Rejuvenation

Last week I began my summer camps. I was looking forward to working with some future second graders and in the afternoon the young poets. I still have been reflecting on my time in NYC at Teacher's College.  Trying to put it all in perspective.  When I uttered something to a friend, "I just want someone in my corner." His smart reply was, "You're in your corner. You don't need anyone else."  His retort wasn't what I expected.  It shocked me. It literally made me stop in my tracks with my thinking.

Here I had arrived back from this wonderful trip from NYC that was supposed to be soul rejuvenating, but left me feeling as if a piece of my soul is missing.  I can't seem to get my groove back.  So, I was really hoping that going back to a semi-quasi routine would help.

Routines are just that a routine.  Seeing my young poets grow each day was wondrous.  By the end of the week, reading their work was pure joy. 

Then when my friend uttered those words it hit me.  I'm in my corner. I decide when I get out of my post NYC funkilicious issues.  I decide. I decided what happens next. I decide. Not anyone else.  It's not like I didn't know that, but to here the bluntness of it.  The underlining stop trying to please others and do something for yourself was also there.  I decide.  So I decided.

Tulsa is not NYC. It never will be.  But pining for a city thousands of miles away is only going to make the soul lonely.  I could choose to pine away and forget the rejuvenation or choose to use the muse it was and let my soul fly.

I'm in my corner.  Use the things I miss the languages, the culture, the colors and let it be My Muse, feed my soul.  I'm in my corner is now what echoes when I begin to feel as if I can't take it another minute.  I'm in my corner.  The reminder.

My Muse was fed and she was rewarded.
 

The Farm

A new born chick is born!

Peep, Peep

Stacks of hay

Horses, cows, ducks, 

Nay! Moo! Quack!

The smell of bacon

The taste of eggs (fried).

On the ground

Watch out the babies are here!

By: Third Grade Young Poet