage lights, surrounded by strangers who for just an evening come together to enjoy the same story and share the same light.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YsdDXbcrSO8/X4sD7TSEFAI/AAAAAAAABOA/t1IeWN1voV8iL-CGcO7W5QhKCYXYq8WRACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_7903.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YsdDXbcrSO8/X4sD7TSEFAI/AAAAAAAABOA/t1IeWN1voV8iL-CGcO7W5QhKCYXYq8WRACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/IMG_7903.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>If you managed to get to the end of this post and still don't understand my love for Magnolia then... you probably never will. And that's fine. I just hope you have something, somewhere, or someone in your life that helps you breathe a little easier. That reminds you of the things you love and the places that bring you comfort. I hope you find a space that moves you to tears and a story that makes you wish you were a part of it. That inspires you and delights you and fills you with joy and peace.</p><p>That's all.</p><div><br /></div>Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-34543943356500947932020-09-19T12:16:00.001-05:002020-09-19T12:32:38.849-05:00Do Happy Things (Everything Is Fine. It's Fine. I'm Fine.)<p>Thank goodness for slow Saturdays that allow for reflection and relaxation.</p><p>It has been a difficult year for me. For everyone, really. As an introvert I've found all this "social distancing" to be harder than I had anticipated and it has done a number on my mental health. Between that, my already existing anxiety, teaching in a pandemic, not living near my family, health issues that are popping up that are always on the forefront of my mind, and of course the entire climate of this country currently, I am finding it is very easy to slip into downward spirals these days. It's becoming easier to lean on vices and harder to ask for help. Easier to lay in bed and stare at the screen while Friends reruns play and harder to get out of bed and do something good for myself.</p><p>So this morning I got up early, opened all my windows, started some laundry, ordered breakfast to be delivered and picked up around my apartment. And then I sat and enjoyed my food and coffee, watched one, not 5, episodes of The Office and then I turned my tv off, put a record on, and began to write.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iGObm8F8Nvw/X2Y8X9WdOwI/AAAAAAAABNc/tgeR1MBZvH0TQ5FbiliLVoTph3dDqR2OACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/F14BCC95-5418-4646-A9B3-1696A2A462F6.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="237" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iGObm8F8Nvw/X2Y8X9WdOwI/AAAAAAAABNc/tgeR1MBZvH0TQ5FbiliLVoTph3dDqR2OACLcBGAsYHQ/w422-h237/F14BCC95-5418-4646-A9B3-1696A2A462F6.jpg" width="422" /></a></div><p>Writing is the thing I've always turned to that can instantly help me make sense of my world and myself. It started with poetry in elementary school and I found that even if I wrote something that no one ever read, just putting it down on paper helped me to clarify my own feelings and maybe in some way, validate them. It doesn't matter how many inspirational and empowering quotes I read on instagram, if the thoughts don't come from my own mind, they aren't going to make much of a difference. My mind is a broken record of lies I tell myself. Lies about who I am, why I'm not important or am unwanted, why I haven't earned the things I crave. Lies about what I'm worth and what I do or don't deserve. Lies about where I am in relation to where I want to be and how unrealistic my dreams are because I'll never work hard enough to get them. And so on. And on. And on.</p><p>I think this post is getting away from me a bit but the point I'm trying to make is that today I am doing things that are good for me. Physically and mentally. So I'm writing truths and ignoring lies. I'm not checking my social media apps on a rotation every 5 minutes (or less). I'm not going to sit and wallow in the things that scare me and I'm not going to give into the anxiety that tells me if I don't replay these thoughts over and over again in my head, then surely I'll lose control of whatever it is that's worrying me. Because the reality is, I don't have control over any of it anyway so I might as well let go of that illusion. Today I will pray over those things and then let them go.</p><p>I hope anyone reading this who is having similar ups and downs or rollercoaster feelings might gain some sense of peace in knowing that they (you?) aren't alone in their struggles. I am a firm believer in sharing in the struggle when at all possible. That doesn't mean I plan to run screaming all my issues from the rooftops but it does mean I'm willing to share that my life isn't perfect and if you need someone to talk to about things that it seems most wouldn't understand, I'm here. I probably won't have any solutions for you but I'm a really good listener and empathizer. Just thought I'd add that in for anyone who isn't necessarily a writer and who might need a sounding board for their thoughts instead.</p><p>Below is a list of (mostly small) things that I know instantly make me feel better, mentally and/or physically. If you're having a tough day... or a tough year... maybe make your own list and start checking things off. And if you don't know what makes you feel better, maybe you need to try something new. Just a thought. But wherever you are mentally and physically today, I hope you take as much time for yourself as you can and if you need to, lean on someone for support. You might be surprised at who will understand what you're going through.</p><p><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: left;">Things that make me feel better:</h2><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>A clean apartment</li><li>Listening to a good record</li><li>Writing</li><li>Painting my nails</li><li>Reading a romance novel</li><li>Walking the isles of my favorite bookshop</li><li>Taking care of my plants</li><li>Cooking a healthy meal</li><li>Sitting on my patio (provided it isn't swelteringly hot)</li><li>Doodling</li><li>Painting</li><li>Photography</li><li>Having all my laundry done (no I don't enjoy the chore, but I enjoy when it's finished)</li><li>Writing letters to friends</li><li>Doing my hair and make-up</li><li>Having lit candles (mostly of the fall variety)</li><li>Watching romantic comedies of the 90's and early 2000's</li><li>Dusting and rearranging my books (stop judging me)</li><li>A long, hot bath with bath bombs and oils</li><li>Washing and moisturizing my face</li><li>Singing to musical soundtracks at the top of my lungs (while maybe throwing in some choreo)</li><li>Turning my ac temp down so I can pretend it's finally fall</li><li>Getting something done that I've been putting off</li><li>Early afternoon naps on my couch (usually with a cat or two draped over me)</li></ul><div>If you read this whole list, congratulations! You're also having a slow Saturday. Now go do something that makes you happy.</div><div><br /></div><p></p>Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-89919093157253826362020-08-15T22:38:00.010-05:002020-08-15T23:06:33.184-05:00A (Possibly) Romanticized Post About Why I Love Waco<p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I love Saturdays in Waco. I’ve lived here two years and a handful of months now but Saturday mornings never get old. I love getting up early (provided I wasn't out too late the night before), and driving downtown to the farmers market to grab coffee and breakfast and then maybe stopping by the bookshop or whatever other quick errands I need to run. I know that sounds incredibly simple, but that's because it is.</p><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-54qaTJYFfI8/XziprXORBFI/AAAAAAAABMo/drrsfZTszYY__RP5nq0q7DSlnTEFOPmagCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/2B630E67-EA5A-4CBA-BB5B-57AB02805E83.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="262" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-54qaTJYFfI8/XziprXORBFI/AAAAAAAABMo/drrsfZTszYY__RP5nq0q7DSlnTEFOPmagCLcBGAsYHQ/w210-h262/2B630E67-EA5A-4CBA-BB5B-57AB02805E83.JPG" width="210" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Waco feels simple. In the best way possible. It feels like what a town should feel like to me. It feels like a community. Sugar Land never felt like that to me, despite the fact that I lived there for eighteen years. It was a great place to grow up, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not the kind of place where I could ever see myself living permanently. Sugar Land was all commercial. All hustle. All bustle. Too many people, the vast majority of which I would never even come into contact with.</p><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Here it's different. Waco may not be tiny, but it is a heck of a lot smaller than what I was used to. I've accidentally ran into more people I know here in the last two years than I probably did in the last 10 in Sugar Land. And I know WAY more people there than here. But that just goes to show, you can know hundreds of people and still feel like you don't belong. Here I know far fewer people and yet somehow it feels more like home, like I have a place and a town that's my own.</p><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LRyAeFZ80dg/Xzip0Qkp-WI/AAAAAAAABMs/LwKsbiqaT3ID_EpAeiBNc_Kbz-Xm4IrlwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1871/IMG_1704.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1871" data-original-width="1242" height="328" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LRyAeFZ80dg/Xzip0Qkp-WI/AAAAAAAABMs/LwKsbiqaT3ID_EpAeiBNc_Kbz-Xm4IrlwCLcBGAsYHQ/w218-h328/IMG_1704.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">At the farmers market I've ran into people I know several times and even people who I don't know, but I see all the time anyway, both vendors and shoppers. In Sugar Land I could basically go years without accidentally running into someone I knew. Everyone was a stranger. I like buying local food and art from people who are the ones actually farming or creating. Shopping local literally was not even a concept I ever heard about in SL.</p><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I love going to my local bookstore (and just being able to say that I have a local bookstore) that is so incredibly unique and well-designed by someone who loves books as much as (if not more) than I do, who I actually see in the store from time to time. And I know that every book on those shelves were chosen by people who live and read in my town, not some group of people I'll never meet in an office in New York.</p><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I love eating at local restaurants whose logo was designed by a designer in town who I follow on Instagram and can be excited and happy for (even though I don’t know her personally) when I see her work. I love being able to go to art on the lawn events where a friend of mine, who also happens to be be artist, teacher, and person I admire, is selling her work. I love that my favorite bands come to Waco venues every year to perform, usually around my birthday, and all of the memories I've made at those shows even before I lived here.</p><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I love going to the same few bars each weekend (well you know... pre-covid), and knowing which one doesn’t serve cabernet so I have to order the terrible merlot that tastes like cough syrup even though the bartender brags about it every time but I drink it anyway because who cares I'm out with people I like and having fun and also it’s the last stop of the night anyway and does flavor really matter at this point? Sorry... was that too specific? My bad.</p><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Am I romanticizing Waco a little bit? Maybe. But if you ask me we should all romanticize our lives a bit. Life is hard. The world in general is a messed up place, always has been, always will be. So why not enjoy the small things around us to the fullest? And I know someone (or multiple someones) are reading this right now thinking that all of the things I listed that I love are all the reasons why they hate it here. And that's fine. Maybe you should move to Sugar Land. We each have to find our own happy place. Right now, mine is Waco. Even though I miss my family terribly and could definitely go for a Japaniero's (my favorite SL restaurant) sushi roll right about now. Will Waco always be my happy place? Maybe. Maybe not. But right now, it is. And that is what's important. I'm in a city and a community that I love, building a career I love, and doing my best to enjoy all the little things. You can't ask for much more than that. At least I can't.</p><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span face="" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">*</span></span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: center;">❤️</span><span face="" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: center;">Special shoutout (because she requested it): I also love Waco because Kaitlyn is in Waco.</span><span face="" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: center;">❤️</span><span face="" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: center;">*</span></p><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a2-T4GTzNeY/Xzip9I4ifAI/AAAAAAAABMw/Kh5-hmELe0YtMAPCZh7aPmuPEa92AaojACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/410EF3E1-876B-48D5-9A00-7EB344D50272.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="481" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a2-T4GTzNeY/Xzip9I4ifAI/AAAAAAAABMw/Kh5-hmELe0YtMAPCZh7aPmuPEa92AaojACLcBGAsYHQ/w641-h481/410EF3E1-876B-48D5-9A00-7EB344D50272.JPG" width="641" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-63843358271738957652020-08-12T21:17:00.003-05:002020-08-12T21:17:27.485-05:00Teaching in the Shadow of a Pandemic<p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">“‘We must be willing to get rid of the life we’ve planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us. The old skin has to be shed before the new one can come,’ said Joseph Campbell. A hero is anyone who has the courage to surrender, to become, to show up and journey on.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uQfWt2gcCGg/XzShwDOnu1I/AAAAAAAABMM/76AXkk-PZs4jqhDUaqLgXDLOxPFmMaQSACLcBGAsYHQ/s1080/IMG_1531.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="328" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uQfWt2gcCGg/XzShwDOnu1I/AAAAAAAABMM/76AXkk-PZs4jqhDUaqLgXDLOxPFmMaQSACLcBGAsYHQ/w328-h328/IMG_1531.JPG" width="328" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>The graphic from my morning devotional</i></span></div><o:p><br /></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p><br /></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Those were just some of the words I read on my daily devotional app this morning before getting ready to head to work. They could not have been more appropriate and more enlightening.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It’s my first day back in my classroom this school year. It was surreal walking in, for many reasons. Not the least of which being I could very vividly remember what it felt like the last time I walked in. I cried then and I cried today. For two different reasons that are like two sides of a coin.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ClvabcdeAJ4/XzSiRHc8hUI/AAAAAAAABMY/aYRWM-pRBagyZb10pNsavX40G2o3wVsSQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/05B166C9-F74A-47B1-A41B-08B7D15D087D%2B2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1152" height="410" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ClvabcdeAJ4/XzSiRHc8hUI/AAAAAAAABMY/aYRWM-pRBagyZb10pNsavX40G2o3wVsSQCLcBGAsYHQ/w230-h410/05B166C9-F74A-47B1-A41B-08B7D15D087D%2B2.JPG" width="230" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Last May I walked in and cried because it felt baron. It felt empty despite the art hanging all over the walls and filling up drawers to the brim. It felt devoid of life despite the art supplies left haphazardly in their places in bens and shelves. When I walked in then it was to end the year alone, sorting through hundreds of pieces of art that may or may not have found their way back to their creators and to put away materials that never got to be used to their full potential.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When I walked in today there was still that strange sense of emptiness as it hasn’t seen a child since before spring break, the first week of March. However, this time I entered knowing that it will be filled again this year, maybe not with as many students, but with students nonetheless. I teared up because it felt like coming home, seeing a part of myself that has been missing in these uncertain times. I pictured their faces (now covered in masks) as they'd enter the room again after so, so long. I also cried because I was blessed with admin who care so much and surprised me with a bunch of new supplies that I requested, but didn’t think would be high on anyone’s priority list this year, understandably. But I got them, and I can’t wait to pull them out with my kids because they are going to be so excited! Will we get to use all these amazing supplies? Maybe not this fall. Maybe Spring. Maybe not. But then there’s always next year, isn’t there?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-THVYcFncbUM/XzSiC_gHbwI/AAAAAAAABMU/_2uxug_8KakPg7C5vK5cp21SITKwEJsHQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/B176CB4F-FB86-4CD8-B8F9-D1074B8660F3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="230" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-THVYcFncbUM/XzSiC_gHbwI/AAAAAAAABMU/_2uxug_8KakPg7C5vK5cp21SITKwEJsHQCLcBGAsYHQ/w410-h230/B176CB4F-FB86-4CD8-B8F9-D1074B8660F3.jpg" width="410" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I thought, as I think most teachers have thought, that if I survived my first year of teaching, I could survive anything. Well, clearly I didn’t see this pandemic coming. Everyone who knows me knows that I do not deal well with change. Last year I got into a groove both teaching and connecting with my students. I thought this year would be smooth sailing! Okay… that’s an exaggeration. Teaching is never smooth sailing for anyone, probably ever. However I did think it would be far easier than the last two years. Wow, was I wrong.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">This year presents challenges that I never saw coming and changes that scare me. The thing that hasn’t changed though, is come that first day of school there will be kids on campus who need my love. Kids who will have missed me and new kids who are excited to meet me. Though I just spent the morning in my room covering bulletin boards and putting away new supplies and preparing for its eventual use, I may or may not get to be in my room this year. But what I know for sure is that I will still have my students. I may be teaching them on the playground or in the garden or in my room or in some other room, but no matter where I am, I will teach. It’s going to look different, it might feel different, the lessons may be different, but the end goal is the same. Love my students. Build relationships with my students. Make them feel safe. Make them feel heard. Make them feel known. Help them find their creative voice. And give them the confidence to use it. Those will always be my constants, my priorities, and my goals, my why. No matter how upside down everything else feels.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Now don’t quote me on this or hold it against me, because I know I’m still going to have days where things feel helpless and I won’t even know how to move forward, but right now I am optimistic. I am showing up. I am surrendering. I am taking one step at a time and not worrying past the things that I can control, which granted doesn’t feel like much right now. I’m not going to be hung up on how I thought this year should have been and instead look forward to the year that it will be. But I will do what we teachers always do and that’s just to do my best to be the teacher my students need me to be.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YZdScd-_4Nw/XzShZNKzrjI/AAAAAAAABME/eB8JavBcgVAsgG5pEfm3BVMMgTW1XtILgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_1540_Facetune_12-08-2020-20-54-56.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="307" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YZdScd-_4Nw/XzShZNKzrjI/AAAAAAAABME/eB8JavBcgVAsgG5pEfm3BVMMgTW1XtILgCLcBGAsYHQ/w410-h307/IMG_1540_Facetune_12-08-2020-20-54-56.HEIC" width="410" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">A sweet message from one of my kiddos last year that I didn't erase.</span></i></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p>Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-59170269568164749332020-04-18T14:10:00.004-05:002020-04-18T14:49:02.789-05:00The Setting Has Changed. 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I had a dream last last night that I was back in the classroom with a full class. I was consoling a student who was crying because one of his friends switched classrooms and he felt abandoned and another student was presenting a project in a very loud sing-songy way while their homeroom teacher (shout-out Ms. Cowan! Lol) was watching from the doorway because I'd lost track of time and we hadn't cleaned up yet and it was absolutely chaotic. And yet after calming down the crying student, I stood up, looked around the room and said out loud “yeah, this is where I’m supposed to be.” And there was this sense of peace that came over me and I felt at home and at ease amid the mayhem.</div>
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Then I woke up. And I woke up to a world in which I won’t be going back to my classroom this year. At least not until the end of May when I have to pack everything up into boxes. All the crayons that are still sitting in their table tubs and the paint containers on the back sink that haven’t been used in months and all the sweet notes and art from students hanging on my teacher bulletin board. When I return there won’t be students in there making messes or kids passing by my door in the hall peering in through the window at me. It’ll be just me. Cleaning up a room that didn’t see nearly enough art projects this year. And the thought of all the drawers I have to clean out that are full of art (a lot of which are unfinished pieces) that won’t find their way back into the hands of their creators breaks my heart.</div>
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I woke up after this dream feeling such a sense of peace, despite our current reality. It's a sense of understanding that even though I’m not where I feel like I’m supposed to be right now, none of us teachers are, we’re still teachers. Just because we don’t have the comfort of our classrooms and the flow of normal routine doesn't mean we aren't doing our jobs. In fact, I would argue that a lot of teachers right now are doing their jobs above and beyond the definition of what a teacher is. But then again, we always have haven't we? We don't just teach math, and art, and health, and reading, and music, and science (though all of those things are important). We teach life skills. We teach kindness. We teach respect. We teach love. And we will continue to do that even in difficult times, from far away, over video and microphone, and email. We will always go above and beyond because that's who we are. Just because the setting has changed, doesn't mean the mission has.</div>
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I wonder now if I will ever take for granted getting to deal with the disorder and madness of a classroom setting again. I probably will. I'm only human and teaching is hard. But I do feel like maybe I won't be quite so quick to complain again. That even when I do have a student talking back to me or a disastrously painful clean-up session or a kindergartner who refuses to stop crying, maybe in the back of my head I'll remember what it felt like not to have those things. I'll remember what it felt like not being able to pull a student aside and have a one-on-one conversation with them and watch their walls slowly crumble. I'll remember that while cleaning up messes as one class leaves and the other enters seconds later, that while they may not have gotten the cleaning part down perfectly, they made that mess while creating the most amazing pieces of art right before my eyes. As I'm hugging the little kindergartner who won't stop crying I'll remember what it felt like to be miles away from my kids, unable to wrap my arms around them or do anything tangable to ease their confusion and hurt and discomfort.</div>
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We teachers are learning and growing so much in this painful season. It hurts and it's stressful and anxiety-inducing, but it's also putting things into perspective for me. I knew I loved my students, more than I ever thought I could. But now I also know what it feels like to have them suddenly ripped from my grasp along with the option of hugging them, and receiving notes from them, and getting to put my hands on their paper, guide their hands through a drawing, get their paint all over me, and on and on and on. I could write an entire post solely about the things I miss about in-classroom teaching. But that's for another day, maybe a day in which I want to indulge my sadness.</div>
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Today I'm not sad. Not too sad anyway. Today I am at peace. Today I am determined. I am determined to appreciate what contact I do have with my students right now, even if it is digitally, to remind myself that it won't always be like this, and to cement the realization that no matter the setting, I am a teacher. A teacher who once back in her classroom will always try to remember the days when she missed those four walls so desperately she cried. Today I am a teacher who will pray ceaselessly for my students and coworkers and be thankful that I get to have a career I love so much that it brings tears to my eyes. Not everyone is so lucky.</div>
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Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-15412903686054564862020-03-16T13:43:00.000-05:002020-03-16T13:48:47.703-05:00Heavy Teacher Hearts in the Face of a PandemicI spent an hour or more (definitely more) writing a long blog post in which I was trying to be funny and semi-informative and factual and at about paragraph 5 I realized that none of it was really relevant to how I'm feeling. So let's try this again...<br />
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I can't believe that what is happening right now around COVID-19 is actually happening and that despite the fact that today should be our first Monday back in the classroom after spring break here in Waco, TX, I will not get to see my students today, or this week. Or next week. And that's hard.<br />
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It's not hard because I don't need another week (or in this case two weeks) off. I could absolutely use a two week spring break. It's hard because I know (and SO many fellow teachers know) that many of our students would be far better off at school with us, than at home in situations that are less than ideal and in some cases just downright awful. (Please note that I am not referring to all of my students. Some of them have great home lives and parents who truly care! And even most of those who don't are still trying their best and I recognize that. This post is not in any way meant to shame anyone.)<br />
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Every time I see a facebook post about someone who is so excited to get time off from work or school, the following interaction, which took place between me and a 2nd grader the Friday before spring break replays in my mind...<br />
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This little boy, is absolutely one of my favorite students (you know... if I had favorites...) but he came into class ready for a fight that Friday. He wouldn't sit where he was supposed to, he was yelling, talking back, spinning around in a rolling chair he had no right to even sit in, bothering other students. He was a mess. Another teacher offered to call for behavior support for him as he was pacing by one of the exit doors at that point and I looked over at him, he looked at me, and I knew if support came to take him out, that was it. I'd lose the opportunity to find out what was actually wrong, because it's never as simple as it looks with him (or with any of our kids).<br />
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I had a very good track record of being able to get this student to calm down last year by making him laugh, but this year it's been harder. He's really good at shoving people away (emotionally), so this year I've learned to be really good at not letting him. He loves me, I know he does, but he constantly needs me to prove that I love him back. I see it every time he makes fun of me for no reason during class. He'll say something mean under his breath, just loud enough for everyone to hear. Usually it's about my appearance. I always give him "the look" but then continue on teaching. And I always see the regret in his eyes, every time. And unlike some older students who say rude things to get the attention of their peers, he's never watching for his classmates' reactions. He's always watching for mine. Will I yell at him? Will I threaten to write him an office referral? Will I tell him I hate him and kick him out of my room? No, of course not. None of the above. But I think for some reason that's what he expects at even the slightest provocation. What he typically gets from me instead is a short one-on-one conversation that always ends with him apologizing (without me having to ask), and a big hug. He really needs hugs. And then we're good. Because probably unlike a lot of people in his life, it would take a whole heck of a lot more than a couple nasty comments to make me not love him. Now has it gotten far enough that I did have to write him up and/or call home to parents? Yes, of course. But it's rare that it goes that far. Because all he's looking for is acknowledgment and proof that I can handle anything he throws at me.<br />
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He's a smart kid and he knows what he's doing. Which is how he knew, once I didn't call for behavior help for him, that he was going to get a one-on-one talk with me. I was lucky enough to have a second teacher with me that day so I was able to escort him out into the hallway to chat with him alone. He acted like he didn't want to go with me of course, but I sat down on a little window ledge and he sat down next to me, refusing to look at me at first, as he always does.<br />
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Me: "What's wrong?"<br />
Shoulder shrug.<br />
Me: "Are you upset about something?"<br />
Long pause... head nod.<br />
Me: "What are you upset about?"<br />
Student: "I don't like spring break."<br />
Me: "What, why not?" I knew the answer that was coming, and I wasn't at all sure how I'd be able to reassure him. But like I said, humor has always been my in with him. "It's because you're just gonna miss me so much isn't? I knew it."<br />
Student (with the tiniest smile) shakes his head no.<br />
Me: "No?! What?! But I'm your favorite!"<br />
Student (with another small smile): "I'm gonna miss everyone. I like school. I want to stay here forever."<br />
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And just then my heart broke, not so much for what he was saying, but more for what he wasn't. He wasn't just upset because he wouldn't be at school, he was upset because he would be at home. And that breaks my heart. For many of our students, their safe place is at school. Not home.<br />
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I reassured him that it was only one week at home. I told him it would fly by so quickly and that he'd get to watch tv shows (which he loves) and sleep in and that as soon as we got back on Monday I'd be there and he'd have so much to tell me and I couldn't wait to hear all about it!<br />
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Well, that Monday is today. Right now. And he's still at home, and will be for a couple more weeks. COVID-19 is making a liar out of me and I'm not very happy about it. Could I have seen this coming? Of course not. None of us did. But to a child who clings to any adult who shows them kindness, being lied to by one of them is a big deal. And I'm sure my little speech about how it'll be a quick break and then he'd get to tell me all about it, definitely doesn't feel like the truth anymore. Even if it is out of my hands. He doesn't know that. And did I mention that within that same conversation about spring break he also asked me if I'd still be teaching at school after summer? I told him of course I would be. He can't get rid of me that easily.<br />
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This is why teachers are not celebrating two weeks off. It's not because we don't need the rest because trust me, we do. It's because we know that our kids are stuck at home too and home isn't always the best situation.<br />
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So at this moment, I sit here in my living room writing this post when what I should be doing is continuing a lesson on organic lines and forms with my 2nd graders and going over watercolor procedures while letting them know how much I missed them over that short one week break. Instead I'm sitting here worrying about whether or not they got breakfast and lunch today and who is at home watching them. Are they loving on them like I can? Are they making sure they're learning something and engaged and excited? Are they keeping them safe and reassuring them and hugging them whenever they need hugs no matter the potential for germ sharing? Because that's what I'd be doing. No matter what. That's what all of us teachers who are passionate about our jobs do. We love. And we reassure and we inspire. And we teach. Because we love. Because that's what we do.<br />
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So in these very uncertain times when everything feels extremely out of control and my anxiety is quickly trying to take over, I will pray. I will pray for my students and all students. And I will pray for all the teachers, knowing that my heart isn't the only one feeling a little under the weather this week, a little scared, a little worried, a little (or a lot) stressed. I pray that we can find comfort in knowing that social distancing is going to slow this virus and though it's difficult will be worth it in the long run and keep all of us healthier. I pray that we find peaceful rest that we so desperately need while stuck at home. And that we can trust in God's word and unending love to get us through this, no matter what comes next.<br />
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<br />Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-46896545538278100372019-11-18T21:56:00.000-06:002019-11-18T22:11:21.296-06:00Death Isn't Fair, So Tonight I CryIt isn't fair.<br />
It isn't fair that I can still hear your laugh as though we spoke yesterday.<br />
It isn't fair that you gave the best hugs and then took them away.<br />
It isn't fair that I still remember that you always smelled like coffee.<br />
It isn't fair that I'll never again sit at the table with you drawing ballerinas on napkins.<br />
It isn't fair that you didn't get to see the woman I've grown up to be.<br />
It isn't fair that so much of me comes from bits of you and I never got to tell you.<br />
It isn't fair that I don't get to show you all my favorite places in Waco, because I know you'd love it here.<br />
It isn't fair that I can't call you on the phone to tell you Happy Thanksgiving, or Merry Christmas, or just that I miss you.<br />
It isn't fair that every now and then a song comes on that makes me think of you and suddenly I'm crying.<br />
It isn't fair that for the rest of my life November 18 will be the day that I lost you.<br />
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Most days I'm fine. Most days I can move past the sadness. Some days there isn't even sadness... just a slight ache in the depths of my heart that I don't let myself feel. But not tonight. Tonight I miss you. So much I almost can't breathe. Tonight the slight ache is a roaring fire of heartache that threatens to swallow me whole. And I just might let it. For a little while.<br />
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Tomorrow I'll wake up and the sadness will have dulled. You'll still be my happiest memories and I'll smile at the thought of you. But not tonight. Tonight I cry.<br />
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<br />Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-61927367903092062702019-08-07T15:40:00.004-05:002019-08-07T15:52:01.176-05:00My Best Year YetI'm sitting in a noisy coffee shop on Austin St. It's the eve of my second year of teaching. I am excited! More excited than anxious, which is not something I've come to expect from myself. Anxiety is my constant companion, so feeling something other than that about a big event coming up is rare. I'm making lists, and editing classroom labels, and making more lists. My head is spinning with how to implement new ideas and new strategies into my classroom. But I also feel the tug to write, to get down every last thought running through my head before I'm back at the grind tomorrow.<br />
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I am so excited to see where this year takes me. However, I am also very aware that being two months out, I am seeing last school year with rose colored glasses. It has been two months since I've felt the stress of 20 1st graders yelling my name. Two months since I've had to write up a 5th grade student for hitting another one. Two months (well actually more), since I've stood in the corner of my classroom, out of eyesight by passerby's, trying to get my tears under control before I could face the world outside of it. The walls of my classroom have seen some rough things. And I haven't forgotten all of those things, I'm sure I never will. But I'm also now removed enough from it that I can feel optimistic about what those walls will see this coming year.<br />
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Here's what I hope my art room walls see this year.<br />
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I hope they see a second year teacher who now knows better than to yell to be heard over the noise. I hope my classroom walls see a smile on my face more often than a grimace or deep wrinkled frown lines in my forehead. I hope my walls hear more laughter from both the students and myself, and a controlled teacher voice instead of a deeply frustrated sigh and crying during my planning period... though I'm sure on occasion there will still be some of that. I hope when the walls see a metal trashcan being thrown that they also see a teacher more prepared to handle the situation with a calm voice. And even though the walls will at times see a teacher who feels like she's losing control, hopefully she now knows how to get it back a little bit quicker. I hope those walls see endless pieces of art being created and hung up and then carried out preciously more often that ripped up and thrown away. I hope the walls of my classroom see a more confident than timid educator who does her absolute best to form relationships with every single child that walks through. One who finds a way to reach even the most distant child. I hope those walls see growth. I hope they see students who are motivated to learn because of a teacher who is motivated to change.<br />
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My job is a hard one, but my heart is strong. And my mind is open. This year I will be optimistic. This year I will think more positively and plan for the worst, but pray for the best. Prayer. There will be so much prayer this year! Even more than there was last year... and trust me... there was a lot last year!<br />
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This year will not be perfect. This year will not be my best year. But this will be my best year yet.<br />
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<b><span style="color: #e69138;">To the couple people who have already purchased things for my classroom this year, THANK YOU! For anyone who would still like to contribute click <a href="https://www.amazon.com/hz/wishlist/ls/3FM9RRCF4G1FM/ref=nav_wishlist_lists_3?_encoding=UTF8&type=wishlist" target="_blank">HERE</a>. My kids mean the world to me and I wish I could afford to buy them everything they need to be successful in my classroom, but the reality is I just can't. So if you can purchase anything on my list, all almost 600 of my students and myself thank you! You're making a difference.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="color: #e69138;"><br /></span></b>Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-67694805044919454982019-06-06T14:20:00.001-05:002019-06-06T14:30:54.156-05:00The Absence of Blue<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The Red King picked up the piece of parchment that someone had taken great care to fold and place carefully beside his massive leather chair. By the light of the fireplace he could just make out the cursive scrawled quickly and messily across the paper, in complete opposition to the careful fold. Had he had a heart in that moment it would have skipped a beat and then dropped into his stomach just before his knees dropped to the ground as well. But as it were, anyone passing the study would have seen only a mere tightening of his jaw and a slight crumple of the paper as he gripped it far too aggressively. His expression gave nothing away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">He read it slowly and carefully in his head, hearing each word in her raspy, but not quite masculine voice. The further he got down the paper the heavier and darker the storm brewing inside of him grew.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Red,<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>I know you’re angry right now. I know you’re wracking your brain trying to figure out how I got away. You’re probably going to read this letter a million times looking for something you missed, some clue I’m leaving behind for you to find me, like the old days, but you won’t find anything. This time, I don’t want you to find me. I don’t want to see you ever again. And if this comes as a surprise to you, you’re even more thick headed than I realized.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Remember how I told you I grew up loving stories about fairy godmothers and princesses and brave warriors and how I always related to them? I was so young and innocent and kind and I was going to change the world one day. because that’s what good people do. But I'm not a good person anymore, am I?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>It wasn’t until I was standing in front of a bloody, fallen angel, an angel who fell because of me, that I realized I wasn’t the saint I thought I was. That was the moment I realized I was the villain, not the hero. Thanks to you. Obviously, it isn’t all on you. I made a million choices between that first night and now. And I’m not even sure if I would change any of them, but here we are.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>I thought I saw kindness in you. I thought I saw someone who was misunderstood and hurting. But it turns out I’m the one who misunderstood and too many people are paying the price for my stupidity.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>I would beg you not to kill the guards that are posted outside my door but I know that would be a futile plea. So add their dead bodies to my list of sins and then move on with your life. Don’t hunt me down. If you ever cared for me at all, even a little, let me go. And if you never cared for me at all, then just remember this, you trained me well. Better than even you know. So leave me be. Because if you don’t, you will have hell to pay.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Love always,<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Blue</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>P.S. I hope the red pistol wasn't your favorite.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">He did read the letter over and over again just like she said he would, damn her. It wasn’t until the third read that he made it to the post script. He walked to the huge dark oak desk in the corner of the room, pulling open the secret compartment that should open only for him and sure enough, the red pistol was gone. He ignored the sense of pride he felt settle in his gut and instead focused on the anger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">His eyes burned red, true to his name, as he silently cursed her very existence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There was a roar building inside his chest so guttural he was sure it would blow his stone mansion to the ground were he to let it out. He wanted to rage. He wanted to break something. Emotions he hadn’t known still existed inside of him roared their ugly heads and he was powerless to stop them. He wanted to strangle her. But she wasn’t there. So he would do the next best thing. Again, he would do exactly as she said he would. He would make someone pay for her escape.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And then he would find her. Oh, he would definitely find her. And then they’d both have hell to pay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">“Guards!”</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(photo credit: <a href="https://www.deviantart.com/jaimeibarra/art/Raven-s-Return-773489081" target="_blank">JaimeIbarra</a>)</span></div>
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Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-47919150783038674642019-04-06T23:08:00.001-05:002019-04-06T23:14:16.570-05:00The Inevitability of Jacob and Emma<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Jacob and Emma were always meant to meet. In every version of every world, their paths crossed at multiple points on multiple planes at multiple times. Which seemed appropriate as they were both fond of collecting multiples of many things. For Jacob it was hats and matchbooks and records, most of which had never been listened to. For Emma it was books and skeleton keys and teapots that she never actually used because tea is extremely overrated if you ask her, which no one ever did.<o:p></o:p></div>
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No matter how things were rearranged, how many natural disasters occurred, how many almost loves they found or lost, or even how many countries they were separated by, the two always seemed to find each other.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Young Jacob Meteor was, well, different to say the least. He was known to stare intensely at something behind you until you’d look to find nothing. And upon turning back could find an empty space that once held his form. The air around him was always filled with frenetic energy that seeped out of his frantic person. And he always seemed to know something you didn’t and was completely content to keep it that way. There was no air of frivolity or proudness about him. He was simple and humble and often overlooked. The smartest people usually are.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And Emma Everson, though brash and hilarious in her own mind, was often seen as a bit of a prudish recluse. The opinions of strangers are made up quickly and harshly and she never gave anyone reason to change them. For all her wishing, Emma was not the most social creature. She kept to herself and avoided conversations in which she would have to…. Well actually she just avoided conversations. Why bother with reality when you had the magic of words on a page? Books were her constant companions and the only opinions she cared about were the ones carefully written and held between tightly sewn pages.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Emma had never even met anyone in person who interested her in the slightest until the big bang that was her encounter with young Jacob Meteor. Each time they met, no matter the place, the time, the era, it always began with snow. And on this particular introduction, both had had quite the terrible night.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jacob was just on his way home from a date that could not have gone more terribly had he planned it himself. The girl (who we’ll call Jessica) had less than no interest in Jacob and spent most of the night scouring the bar for someone more interesting to talk to. Eventually she found them, in the form of a giant oaf of a man whose name was Sven, because of course it was Sven. He walked over and introduced himself to the short-lived pair that was Jacob and Jessica but clearly he had eyes only for her. Though impressed with Sven’s guts to approach a woman who was clearly, though maybe not so clearly, on a date, Jacob bowed out, feigning a sudden illness. Jessica, despite her rather impressive, but frankly false show of worry for his well-being, did not mind in the slightest.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now Emma, the poor thing, had just had an all-around terrible day. It started with an alarm clock that died in the night and therefore didn’t wake her up the next morning. This led to forgetting to pick up her boss’s coffee and getting stopped by a train on her drive to work and then showing up embarrassingly late to a meeting in which she was supposed to take notes. Then in the afternoon it was spilled coffee on her blouse, and a run in her stockings, and a leaky ink pen in her purple pants pocket. By noon she’d had enough. Even her hairband snapped around 5:00pm, leaving her unruly curls to blow out of control as she finally stepped out of the office from a late night of assisting. Because that’s what she did, she assisted.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She assisted with coffee and note taking and errands. She assisted in other people’s lives as hers passed her by. At least she had adventure waiting for her, she thought, as she patted the heavy book inside of her big heart-shaped tote. So preoccupied was she, with thoughts of her books, that she didn’t see Jacob until it was far too late.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He’d glanced up at the stars as she’d glanced down at her book and in one violent jolt, they were both brought quick to a holt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There were icy patches of snow covering the side walk here and there and neither were paying any attention to the ground that they tread on.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’m so sorry,” he said as he grabbed her by the shoulders, just barely keeping her from toppling over.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No, it was me. I’m sorry,” she said, not looking him in the eyes, because she had a bad habit of avoiding things that could see through her.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But in that moment Jacob knew one thing, he had to see her face, or surely the world would end. So he lifted her chin with a dark calloused hand, and lifted her gaze to meet his directly. Her eyes, they were brown, but the word brown didn’t fit. He’d soon think of them as gold and his new favorite color.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And so a thousand stories begin of love at first sight or attraction or sparks or whatever you call it. Because whatever it is, it ends all the same, with two people who find each other again and again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo by <a href="https://www.deviantart.com/ayla-es/art/67-156634816" target="_blank">ayla-es</a></span></div>
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Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-86154279464110511032019-01-29T20:00:00.001-06:002019-01-29T20:00:22.391-06:00Another Lesson LearnedEvery day as a first year teacher brings new experiences, new trials, new achievements, and new emotions. Today was no exception.<br />
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One of my students (and his siblings) are moving to another state tomorrow. And while these children have all given various amounts of grief to our teachers and staff this year (and I'm ashamed to admit I felt a little bit of relief when I found out they'd be leaving), it wasn't until he was in my room today knocking chairs over and ripping up paper that I realized I didn't want him to go. How ironic.<br />
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And no, I don't just thrive off the excitement of a child attempting to destroy my room (which is unfortunate because it seems to happen fairly often sometimes because of outbursts, sometimes because of paint), but it was because I realized that this student in particular was not knocking over desks because he doesn't like my class. But most likely because he does.<br />
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Earlier in the class, as I was standing at the front of the room teaching a lesson, he'd yelled out to inform me that he would be moving tomorrow. Seeing that the polka dots and zig zag patterns we were talking about on my projector screen were clearly not at the top of his priority list, I told him I'd heard and asked him if he was excited to be moving. He gave me a thumbs down and told me that this morning he'd been given the option to stay home and pack or go to school. He'd chosen school (which in that moment hadn't seemed like an important detail but shortly after would). I told him he'd be missed and luckily a couple students gave their agreement and I got back to teaching the lesson.<br />
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Not long after, prompted by something that seemed so insignificant at the time that I can't even remember what it was now, he got upset very suddenly and knocked over a couple desks. They clattered entirely too loudly to the floor, scaring several other students. A minute later it was the metal trash can. I told him he was making poor, unsafe choices, and that he needed to take a deep breath and pick the stuff up that he'd knocked over. He'd stopped, so I walked away to let him calm down. Not even a minute later he was picking them up. He sat down in his chair for a minute before he jumped back up and the whole thing started over again. Knocked over one of the desks, picked it back up. Knocked over the other one, picked that one back up too. At some point he also ripped up his work and threw the pieces all over the floor. He left them there for only a few minutes until he also picked those up, without my having to ask. He laid on the floor, he sat at a desk, got back up, laid back down, stood with his face in a corner. So restless. More so than normal.<br />
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As it was happening I was aware that his outburst, though prompted by something inside my classroom, probably had little or nothing to do with my class, and everything to do with what was going on in his life. And I also had a flashback to walking around the school track with him as he told me that art and music were his favorite things about school. But because I had his behavior, the rest of the students to tend to, and at that point less than 20 minutes to get a project started, my brain was in "go" mode. Get the lesson taught, get the kids working, put out all the fires, get the class out, get the next class in. Go. Go. Go.<br />
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Now, at home in my PJ's, sitting on the couch, I finally have time to reflect on the day. And tears instantly pricked my eyes when I realized I didn't give him a hug. Or a high five. Or even a wave as he left my classroom today. I didn't tell him I'd (me, not the class as a whole) would miss him. I didn't assure him that (despite his outbursts) I still liked being his teacher. I didn't do any of the things that I'd want my teacher to do as I was walking out of their class for the last time. Now granted, there's always the chance that he'll be back, or even that the move won't happen tomorrow. Not to mention that we have some amazing teachers and administration and staff at my school and I know, without a doubt, that multiple people most likely wished him well and told him they'd miss him.<br />
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But I didn't.<br />
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I just hope that thanks to the last 5 months that I've been his teacher, he already knows I care. Not because I said it, but because I showed it. I hope that because of my persistence and inability to give up on him, he could just tell. And mostly, I hope that if he does end up moving, that the teachers at his next school fight for him and care for him as much as the teachers at my school do. Because he, like all of our kids, deserves that.<br />
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All of that is to say that I plan to be much more intentional with my students. I like to think I already am, but maybe not as often as I should be. And the next time (if or when) a challenging student who pushes all of my buttons leaves my school, I'll make sure, no matter what else is going on in my room, that I will tell them I'll miss them and wish them the very best. Because frankly, that is way, way more important than polka dots and zig zag patterns.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(photo credit to <a href="https://www.deviantart.com/gerry-and-me/art/Eternal-173877641" target="_blank">Gerry-And-Me</a>)</span></div>
<br />Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-55228360236371378462019-01-22T18:35:00.001-06:002019-01-22T18:39:06.883-06:00A Man, a House, and Layers of LifeI see him there every day. Like an old friend I've never met in an old house I'll never walk through. The house is white, and newly so. In the setting sun and drizzly air it sits quietly on the corner of one street that is always busy and one street that has seen better days. Though the houses that follow it down the long gray pavement each have their own character, they rest somberly, all devoid of life and light. Once so well loved and now seemingly unremembered by tenants preoccupied with the woes of life.<br />
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But this house. This white house. Were I to step out of my car, where I see it from each day, it no doubt would smell of fresh paint and freshly cut wood and sits newly discovered, newly remembered. Each night this old friend I've never met can be seen standing on the wide front porch with one power tool or another. He cuts and hammers and saws and sweats. And not a single movement is wasted as he tries his hardest to make this house a home.<br />
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Were a passerby to look through the wide open framed windows they might see empty spaces, void of furniture or pictures or people. But I wonder what he sees. He must see possibility. Rooms filled with more than wood and bright light bulbs.<br />
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I wonder if he sees them. The family he works all day to support and then all night to build a home for. Racing up the stairs with the love of his life to show her every room. Does he hear laughing children in beds not yet bought? Does he see framed portraits lining the staircase wall? Mis-matched frames filled with images of love so deep that a tear falls when you see them?<br />
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What memories do these walls already hold? And how many more will they bear witness to ten years from now? Twenty?<br />
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When he looks at this house he sees future possibilities. When I look at it I see layers. Layers of life from years past and layers of life still yet to come. Some layers reek of pain but some smile with joy and others still nod with wisdom. These layers lay silent, forgotten by time. But this man on the porch, he sees its future. And promises never to forget it.<br />
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I see his passion to bring something back to life. I see his creativity. I see his dreams. I see his strength. I hope he sees it all too.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Photo credit: <a href="https://www.deviantart.com/fedorrrz/art/set-264-haunted-house-427834696" target="_blank">Fedorrrz</a>)</span></div>
<br />Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-17505891764100514492018-11-10T20:26:00.000-06:002018-11-10T21:05:43.528-06:00What Teaching Really is: According to a First Year Teacher<div style="color: #454545; font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
I am an advocate, a defender of the weak... and the strong, a muse, an organizer, a rule writer, a lesson planner, a shoulder to cry on, a nose wiper, a bathroom monitor, a sink monitor, a hall monitor, basically any and every kind of monitor you can think of, a listener, a speaker, an artist, a motivator, a judge and jury, an intermediary, a peacemaker, a question answerer, a question giver, a task manager, an instruction maker, a (uncertified) counselor, a maid, a designer, a cheerleader, a mentor, a grader, a researcher, a presenter, a history keeper, an observer, a notetaker... and a million other things I don't even have the time to come up with titles for.</div>
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Because I am an educator.</div>
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And on any given week (or even day) I might be one or all of these things to nearly 600 students. 600 students who all have different needs, different backgrounds, different problems, different strengths, different weaknesses, different personalities, different learning styles, different everything.</div>
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I've read a couple education articles that say the average teacher makes 1,500 decisions per day. In a 7 hour work day (but lets be real it's never only 7 hours) that comes to about 3.5 decisions a minute. But honestly, that sounds low to me. As teachers, we never stop moving around the room, looking from desk to desk, table to table, student to student. We're constantly looking for problems to fix or even problems to avoid before they happen. We watch for confusion we can clear up and misbehaviors we have to address.</div>
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And then with each thing we come up against there are a million ways in which to handle it. A million things to take into consideration. How will the student react when I ask them to do that? What's the best way I can ask that question in order to get the best thought-out answer from them? What's the best way to say that thing so that they'll understand? What worked last week when I came up against this same problem with another student? How did that student react and will this one react similarly or should I try a different tactic altogether? Is this behavior happening because of something I did or because of something that has absolutely nothing to do with me? And if that's the case how do I even begin to address it?</div>
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I tell you all this not so that you'll pity me and my fellow teachers. I tell you this because everyone thinks they understand what teaching is. I thought I understood what teaching was when I made the decision to become one. But people don't understand. I didn't. I knew lesson planning would be time consuming. I knew I'd have to work some late nights. I even expected it to be hard in the way that any new job is hard. But teaching is not like any other job. At least not any other job that I've had.</div>
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I thought working with adults in the graphic design field was difficult at times. And it was, in it's own way. But there has never been anything in my work life harder than trying to get a 5th grade boy who could not care less about school or art to be quiet long enough to hear 3 minutes worth of instruction. There is nothing harder than listening to an 8 year old tell you about her mom who is getting out of prison tomorrow. Or listen to a 5 year old scream his head off at you while you're trying to teach an entire classroom of other 5 year olds until you agree to help him clean his muddy shoes off so that he doesn't get in trouble with dad when he gets home. There is nothing harder than seeing the confusion in a child's eyes who just cannot understand the lesson you're trying to teach them no matter how hard they try, and through no fault of their own, and feeling like you've failed them because you just don't know how their brain works and how to help them understand. There is nothing harder than watching a 10 year old make the decision to walk across the room and punch another student because in his mind there is no other way to solve a problem.</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(photo credit <a href="https://www.deviantart.com/paulinerouziou/art/Ghost-Children-258822825" target="_blank">paulinerouziou</a>)</span></div>
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I don't teach children. I teach people. People who already have their minds made up about the world around them. People who have already been jaded by things I can't even imagine. Who deal with situations I didn't even know existed when I was their age. When I decided to become a teacher I didn't take into account the diversity of the minds and backgrounds that would walk through my classroom doors and the fact that a lot of my students would have seen more tragedy and difficulty in their very young lives than I ever have and probably ever will. I pictured teaching a bunch of little me's. Well surprise, surprise. Children are just as diverse as the adults who raised them.</div>
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My ultimate goal (and the ultimate goal of the majority of educators out there) is not simply to get information into my student's heads so that they can get good grades or pass tests. It's to help them grow as humans. To show them things that will broaden their horizons and show them a world beyond the one that they live in and can't see past. My goal is to make them see that I care. Not just about their grades or their art projects or their behavior. But that I care about them as people. As individuals. And that there is no doubt in my mind that they were made to do great things.</div>
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That is what teaching is. That is why we make a million little decisions a week, a day, a minute. Teaching is hard. It is exhausting. It is like nothing else. But I do it in the hopes of making even a small impact in even one of their young lives. I don't mind wiping a kid's nose if it'll make him feel cared for. I don't mind repeating myself 5 times in a 60 second window if it means my students will be successful in completing a project correctly. I don't mind listening to the same story from a child multiple times if it means for just a moment they feel heard. I don't mind spending every Sunday afternoon prepping for a project that some of my students will complain about if it means that in the end they'll learn something that they didn't even know they needed to know. I don't mind crying on my drive home from work because it was such a long and difficult day, if it meant that even in the hardest situations, I did my best and gave those kids my all. I can't mind it. Because I can do it. And not everyone can.</div>
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So to all the educators out there, know that you matter. Know that your job is hard and you're still doing it. That alone says a lot. Know that you are seen. Know that you are rightfully exhausted. Both emotionally and physically. Know that at least one (but probably many) of your students' lives are better because they know you. Know that your best is enough. And that at the end of the day, after you've been a million things to a million people and all you can think about is getting into bed before you have to get up tomorrow and do it all over again, that you are making a difference. Just by caring enough to try.</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(photo credit to <a href="https://www.deviantart.com/jellyd/art/teach-me-to-be-more-adaptive-109776272" target="_blank">jellyd</a>)</span></div>
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Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-18851471256961473542018-04-15T16:12:00.000-05:002018-04-15T16:31:07.751-05:00When Things Fall Apart to Fall Together (My Path to Teaching)Phrases like "everything happens for a reason" and "only in God's time" are ones that have taunted me over the years. While some might find them comforting in the middle of strife or conflict, I just found them frustrating. And it isn't that I didn't believe either of those statements to be true, but for me it was similar to someone saying "Don't worry. Everything will be fine," while we stand watching my home burn to the ground. Which thankfully is not an actual scenario I've found myself in, but you get the gist. I'm not great at seeing beyond my current problem. And that's a terrible quality to have, one that I'm working on changing.<br />
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So when I was recently let go from my job of four years, it basically felt like the world was ending. Which is dramatic, for many reasons, not the least of which being that I hadn't planned on being at that job for more than 3 more months. Still. I've never been good with change, especially sudden and abrupt change. Let me give you some back story that may not seem relevant, but I promise, it will be, so hang in there.<br />
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As a young child I was obsessed with playing pretend (because you know smart phones and tablets and social media weren't a thing), and one of my favorite games was playing school. And my favorite character to play was the teacher. My friends and I always fought about who got to be the teacher. I think they fought because they wanted to boss me around, but I fought because teachers were just the coolest. Okay and also because I wanted to boss my friends around.<br />
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Fast forward through the years and whenever I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up I always said teacher. I didn't even have to think about it. It was just my go-to answer. I loved my teachers and I loved grading papers for my teachers, report cards (nerd alert), and I was just good at school! It was familiar and comfortable (this is going to come back and bite me in the you know what). I thought <i>of course I'll be a teacher. Why not?</i><br />
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Well sometime during late high school I found a love for photography and I'd always loved reading and writing. So I went into college as an English major and a photography minor. But as I was told over and over again, the only thing I would be able to do with an English degree was teach high school English and there was absolutely no way I was going to teach a bunch of teenagers. Not my thing (even though yes, I was in fact still a teenager myself at the time). So I decided to switch to elementary education. Because if I was going to <i>have to</i> teach, I at least wanted it to be a grade level I was comfortable with. There it is again, <i>comfort</i>.<br />
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Well funny thing about teaching, it's nothing like being a student. Or at least back then I didn't think it was. I liked my teaching classes. I liked going to a nearby elementary school to tutor a child, I even liked learning about the teaching philosophers that seemed to be the bane of my classmates' existences. What I didn't like, was the interview process to get into the teaching program (which I went through and passed btw). And every professor that told me I would hate having to deal with parents, and every current elementary teacher I talked to at the time who told me not to do it, because "teaching isn't what it used to be." I allowed myself to be scared away by even the thought of discomfort. Dealing with parents? NO THANK YOU. I don't even like giving speeches in speech class, how am I supposed to handle a parent who confronts me about something they're unhappy with? I'd just die (again... dramatic, I know).<br />
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So when the opportunity presented itself to switch from my elementary education major to a fine arts major, I took it. I switched over to Communication Design and I loved it! It was hard work. I had to put in 10 times the amount of effort and work time into my Com Des projects as I ever did my teaching assignments, but it was worth it. And I graduated cum laude and nailed my Exit Review. And after graduation I moved home and the reality of having gone thousands and thousands of dollars into debt for an art degree that I was having trouble finding work in really sunk in. Don't get me wrong, I don't regret it. And I would NEVER advise anyone who wants an art degree to not follow their dreams. I will however advise them to be more realistic and to work harder while they're still in school to network and find jobs while they're still in college. But that's a whole other story.<br />
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I couldn't find a communication design job when I got home and I was too proud to look for something that was outside of my field. I eventually got a graphic design internship position at my church and I loved it. I learned a lot quickly, I felt like I was making a difference, and I loved the people I got to work with every day. I was always part-time and I even got a second part-time job at a doctor's office to make ends meet, so that I could continue working at the church. At several different points, for various reasons, I would begin the arduous task of looking for a design job in the professional market. I applied to companies in Texas, California, even Indiana. And I would get one interview, sometimes two. And then never get the job. So I just kept hanging on to my church job, even though at a certain point, it stopped being what I wanted, or even what was good for me. But it was comfortable. I had friends there and though frustrating at times, I knew I was directly having a hand in God's plan and the church's mission. I loved that. I still do. Unfortunately, as most adults know, comfort doesn't necessarily lead to fulfillment. And I've felt very unfulfilled for quite a while.<br />
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So here's where things start getting interesting. Through working at my church, I got involved with the women's Bible study and met many, many teachers who have become my good friends. It was my women's group of friends who eventually talked me into volunteering with elementary aged kids at church when I was unsure I wanted to make that leap. It was also them who, after I observed how much they loved their jobs teaching, planted that little seed in my brain that said maybe I should be teaching after all. Thanks to their excitement and assurance that I would make an amazing teacher (which is still yet to be seen), and through my mom's insistence that teaching is what I was meant to do, I tested and then entered into the ACT Houston alternative certification program.<br />
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Please, please note how absolutely far out of my comfort zone this was. I mean like to the moon, far out. But I wasn't happy and suddenly I realized that yes, teaching was still an option for me. Nothing else was working out. I wasn't happy at my job and despite numerous attempts, I couldn't find a job in my field, so I went for it. And I loved the class. And I made friends. And I was doing really well and all the while I still had the comfort blanket that was my job at the church. Everything was looking up.<br />
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And then I was let go from my job. Months before I had ever planned to leave, assuming I ever even got a teaching job, and suddenly I was thrown into the deep end of a pool full of all of my worst insecurities. Not the least of which was having to immediately begin looking for a new job in the midst of what was already an entirely new season of life for me.<br />
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I had also wanted to take a semester to student teach, instead of jumping right in to my own classroom, but the timing would have been all wrong. If I were to student teach next fall, then it probably would have been another year before I could get an actual teaching job and start my career in this new field.<br />
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So after being let go, suddenly my only feasible option was to immediately begin looking for full-time teaching positions for the fall. I began praying HARD. And somewhere in each prayer I requested to God that if this ("this" being a job fair, an application, or an interview) was the right thing for me, that He "make my path straight." I asked that if it was meant to be, that He make it known. And I would take that path, no matter how scary it felt to me. And it went as follows.<br />
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- I lost my job on a Monday.<br />
- The next Wednesday I applied for several Waco ISD jobs.<br />
- That Saturday I went to the Waco ISD job fair.<br />
- The following Tuesday, one of the schools I met at the job fair called me and requested an interview.<br />
- The next Monday I drove back to Waco and interviewed.<br />
- That Saturday the principal who interviewed me called requesting another reference.<br />
- The next Tuesday HR called to ask for my Statement of Eligibility to teach.<br />
- That Thursday morning HR called again and offered me the art teaching position for the 2018-2019 school year.<br />
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And just like that, my entire life changed. Not that I could see that while I was in the midst of it all. I didn't know that the first teaching job I ever applied to and interviewed for would be the one that I got. I was still applying and interviewing at other schools, ones closer to home, and going to other job fairs all while those things were happening. And each time I took another step, I prayed, "Make my path straight, Lord."<br />
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In the span of 5 weeks I lost my safe job, finished my teaching certification class, passed my pedagogy test, received my statement of eligibility to teach, and landed what I think will be my dream job, in my dream city. <b>And none of it was comfortable. </b>I fought and cried and worried every single step of the way. But I also prayed. And here I am.<br />
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As I said before, "everything happens for a reason" and "only in God's time" are frustrating phrases to me. Until I stepped back and saw the evidence and the value of those words.<br />
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I have always wanted to be a teacher. Part of me thinks it's because I thought that would be the comfortable way to go. I have sense found out that it isn't comfortable at all. And may not ever be. But I'm no less excited about it.<br />
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I am currently taking a long, and what feels like twisted road to where I'm supposed to be. But to God, it's a clear, straight path. And I'm finally learning to trust His timing, instead of my own. I am still possibly the most uncomfortable I have ever been, with so much of my future unknown, but I am also the most excited I have ever been. And that's a pretty great place to be in.<br />
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<br />Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-39168145541091447722017-12-30T22:28:00.001-06:002017-12-31T19:53:16.773-06:00The Muse and Her EyesI stand in the cold, quiet museum staring at the portrait of a woman who's supposed to be me. Long auburn hair floats delicately around her face. A face that was so obviously softened and rounded out to reflect other women of the time. That's what every portrait ever painted of me is—just a reflection of something or someone else. Other women. A political or social agenda. An art movement. The artist's own ego or hope. Every one of them says a lot. But few say anything about me.<br />
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They never get the eyes quite right either. I don't know why. I can't tell you what's wrong with them, but they're just never mine.<br />
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One might say it's a blessing, to be able to see yourself through the eyes of so many artists, through different mediums, in different decades. To inspire so many famous artists through so many different eras. To never age. But with every portrait ever painted of me, my vision of myself becomes that much foggier. Am I anything but a less polished version of some flaky paint or charcoal? Like the woman staring back at me from the gilded frame, is there anything behind her hollow brown eyes? All I see while staring at her are two vacant orbs of empty space where one's thoughts should be hiding.<br />
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But if she has thoughts, they're few and far between. And hidden too well even for herself to find.<br />
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"She's beautiful, isn't she?" I turn to see a stranger staring at the same portrait that I've been contemplating for nearly a half hour now.<br />
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"I guess," is the only response I can manage. "I've seen better."<br />
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"Paintings? Or women?" he asks, teasing.<br />
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"Both."<br />
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I hear him exhale a short breath, something between a laugh and a cough.<br />
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I used to worry that people would recognize me. That someone would walk up to me one day and look at the painting, and then at me, and then back at the painting, and somehow make the connection that even I fail to make most days. But at some point in the last few decades I realized that would never be a problem. Not only did I barely resemble the innocent muse that I was so often portrayed to be, but now thanks to hair dye and make-up, I actually do look different. Plus anyone in a museum is either too focused on the art or too busy on their cell phones to spend any amount of time paying attention to a stranger.<br />
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Why spend so much time staring at replicas of yourself in museums and art galleries? Well when you've been alive as long as I have, sometimes you need reminders of the things you've lived through, of the memories you have that sometimes feel too far out of reach to remember on your own. Sometimes you need a visual history, especially for the years before camera phones and selfies were an option. The only thing scarier than remembering the past is forgetting it.<br />
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"I've seen you here before," tall, dark, and nosey says from beside me.<br />
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I smile a little, and nod, preparing to back away when he says something I'm not sure I hear correctly.<br />
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"Your eyes are too sad."<br />
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"Excuse me?"<br />
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"Her eyes," he gestures with a strongly corded arm toward the painting.<br />
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"Right," I say, shaken and suddenly unsure.<br />
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He moves closer to the painting, as close as he can get without stepping on the white line that is the difference between just being stared at by the aggressive security guard and being reprimanded by her.<br />
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"Why do you say that?" I can't help but ask. When was the last time I'd had a conversation with a stranger, let alone a conversation with a stranger about one of my portraits? My momentary companion appears to be transfixed. His dark, thick hair is pulled up into a fashionable bun by a strip of leather that vaguely reminds me of something I would have seen many, many years ago. His jaw clenches and unclenches and his brow furrows as he tries to solve the mystery of the woman he doesn't know is standing right next to him.<br />
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"Well look at her body language." He turns toward me and for the first time realizes I'm studying him instead of the painting. Did I just blush? That certainly hasn't happened in recent history.<br />
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I turn back to the painting, trying to see what he sees but only seeing me and the studious face of the academy painter who I watched intently as he created it. It's all so average. Both his skill and my image. White linen dress. Brown eyes, always the brown eyes. Soft hair. Round cheeks. I look average.<br />
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I turn back to my blue-eyed, black haired companion, noting the considerable differences between our features. "I give up," I say in defeat. "What do you see that I don't?"<br />
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"Look at her long neck. Or her proud shoulders. The full pout of her lips, with just a hint of a smile. Or even the angle of her chin. She isn't sad. She's strong. And defiant. And everything that her eyes aren't. They don't match."<br />
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For a second I don't know what to say. Even if someone were holding a gun to my head I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have been able to utter a word. So we stand there in silence long enough for me to gather my thoughts.<br />
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"How can you see any of that when you can't see it in her eyes? Eyes are the window into the soul." I wasn't asking a question. I knew that to be true. I could guess a great many things from the bright, lively eyes of the man standing next to me.<br />
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"Sure they are," he says locking his eyes with mine. Having his undivided attention feels like a gift that I didn't know I wanted. "But body language says a lot. And so does my gut," he says with a wink, light-heartedly, as though to lighten the suddenly heavy mood.<br />
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"So your gut says that, despite her boring appearance and unhappy eyes, she was actually none of those things?" I giggle.<br />
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Why did I just giggle? How old am I?<br />
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"Yes." He replies confidently as though he knows something I don't. Which in this situation should be impossible and yet even I find myself believing him.<br />
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"Can't she be strong and defiant and also a little bit sad?" I try to pretend it's something in the air causing my eyes to water, but I know that's not true. Just like it isn't causing the lump at the base of my throat or the tiny flutter in my stomach.<br />
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"I guess she could be," he says slowly, but doesn't look convinced. "But either way, those just can't be her eyes. Her eyes should be a bit wider, less boring brown and more caramel colored. Bright eyes. Eyes like..." his hypnotic voice drifts off and I look back at him. He moved closer, when did he move closer? "Like yours. She should have your eyes."<br />
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I nearly lose my breath at his words and if skipping heartbeats were actually a thing, I think in that moment, mine would have.<br />
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"I'm just saying," his voice softens as though he remembers he's in a museum, talking to a stranger. "The artist got it wrong."<br />
<br />
I turn back to the portrait and for the first time in more years than I can count, someone recognizes the same thing in me that I once thought to be true. I am strong. I am not the silly painting of a mad man or the charcoal sketch of a genius inventor. I am something beyond that. Someone with brighter eyes and a spirit that can't be contained within paper or canvas. And no matter that my considerably long life has been spent acting as a muse for other's, I am more than that. I'm real.<br />
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I turn to ask my strangely perceptive companion his name, but he's gone. Just like that. As though he were never there. I swivel a couple times, almost making myself dizzy in an attempt to catch even just a glimpse of his back as he walks away, but there is no one.<br />
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It's close to closing at the museum and I'm one of the few patrons still wandering around, but of the others left none are the mysterious stranger I wished I were still talking to.<br />
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I spend the next fifteen minutes moving aimlessly, or at least I tell myself it's aimless, through rooms and rooms of other paintings and sculptures and somehow can no longer find interest in any of them, least of all ones of myself. And as I round the last corner of the last room on my way out of the building, a painting catches my eye. An oil painting that I've probably seen hundreds of times through the years. An old, larger than life, historical painting of a man on a horse, presumably riding into battle.<br />
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He sits upon the powerful creature as though he were born for war. Arm resting on the hilt of his sword, face looking out past the viewer as though he were about to face the devil himself. His dark hair is in a severe ponytail at the nape of his neck, and his strong jaw is a harsh line across the canvas demonstrating his determination, strength, and assurance in the correctness of his cause. It's then that my eyes travel up further to meet a set of eyes that are somehow more familiar than the last time I viewed this particular painting.<br />
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I can't help but smile. It's magnificent. Unlike mine, the subject is in no way boring or sad or insecure. And in this portrait the artist did in fact get the eyes right. Absolutely and unequivocally.<br />
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And as I laugh to myself, all at once elated and confused, I spot a jagged patch of white in the bottom right corner of the painting. A patch that looks very much out of place against the dark, rich colors of the rest of the peace, but perhaps wouldn't be noticeable to anyone who hadn't seen the painting on more than one occasion.<br />
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After checking my proximity to any security guard who would sooner body slam me to the ground than allow me within a foot of the painting, I slowly reach my hand out and slip my nail beneath the white patch. Just as I thought—it isn't part of the painting at all, but rather a torn scrap of paper resting between the canvas and the sturdy frame. The small card, though barely the size of my palm and light in weight, somehow held a heaviness and a significance that I didn't yet understand. And with a heart that was beating fast enough to fly right out of my chest, I flipped the card over and began to read.<br />
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"To the woman in the painting, whose eyes are anything but sad..."<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(photograph by <a href="https://www.deviantart.com/art/Lonely-50157113" target="_blank">McCoyPaul</a>) </span></div>
<br />Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-62355556176081919172017-11-21T20:45:00.000-06:002017-11-21T21:10:56.455-06:00What Anxiety Is To Me.<div style="font-family: ".sf ui text"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Having anxiety is like walking around with a huge plastic bag surrounding you that’s connected to your thoughts and feelings. It’s clear and spacious enough that sometimes you forget about it. Not because it goes away, but because you get used to dealing with it. You can still see through it so sometimes you can trick yourself into believing it isn’t really there. Until you have that first negative thought of the day. And then that bag begins to wrinkle and deflate a little bit at one end. And that thought leads to another one and another side of the bag crinkles and pulls in a little closer toward you. And then after that thought leads to another one and another one, suddenly you realize the bag isn’t spacious at all. In fact it’s becoming tighter and tighter around you and more and more wrinkled and the realization that the negative thoughts have caused the bag to collapse in on you causes more negative thoughts and then without warning you’re being suffocated not just by the negative thoughts but also by thinking about the negative thoughts and the repercussions of having them. And before you know it, you’re suffocating. You can’t see past the wrinkled bag that’s become a second skin and you know it’s your own fault because if you would have just stopped thinking the thoughts that caused the bag to deflate and warp in the first place, you wouldn’t even be in this mess. And even though you know that’s</span><span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"> how it should work, because that’s probably how it works for other people, you know that for you it’s different. You’re different. You don’t get to choose the thoughts and you don’t get to choose your minds reaction to them. All you can do is deal with the aftermath of a skin tight bag around your body and hope that once you finally fall asleep, after tossing and turning and thinking thoughts you don’t want to be thinking for hours, it’ll loosen up enough that tomorrow when a negative thought hits and it begins to tighten up again, that there’s enough space in the bag that you’ll still be able to breathe.</span><br />
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(photo credit: <a href="https://www.deviantart.com/art/Deep-Breath-187106067" target="_blank">TiaDanko</a>)</div>
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Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-18456725627546487412017-08-30T12:59:00.002-05:002017-08-30T13:48:08.951-05:00Texas StrongI can honestly say that I have never in my life been as scared as I was three nights ago when I found out that our neighborhood had a voluntary evacuation notice because the Brazos River was most likely going to flood our neighborhood.<br />
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I've tried to write this post three or four times now and somehow I just can't find the right words. How do you describe the feeling of helplessness and fear in your gut when you realize that every possession you've ever owned may be swept away from you in the next 28 hours? And more than that, that your life and the life of those you love are suddenly in jeopardy. How do you describe the gut wrenching nausea that hits you when you realize you may have to choose between saving yourself and saving your helpless, beloved pets?<br />
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The only thing that has overpowered the intense feelings of confusion and helplessness in the last few days have been a sense of awe, pride, and hope in people. Though I don't like to admit it I'm a bit of a pessimist. I try to see the good in people but it's not something I do naturally, I have to actively think about it. But in the last few days it has been incredibly easy to see the good. I've seen so many acts of kindness that it brings tears to my eyes. The selflessness with which people are coming together right now is something I never even imaged could exist in my community. From complete strangers rescuing each other in flood waters, to people in other states caravanning in to lead rescue teams in their personal boats, to neighbors offering up the second stories of their homes, to my family and I being taken in by family friends a town over.<br />
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The amount of good coming out of this situation is so much more powerful than the bad. However, I am under no delusions that it's easier for me to say that right now because I was able to evacuate and so far, though projected otherwise, our street has not flooded. So I might be able to go home in a few days once the water begins receding and go back to a relatively normal routine. Some people have not been nearly as fortunate.<br />
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What a lot of people, mostly those who have never been in a situation like this, don't understand, is that this doesn't just end when it stops raining. The Brazos River overflow doesn't just dry up over night so that everything can go back to normal. The sun might be back out this afternoon, but the water remains and will remain for days in some places. Possibly weeks. Those watching news stories from states away, from the comfort of their clean, dry homes will almost surely forget this even happened as soon as the social media and news reports decide Hurricane Harvey is old news. But the people who lost their homes in the last week don't get to just stop dealing with it because it's "over". For them it won't be over for a long time, or possibly ever. The devastation that an event like this causes is unimaginable to most.<br />
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I am California born and have never identified as a Texan, never wanted to. But after what I've seen in the last few days, I tell you what, I'm proud to be a Texan. I am proud to be associated with this state and it's many, many selfless people. My social media feeds are full of people asking for help right now and even more people offering it. It's incredible.<br />
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With so much devastation I'm not sure yet where we go from here. This is far from over. The sun may be out today, but the water is still there and the Brazos is still rising. What I do know is that we will all continue to come together as friends, neighbors, and yes, Texans to help each other through this. And without a doubt, we will rise stronger than ever.<br />
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Below are some ways you can donate to the flood victims. Please consider donating or even volunteering in some way. I promise you won't regret it and you'll make a HUGE difference in the lives of people who really need love right now.<br />
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<b>Donate to River Pointe Church <u><a href="http://www.rpc.me/flood" target="_blank"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">HERE</span></a></u>!</b></div>
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<b>Purchase the Texas charm from James Avery <u><a href="http://bit.ly/2vJNb0R." target="_blank"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">HERE</span></a></u>!</b></div>
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<b>Purchase the Texas Forever shirt from Magnolia <a href="https://magno.li/texasforever" target="_blank"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">HERE</span></a>!</b></div>
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<b>Donate to the Red Cross <a href="https://www.redcross.org/donate/hurricane-harvey" target="_blank"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">HERE</span></a>!</b></div>
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<b>Purchase a Pimpin Joy t shirt from The Shop Forward <a href="https://www.theshopforward.com/collections/pimpinjoy" target="_blank"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">HERE</span></a>!</b></div>
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<b>Currently all proceeds go to flood victims in Texas.</b></div>
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<br />Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-10931560958649325002017-07-19T20:26:00.001-05:002017-07-19T20:42:56.487-05:00Show Your AgeI was watching YouTube the other day and a commercial (that didn't give me the "skip" option) came on for a skin care product in which Gwen Stefani was the spokesperson. She claimed that this product would make you look "years younger." First of all, Gwen, you haven't aged since like 1995 and I'm pretty sure it wasn't because you used L'Oreal moisturizer. And second of all... why is this a thing? What is this obsession we have with youth? What did youth ever do for us anyway? Give us pimples? Make us feel awkward because we didn't know how to talk to the opposite sex? Give us anxiety over needing a job to get experience but not having enough experience to get a job?! All of my worst moments took place when I was younger than I am now (because that's how time works). When I was less experienced. When I had less confidence and less knowledge. I wouldn't want to go back to my mental state as a fresh faced 18 year old (or even 21 year old if we're being honest), so why should I be expected to still look like those ages? Why can't our outsides match our insides? I'm in a different stage of life now than I was then and you can see it in my face and my body. And that's okay. That's how life works.<br />
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I understand that we all want to <i>look</i> younger because that is what is <b>valued</b> in our culture. But what I don't understand is <i>WHY</i>. Intellectually, for the most part, we all want to be mature. We want to be established in our careers and valued in our relationships and stable enough to at least act like the adults we know that we are, even if sometimes we feel like imposters (or is that just me?). So why can't the maturity that we work so hard to gain on the inside be reflected on our bodies on the outside? Why can't we value laugh lines and stretchmarks and scars as proof of a life well lived? Of things we survived. Of lessons we learned.<br />
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I'll be the first to admit that getting old terrifies me. But would it still be so scary if the world around us didn't tell us it's so bad? The actual physical process of aging is often not fun, anyway. No one wants hangovers that last days instead of hours, and heartburn after eating things you didn't even have to think twice about consuming as a kid. And the older we get the more our bodies break down. And it sucks. But it's life. As a 20 something I'm still young and therefore don't have the experience that people twice and three times my age have. But I can only imagine how much harder the process of aging is, not just physically, but mentally when everything around you is telling you that you're less valuable, less beautiful, just less in general, simply because you've lived to see your current age.<br />
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I truly value the wisdom and beauty (both inside and out) of the older people, specifically women, in my life and it hurts me to think any one of them believes they hold less value in our society because their age is reflected in their outward appearance. <b>It's absolutely preposterous.</b> Something has got to change. And it has to start within each of us. Recognize your value. Look for beauty in the physical and spiritual parts of yourself that you once hated or were told are things to be hidden, not appreciated. Because until we stop buying into the bullshit and allowing it to change our opinions of ourselves we will all continue to perpetuate the lies.<br />
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Love your age, love your self.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QM7psKcGb48/WXAF8jrbjzI/AAAAAAAAA8Q/_hwSw7fEE-cPq1MweukyEJvzraHUIOCwQCEwYBhgL/s1600/pexels-photo-503610.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QM7psKcGb48/WXAF8jrbjzI/AAAAAAAAA8Q/_hwSw7fEE-cPq1MweukyEJvzraHUIOCwQCEwYBhgL/s320/pexels-photo-503610.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-40375024246860733842017-07-14T21:57:00.005-05:002017-07-14T21:57:54.029-05:00Salt for the Soul<div class="p1" style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; line-height: normal;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BxstM9SeXXQ/WWmD2gSq05I/AAAAAAAAA7g/ig2Yhn-RkNoFZYQtmKjaos_tWgf7VUbOwCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_5376.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BxstM9SeXXQ/WWmD2gSq05I/AAAAAAAAA7g/ig2Yhn-RkNoFZYQtmKjaos_tWgf7VUbOwCLcBGAs/s400/IMG_5376.JPG" width="400" /></a><span class="s1" style="font-family: '.SFUIText';">A lot of people like the beach because they can sit in the sand and drink a beer, get a tan, and cool off in the water on a hot summer. But I think it has to be more than that that draws so many people to it over and over again, myself included. I think that it feeds our souls. It calms us and relaxes us. Something about it calls to us. The wind and the deep water and the colorful, almost magic sunsets and the smell of salt and sand. Something in us yearns for that connection to nature, that connection to God. Nature doesn't change. Physically, yes. But nature is always nature. It is uncontrollable and unpredictable. It works in ways that sometimes can't be explained, at least not by the average person. And no matter how many unnatural things we erect in the name of progress, nature is ancient and far superior. It was here before us and will be here after us and though we are hurting it in many ways, it's still here. Always growing, always moving, always transforming. And oceans seem to be the greatest representation of that. While nature can also be a garden in your backyard or a park full of trees, nothing represents untamed nature like an endless ocean full of unseen life. And the endless sky that reaches far above us into yet another somewhat unknown sea. </span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: '.SFUIText';">I believe with everything in my heart and soul that nature is one of God's greatest blessings to mankind. And that has to be why we yearn for it. I don't know about you but the deep breathes I take inside of four walls or in my car are never quite as satisfying as ones I take standing with my feet covered in wet sand and my hair blowing in a salty breeze. Nature reminds me of God's endless love and creativity. It reminds that he's always there, in every breath I take. Somehow it's easier to remember Him when I'm surrounded by his work, instead of ours.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: '.SFUIText';">And I think that's why we love it so much. Even sub consciously I think we are always seeking something greater than ourselves, a higher power, if you will. And what's second best to the creator himself? His work.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">All photos taken this week at Orange Beach, Alabama</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The one at the beginning of the post was taken as I wrote this post.</span></div>
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Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1953052760610855719.post-80243166921247256772017-07-13T23:08:00.000-05:002017-07-13T23:10:55.872-05:00You and the stars are endless.<span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #454545; font-family: ".sfuitext";">I've always been good at remembering to smell the roses. And to find shapes in the clouds and appreciate sunrises and sunsets, but the thing I always forget about is the stars. I live in a place full of lights. A place that never sleeps it seems.</span> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #454545; font-family: ".sfuitext";">But when you're in a coastal beach town and sitting outside on a balcony with nothing infront of you but dark sea and dark sky, you see the stars. And they're endless and magical and all the things you used to think about them when you were a child and still thought about such whimsical things. The bright spots of wonder in the endless expanse of darkness make you remember how limitless life is. How limitless the universe and love and creativity and spirituality and happiness can be. It's easy to forget that you and your immediate surroundings are not in fact the center of the universe. So on days that you forget that your minor problems are just that, minor.... drive out onto a pier or take a walk down the beach or a country road. And look up. Be reminded of the tiny little lights that float in the sky. Of their magic and their twinkle and their magnetic pull. Remember how small you must be from their view, and how endless the space is between each of them as well as between them and all the things up there that you can't see, but know are there. Like planets and moons and galaxies and astroids. Be reminded that magic is endless. </span><span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #454545; font-family: ".sfuitext";">Life is endless.</span><span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #454545; font-family: ".sfuitext";"> You are endless.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #454545; font-family: ".sfuitext";"><br /></span>Kirsten Neffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05738406442095992573noreply@blogger.com0