Dead grass of a golden brown

Your days, unlike the unchanging blue sky of dry season, have been varied. The teacher training you did to promote positivity in the classroom, based on Design Thinking, worked about as well as it could. Your heart melted a little when the participants suggested they check up on themselves to make sure they were practicing what they had begun to preach. And on the days you see those same teachers making kids kneel outside or smack them lightly on the head you just tell yourself, maybe the smack wasn’t as hard as it used to be…. But you would be lying if you said you didn’t understand why they do what they do. A class of over a hundred students is hard to manage, and force and negative discipline does, on the surface seem like the answer when the students finally become quite. But just because their mouths aren’t moving doesn’t mean their minds are. It might sound corny, but it is because it is dead true: everyday is different. One day can be amazing while the next you have to hold yourself back from crying. Crying at the insanity of the world, crying at the meanness children can have and the poison of habit. But on the days that are good the dead grass is a golden brown, the dust a light sand, the rude children are just kids while the good teachers are prophets in the desert.

In the confounds of your mud-brick house that is pretending to be made of concrete you find yourself amongst the words of a poem a day or in the water color set you decided to give to yourself instead of the children. Even as termites create metropolises in your walls it doesn’t really matter because with each yoga exercise and each magical Sunday run you are building rivers and valleys in your soul.

To be honest you do feel as burnt out as the hills, recently set on fire to clear the land. But you are hopping that with the approaching vacation those ashes will mix with the dirt and give nutrients for you to finish strong.

 

Playing with bottle-caps (65) 3/12/15

I walked next store to buy bread and

on my neighbor’s veranda was a group of girls, dancing, singing and smiling in rhythm

like one would at a wedding or in a sixties douhop group

the girls encircled three others and started raining down bottle-caps, like one would money at a traditional wedding or party

amongst their laughter and smiles their worn school clothes morphed into bright, gay, fabrics

as the bottle-caps glistened, like falling diamonds from the sky