Sprite’s Keeper Spin this week is poetry. Either share a poem you love or write a poem. I had planned on either writing a poem or sharing an old one. I used to love writing poetry. One of my two publishing claims is a poem I wrote as an undergrad that was selected for the University of Hawaii’s Hawaii Review (my other published piece is an educational research article in an educational periodical – yeah even writing that phrase bored the blog world). But my old poetry tended to be dark. And I wanted a poem this week about hope or change or hope and change. And there is a favorite poem of mine that I’ve loved since high school days. So, I’m sharing that instead.
HOPE IS THE THING WITH FEATHERS Emily Dickenson (1830-1886)
Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words And never stops at all
And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity It asked a crumb of me.
Well, my hope did ask for some crumbs last Fall. I was very hopeful, but felt the need to put effort into my hope. I spent a few Sundays volunteering my time by making phone calls. The butterflies that come to life in my stomach, the goose bumps I get, the sense of a burden being lifted, all of this every time I hear Obama’s speeches. But that is the work of tomorrow. For today, we have this speech to honor.
My students are 2/3 of the way done with a project. Using scientific inquiry method, historical perspective, researching primary documents, and conducting oral history interviews of family members, they are taking a close look at what has shaped their lives. I can take absolutely no credit for this project. My two collegues on my 10th grade team are master teachers that have been working together for seven years. I joined them last year after my film and reading electives were cancelled. My contribution to the project was to lead the students through writing lessons that would produce a poem for their front page, and a reflective essay for the last pages. The essays are in and I am about to settle down to a weekend of giving teacher feedback.
Their essential question that guided their process of producing their scrapbook was this:
Which factors (beliefs, principles, values, education, environment) have determined who I am? How so? Will these factors predetermine my future? Why or why not?
I guess I'll be busy all weekend. But when I take my breaks and rub my eyes, I will send out hope for this Tuesday's outcome. I will watch this video a few more times, because every time I do I get chicken skin and teary with hope. My heart bleeds with hope for us all.
And in that place, I think about America and those who built it. This nation's founders, who somehow rose above petty ambitions and narrow calculations to imagine a nation unfurling across a continent. And those like Lincoln and King, who ultimately laid down their lives in the service of perfecting an imperfect union. And all the facelss, nameless men and women, slaves and soldiers and tailors and butchers, constructing lives for themsleves and their children and grandchildren, brick by brick, rail by rail, calloused hand by calloused hand, to fill in the landscape of our collective dreams.
Well, my hope did ask for some crumbs last Fall. I was very hopeful, but felt the need to put effort into my hope. I spent a few Sundays volunteering my time by making phone calls. The butterflies that come to life in my stomach, the goose bumps I get, the sense of a burden being lifted, all of this every time I hear Obama’s speeches. But that is the work of tomorrow. For today, we have this speech to honor.
