Tag: writing

Finding my Voice…again

julieannetaylor

It’s been almost a year since my last post on this blog. I’m honestly not sure why it has been so long since I sat down to write. Part of it is probably just that life is so busy…but that’s really a lousy excuse when I really think about it. Life is busy, but we make time for our priorities or for the things that bring us joy. Maybe it’s just the doubts and insecurities have taken over and I think “Nobody really cares about what I have to say.” But, I never really intended to write things for other people, but rather I always wrote for myself – to reflect on this crazy life and to process all the things that happen on a day to day basis. Perhaps the real reason that I haven’t taken the time to blog is just that it’s hard. The last year of life has been hard and I have been having an incredibly hard time understanding the “whys” of life. One of the last blog posts I wrote was shortly after my brother died. It was one of the hardest posts that I have ever written and I remember agonizing about finding the words to express my feelings and to honor him and his life that was cut way too short. Writing has always come so easy for me, but capturing the loss of my brother and sharing that pain in such a raw way was a huge challenge, but also something I truly felt I had to do.

We had dinner with some friends tonight and the wife asked me if I had been blogging lately, because she hadn’t remembered seeing anything I had written. She spoke about how beautiful my blog after my brother’s passing was and how it really touched her. Her words meant so much to me and it made me realize that I truly have missed this platform to share my thoughts. My brother was always so encouraging and supportive of my blog. Often I struggle with the doubts of sharing my writing because I really don’t think that any thoughts or feelings I have are worthy of putting them out there. And so, as we drove home from dinner I thought about all of it and although I felt the urge to sit down and write, I also felt a big emptiness knowing that my brother is not around to read my words. Even typing that just now, it feels weird to have that thought. But that is what is on my heart and mind. I think if I am really honest with myself, I believe there is a bit of guilt in that I get to go on and do the things that I have always done – the things that bring me joy – and he doesn’t. He doesn’t get to sit and paint, or play his guitar and sing his favorite songs.

But…I know that he would want the rest of us left behind to experience all the joy that life has to give…to go on living and loving. And so, I am going to do that. I am going to find my voice again and write what is on my heart as often as I can. Not for the views. Not for the follows. Perhaps not even for myself. I’m going to write again for my brother. I hope that finding my voice again and seeking joy in the little things will make him proud of me. I hope you come along for the ride.

Much love

J

“Honor your impact”

julieannetaylor

It has been a long time since I have taken the time to write. It’s so strange to me that I rarely do it anymore, yet it’s one of the things in life that truly brings me joy. I have had so many things to write about and share with the world. I have even sat down at the computer and attempted to write. But something has been holding me back. Even as I sit here in the cool of the evening, listening to my favorite music, I am fighting the urge to just close the laptop and keep it all inside.

I have been soul-searching, trying to uncover my aversion to writing lately. There is a lot going on in my world right now…some really heavy stuff…that I am just not able to share. Part of me feels like if I just write about other things that I am not being authentic and I do not ever want to be that. So I will continue to process all of the hard stuff until I am at a healthy place where I can share. But for now, I am going to share what I can, as authentically as I can…because this just feels good.

But I alone cannot take credit for this breakthrough. I am reading a book by Jimmy Casas titled “Culturize” that stopped me in my tracks today. Casas was talking about his school experience with writing, and how he never believe he was or could be a good writer. He offered several pieces of advice where writing is concerned, and these three hit me right in my heart.

  • “It only takes one person to relate to your story. Honor your impact.”
  • “Embrace your vulnerability. Give of yourself and don’t be afraid to share your story.”
  • Write for you. Reflection is powerful and necessary for individual growth.”

The last few times I blogged, months ago, I allowed myself to fall down the rabbit hole of statistics. I checked them over and over and found that my words had not reached a very big audience at all. Very few people had read what I felt I had poured my heart and soul into. I got lost in the numbers. But that is not why I write. I write for me. I write to process and to reflect and to understand. But…what if one of those few people who took the time to read those words related to my story? I may never know if my words may be impactful to someone else. But I know for certain they won’t if I never write them.

So I am going to allow myself to be vulnerable. I’m going to embrace it and allow it to help me grow. I am going to remember why I started writing in the first place and I am going to continue to share my story…the good, the hard, the messy, and the joy.

I knew that this book that I am reading with our Building Leadership Team was going to be powerful as we strive to be school leaders and change the culture of our school. I knew it would help me in my journey to truly impact my students and my colleagues. But as I sat here tonight and dug into it, I truly didn’t expect it to reignite this fire in me to share my story. I’m so thankful it did!

Much love…

J

Twosday

julieannetaylor

Unless you have been living under a rock, I’m sure you’ve heard all of the excitement about tomorrow being “Twosday” 2-22-22. Maybe because I am an elementary school teacher, my excitement is different than yours. But, y’all I am looking forward to sharing such a fun day with my students tomorrow. If you are a teacher or have a teacher in your life, you know that it is a pretty rough gig these days. And has been for a few years now. We are exhausted and feel like our very best is sometimes not enough for what our students need right now. I think that is why I am so excited to wear my new Twosday shirt, don a neon orange tutu and have some fun with my students. We are pretty good at having fun on a normal day in Room 214, but tomorrow is hopefully going to be a day that my students will talk about for a long time.

Tomorrow morning I will go into school super early to decorate my room with Twosday banners and streamers. All of the activities we do will have to do with the number 2! Everyone will get some Double Bubble gum. Our warm up work will be drawing a picture around the number two. We will read for 22 minutes. Our read aloud is aptly titled “Tuesday.” All “work” done tomorrow will be done in pairs. We will try to imagine what life will be when they are 22, and then write 2 paragraphs about those ideas.

Now, I realize that teachers everywhere are doing many similar things – and some are probably going way beyond what I have planned. I am by no means a super teacher, but I sure try to make special memories with my students each year. I guess I’m just super excited because just as much as my students need some fun – I need to have fun with them. I love feeling energized about what my day looks like tomorrow. I am not feeling that “end of the weekend” dread about going to school tomorrow. This block of time – from the middle of February to the middle of April (Spring Break) is a long stretch with no days off. It is the most challenging time of year for me, as state tests are looming and all of us are completely over being inside at recess. So, I am going to embrace the lining of up the calendar and have an amazing Twosday with my students.

I hope your Twosday is twice as nice as any other day and that you find a way to have some fun Twomorrow!

Green – Color Poem

julieannetaylor

Green is energy and tranquillity all at the same time.

Green is a promise.

It is new and fresh, like the start of a relationship

Green quietly enters a room with little fanfare,

But shares a vibrancy that can’t go unnoticed.

Green is complexity with a darker side.

Green is the depths of envy and jealousy.

It is currency that leads to corruption and power.

Green is layered and deep

From neon frenzy to deep lushness.

I am a Writer

julieannetaylor

Recently I have shared a lot of writing I did more than a decade ago when I returned to college. I share it partly because I love the memories of the process of completing that portfolio. For me it meant so many different things. It boosted my confidence in myself as a writer, while also being cathartic. The other reason that I find myself sharing these pieces recently is that many days when I sit down to write, I feel like I have nothing to say. Writing is one thing that brings me so much joy, but lately I feel empty when thinking about what to write. It feels very frustrating. I think these ruts that I find myself in at times are natural to some extent. but I think there are also other underlying causes for them. I doubt myself. I doubt that anyone else on the planet would even be interested in what I have to say. I compare my ramblings to “real” writers and become filled with apprehension. And then I get down on myself for falling into the comparison trap at all.

Teddy Roosevelt is credited with saying that “Comparison is the thief of joy.” I’m pretty sure that he spoke these words specifically for me. When I compare my writing, my blog, my followers, my likes…I lose my joy. I lose the happiness that writing brings me on a daily basis. I have to stop thinking about what people may think about my words, and get back to just sharing my thoughts. It really is all about the process. I find joy in taking one thought and choosing words to express all of it. Will I produce my “best” writing every single day? Not at all likely. But will writing every single day bring me joy? Help me hone my craft? Make me feel whole? Those things are very highly likely.

So I will continue to share things that I have written in the past, because I do enjoy my strolls down memory lane. But I will also find joy in the process of creating new pieces to share and be proud of. And I will be grateful for the process, the ups and downs, the mountains and the valleys. Because I am a writer!

My Date with Me

julieannetaylor

This morning I am gazing out my window from my desk, enjoying the sunshine streaming in. The anticipation of spring hangs in the cool air. I am in awe of nature and the effect that it has on me. I am reminded of a writing assignment I once did from the Capstone course I often write about. The assignment was to take myself on a date. Just to spend the entire afternoon with myself and then to write about it. Of course, I chose to be out in nature. I’d like to share that piece with you.

This time of year is my favorite time of year, especially in Oxford. The leaves are boasting their brilliant fall colors, providing a beautiful backdrop for our every day lives. I decided to treat myself to this beauty with a walk through the trees at Heuston Woods. I parked near the Sugar Camp area, grabbed my journal, my water, my sweatshirt, and my cell phone. I found a trail and just started walking. I made a conscious effort to use all of my senses, paying attention to every sound, smell, sight, and texture around me.

The first thing I notices was all of the sounds. The way the leaves crunched under my step. The slight sound the twigs made, snapping and breaking as I trampled them. And then there were the birds…I wish I knew anything about birds to identify them as I heard their songs. I felt like an intruder in their world as I listening to them converse back and forth in the treetops. I’m almost certain they were talking about me as I invaded their landscape.

Next, I paid attention to the smells around me. I have not found an adequate word that describes the smell of those crunchy leaves scattered on the ground except to say that they smell just like fall. It is a familiar smell that conjures memories of childhood days rolling around in piles of them without a care in the world.

As I strolled down the path through the woods, I took special notice of the variety of trees that lines my path. Again, here is where I wish I had more knowledge of my world around me and the trees that watched over me as I walked. There were many different types as evidenced by their unique look, shape, and feel of their coats of bark. Some were smooth and sleek, while others were rough and worn.

After walking deep into the woods, I found an old stump – a natural bench just inviting me to sit down. So I sat with my journal in had, seeking words to do justice to the beauty that enveloped me. What I realized as I struggled with my pencil was that rather than to try and recreate this scene with words, I just needed to sit and enjoy it. So there I sat, my date with me, just soaking in it.

I don’t take the time to engage my senses like this enough. Rereading and sharing this old piece of writing has stirred in me a desire to take myself on a date again! I encourage you to do the same. Find something, somewhere that inspires you and take it all in.

Around Poem

julieannetaylor

I went back to college to get my Education degree in my late 30’s. I was a nontraditional student on a very traditional campus. Many universities have great programs to encourage older adults to return to school and get their degrees, but my alma mater did not. I was most definitely different. However, I was placed in a cohort with amazing students and they welcomed me as their “school mom.” I loved this part of my life during this time period. My capstone class right before graduating was creative writing. We were assigned an “Around” poem for our first writing. I’ll never forget sharing this with my classmates. I was very anxious to share my life experiences with this group of 20 somethings who had barely lived in my eyes. I felt so different in this setting and nearly let my fear of rejection get the best of me. But, I shared and they received and it was a very proud moment for this old school mom. I’d like to share that poem with you here. On a side note, I have done a lot more living since I wrote this poem…and I think I might write another one – and updated one in the near future.

Around 2006, I returned to school and was labeled non-traditional.

Around 1979, my oldest brother left home at the age of 16 without saying goodbye.

Around 1997, after 18 hours of labor, my first child came into the world.

Around 2007, on a bitter, cold morning, my Grandpa died.

Around 1975, I stood at the bus stop waiting for my first day of kindergarten…the bus never came.

Around 1993, I married my high school sweetheart.

Around 1974, I watched my dog Benji get hit by a car while I played in the front yard.

Around 2001, on an icy morning, I gave birth to my daughter.

Around 2008, I watched my brother’s son marry his high school sweetheart.

Around 2003, I walked my son to school fir his first day of kindergarten…we didn’t take any chances with the bus.

Around 1984, I kissed a boy for the first time – at the county fair. His name was Nick.

Around 2008, my high school sweetheart and I ended our 15-year marriage…at the breakfast table.

Around 2006, my son and I walked my daughter to school for her first day of kindergarten.

Around 1985, I had my heart broken for the first time.

Around 2008, I learned to be me again…still non-traditional.

It’s bittersweet to sit and reflect on all of those poignant moments that stick in my memory. It’s also comforting to know that I have been blessed with such a life. What moments would appear in your Around poem? I encourage you to take time to reflect and be thankful for this life today! Much love.

Yellow

julieannetaylor

Since the day is so gray and dreary today, I thought this poem that I penned a decade ago would be a nice bright distraction. I remember the assignment from my creative writing class like it was yesterday. I was instructed to go on a “color walk” and to note everything of one particular color that caught my attention. It was the perfect spring day on campus in Oxford. I walked for hours – kind of lost myself in the color walk. Here is the piece of writing that came from that day.

Yellow

I am the day and the warmth
The harshly painted curb, edging
the street – corralling it.
I swing on a wire,
directing and signaling.
I am letters on a shirt,
letters on a bag,
a convertible speeding along
a street sign – shoe string
hair band – arm band
I am the tiny beak of a hungry bird.

I am yellow.

Home

julieannetaylor

I went back to college in my late 30’s to earn a teaching degree. I had two school-aged children at the time. To say that managing it all was a challenge is an understatement. One year into my three year journey, my 16 year marriage ended. This event did not make life easier. But I kept going… My senior capstone work was creative writing. Considering the season of life that I was in, my writing from that time was raw and full of emotion. After the program was over and I had graduated, I put that writing portfolio away. It was a reminder of the pain and hardship of that time in life.

Recently, I came across my senior capstone portfolio. As I sat in my basement office in our quiet house, I read. And read. And read. Tears flowed freely as the words flooded my mind and heart with the memories of that year. I was surprised by some of the pieces. I hadn’t even remembered penning the words. Some of the writings were almost too difficult to read, and I moved through those quickly. But others were full of sentiment and happy memories of life “before” all of the hard stuff came along.

These writings have been in a beat up red file folder for more than a decade, and I would like to finally share them. So, over the course of the next few weeks I will share one at a time. The first piece is called “Home.” This was written in November, 2008.

Home

Home is the smell of sausage frying in a ridiculously heavy, old cast iron skillet once belonging to Granny. The smell would sneak down the hallway to my bedroom in the early morning hours. It was our signal that it was almost time to get up. The sound of cabinet doors and drawers opening and not so gently closing always came with morning. Daddy was the responsible party – and we knew when we smelled the biscuits in the oven, it was time. Daddy would whistle while he cooked each morning – yet another not so subtle wake up call for us. And when we finally stumbled to the kitchen we were always greeted by an awful mess. Homemade biscuits always left a trail…a light covering of flour on every available surface.

Home is the quiet of late afternoon – the dull rhythmic thumping of the dryer in a distant room. Background noise – a lone television broadcasting afternoon headlines to an empty room, the occasional creak of the ironing board as my mother ironed in the living room. The perfect blend of these sounds in the late of day is a recipe for home.

Home is the small tree growing in the front yard. Not an impressive tree – at least in stature – but to my sister and me it was…a princess castle, a pirate ship, a mountain top, in the jungle, a hiding place, base, and adventure, a swing, monkey bars…and the dreaded sources of our daddy’s “switches” – used only in the worst of circumstances. When Daddy went to grab a switch from our beloved tree, it was only then that we wished it didn’t exist.

Home is dinner around the dining room table, saying prayer before eating, holding hands as a family and thanking God for the nourishment which he had provided. And not complaining about what was on the evening menu. “It’s not right to thank God for our food and then complain about what it is, ” Daddy would often remind. Familiar meals, comfort food, were served in a weekly rotation…foods such as meatloaf, and fried chicken, and once a week…breakfast for dinner…a concept my own children will not warm up to.

Home is the conflict and tension of teenage brothers, resentful of their “step” mother and angry over the death of their own. It is the open defiance and harsh words heard by my sister and me as we hid at the top of the stairs – terrified but curious. It is the sound of objects thrown, painful sobs, and endless slamming doors. Home is the feeling of being torn between family members. Admiration for older brothers, and the natural love for a mother and father.

Home is the gentle reminder from our father each time we left the house. We were not sent on our way with rules or threats but rather with four simple words from our soft-spoken patriarch…”Remember who you are.”