Slice of Lucy: Bottom Line

 

The bottom line is that I did this thing when I did not believe I could or would. Lots of my friends have said, 

"Of course, you did it!"

Honestly, there is no 'of course' about it. Like many of you, I am maxed out by responsibility and short on time, energy, belief in myself, and space. I'm a single mom of a teenager, a home provider for him and my mom, a girlfriend. I work full-time in a demanding field. Oh, and there is the small issue of my deep-seated Imposter Syndrome.  

In my first-ever blog post, I wrote,

I kind of wonder why anyone would want to read something I've written about something I'm doing. That said, I can write my story even if no one wants to read it, right? 

Early in life, I learned to make fun of myself before someone else could do it. Sub-consciously, that's what that opening was - an anticipatory self-diss to undermine potential pain caused by someone else. Yet, I wrote 28 out of 31 days, and I am so glad I did. 

• I learned that I have stories and ideas worth sharing, but...
• I also learned that the writing really can be just for me. 
• I learned that I like to be inspired by other writers and try on some of their techniques, playing with the writing process. 
• I learned that writing is built on a foundation of noticing, which is a habit I want to cultivate.

What do you do when you believe you should write? I learned this month, March 2026, that you should write. I've had an awesome experience as a first-year Slicer, and I am deeply grateful to the founders who create the space and culture, my friend Lisa Vahey who personally invited and encouraged me, and folks who took the time to comment and connect. Please keep writing, and I will, too.

Slice of Lucy: Reusing Stuff

 

Many folks in my world seem to have bought in to the practice of recycling, I mean, it is pretty easy to recycle with bins in many public spaces and door-to-door service in municipalities like mine. For awhile now, I have been looking for ways to reuse stuff in order to reduce waste. Call me weird, but it's kind of fun to brainstorm repurposing options. Here are some ideas that have worked for me:

I had three old cutting boards, the plastic kind from Ikea. I did not want to donate them for food use, so I gave them to the director of my school's innovation lab. At first, she looked at me strangely, then I suggested using them for hot glue stations. Her eyes lit up! 

After a visit to Trader Joe's, I provide a steady supply of disposable dumpling trays to the art teacher for painting projects.

When I traveled through India in 2004, I was wowed by the beautiful art created with repurposed goods, like the one-of-a-kind wall hanging made from scraps of old saris in my entryway and the intricate, miniature Kama Sutra painting on a discarded, official-looking government paper on my living room wall. This shows we can create demand for creative products that reuse materials.

At my boyfriend's work place, they have a 'free table' where people donate things they no longer want, but which might be put to use in someone else's space. One man's trash is another person's treasure! 

When I started composting, I looked at counter-top bins to store the scraps temporarily before taking them out to the garden. There were many options available for purchase on Amazon and elsewhere, but I thought I could do better. I found a 1940's aluminum ice bucket at a resale store. It looks adorable on my century home kitchen counter, plus the lid basically seals to reduce the potential for unsavory smells and pests.

The best way to store and easily dispense toothpicks in the kitchen is to wash out an empty spice bottle that has a lid with lots of holes.

Don't get me started on the million and one uses for an Altoids box!

My aunt taught me to keep my Christmas cards, then use pinking shears to cut out the festive pictures to use for the next year's gift tags. 

Reusable water bottles and old wine bottles can be paired with watering spikes for long-term irrigation of house plants and flora in outdoor raised beds.

When you dry a load of cotton clothing/towels/sheets, save the lint to use as great fire-starting material.

I am curious...What are some ways you have found to reduce waste and reuse stuff in your life? By the way, sharing these ideas is another form of recycling/reusing! Now, I just need to think of a use for that toddler potty I saw at the curb while walking my dog this evening...

Slice of Lucy: Daffodils

 

I never knew about daffodils when I was a little girl. They did not grow in Florida where we moved when I was three. When I was about ten years old, however, my great aunt sent a box in the mail from Baltimore, Maryland. Any box from Aunt Lucy (about whom I wrote in yesterday's post) caused terrific excitement and anticipation. I don't remember to whom the box was actually addressed, but my mother, brothers, and I all gathered around to see what it might contain. Under precisely folded brown paper, there was a shoe box. After removing the lid, we found slightly damp paper towels wrapped around something long and slim. As we unrolled the blanket of protective paper, a sweet bundle of live daffodils was revealed. My brothers were unimpressed, but I was entranced! A phone call to Aunt Lucy quickly cleared up the mystery; she had bought the daffodils as part of a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society. I gushed my thanks and hung up so I could put the flowers in water.

I have no memory of how long my first daffodils lasted, but Aunt Lucy sent me daffodils every year for a long time, even when I was in college. When I dreamt of my future, I hoped and planned to live in a place where daffodils could grow in the ground. As I considered the costs and benefits of moving to Ohio five years ago, one important consideration was the fact that I could grow daffodils in my yard. Planting dozens of daffodil bulbs my first fall was a labor of love; as my nearly frozen fingers dug into the clayey soil, I did not even realize that the daffodils would deliver hope and joy every year or that they would be the only blooms the local deer would not devour. I just knew that my dream of daffodils growing outside my door had been fulfilled.

When we pulled into our driveway recently after a two week road trip, I was thrilled to see daffodils nodding in my front garden. Their fresh, dainty heads are always a welcome harbinger of spring. We might still have snow and cold temperatures for another month, but the daffodils promise winter's iron grip has been broken. Daffodils are a symbol of hope.

Slice of Lucy: Aunt Lucy

My grandfather's sister, Lucy, was born in 1909. She and two of her sisters were labeled "old maids" in their early twenties, having not yet married. The story goes that their father commissioned three beautiful rings, each one unique, to be made by Carl Schon Jewelry in Baltimore, Maryland. My great grandfather reasoned that his girls would never receive engagement rings, so he provided rings for his "unclaimed blessings". Aunt Lucy did not have children of her own, but she forged a deep connection with my mother. Later on, when my mother shared that she was pregnant after having two boys, my great aunt asked my parents to consider naming the child, if a girl, after her. Supposedly, Aunt Lucy offered to pay for the child's clothes and shoes if they did, not small compensation for my cash-strapped folks. As the only girl born in my generation, my mother felt obligated to give me my grandmother's name, but she honored Aunt Lucy's request by using her name for my middle name. Official records aside, I've been known as "Lucy" ever since the moment I was born.

I grew up with the story of the rings for the three girls being told at my grandmother's table. There was some judgment in her retelling; after all, she escaped such a sentence by marrying my grandfather. The story did not add up for me, however, because the "Aunt Lucy" I knew lived an amazing, meaningful life, despite (or maybe due to?) her single status. She taught school for over forty years, which she believed she was born to do. I imagine she brooked no nonsense in her classroom, but I also know she took extra sandwiches in her lunch box for kids who did not have food. When she died at 95 years old, we heard from grown men and women who remembered her fondly and gratefully from their elementary days. Aunt Lucy did not hide the fact that she always hoped I would become a teacher, following in her footsteps as well as carrying on her name, but I had other plans. When I finally recognized my calling to be a teacher in 2000, Aunt Lucy was alive to hear her legacy would be continued. She smugly announced that she was glad I had come to my senses, but I knew she was proud and fulfilled.

In addition to being a legendary educator, Aunt Lucy traveled broadly on her own during her summer vacations. When I visited her in the neat apartment she shared with her sister, Margaret, I would ask to hear the stories about the little tchotchkes arranged on her dresser: a replica of The Little Mermaid from Copenhagen, a shiny kiwi statue from New Zealand, a miniature Swiss cuckoo clock. As a kid, her sharing inspired my curiosity about the people and places beyond my front door, and I knew that I would travel the world one day, just as she did. Aunt Lucy played piano, worked crossword puzzles, visited with church friends, volunteered at the local children's hospital, and walked a mile after dinner every evening, rattling off the names of birds and flowers as she strolled in her sensible shoes. I did not realize it for the longest time, but Aunt Lucy truly was my role model. 

Fast forward to the evening of my graduation from high school. Great Aunt Lucy presented me with a gift; it was her Schon ring. I remember being stunned. I'd actually never seen the ring, but it seemed like a potent inheritance. My brothers whispered out of Aunt Lucy's hearing, "Ha, Lucy is going to be an old maid, too!" I am embarrassed to recall that the ring worried me, but I wore it and continued telling the story my grandmother had told me about what it meant. Today, I am disappointed that I allowed a petty story to tarnish the greatness of Aunt Lucy. In my dining room, the chair where I sit faces the antique secretary where Aunt Lucy graded her students' papers for almost half a century, the glass enclosed display filled with momentos of her travels and expired passports. Next to the desk hangs a picture of Aunt Lucy astride a donkey in Egypt, living her best life and loving it. That is the legacy I am so grateful to have inherited; the ring is in a box in a corner of my dresser drawer. 

By the way, I am proud to be an "old maid" by my family's definition. Still single, I've traveled the world, pursued awesome adventures, raised a wonderful son on my own, and inspired other people's children as a middle school teacher of twenty-five years. 

I boldly forged my own path because Aunt Lucy showed me that was an option.

Slice of Lucy: A Dog's Home

 

The first thing I did this morning was to hustle to the dog boarding place where my pup, Mateo, stayed while I traveled. When a worker brought him to the lobby. whatever I had been saying to the manager was forgotten, and I was immediately on my knees to greet my fur baby properly. God, I love this dog. Of all the great people in my life, Mateo loves me the best. 

All day, Mateo has reacquainted himself methodically and joyfully with the favorite parts of his world. He sniffed appreciatively when we visited the part of our backyard where he can weave between bushes and catch the pepperoni scent wafting over the fence from the neighborhood pizza joint. He happily explored the basement while I worked on laundry and ran up and down the stairs to keep a close eye on me. He let out the most tremendous sigh of relief and gratitude when I finally settled in the living room, and he curled up on the old, rose-patterned, yellow arm chair that he shares with my mom. Exhausted from over-stimulation, Mateo slept away the day with one eye half open, monitoring his family and reveling in his place in the center of the house. When I decided to come upstairs to write and wind down this evening, he ran past me on the stairs and was curled up in his bed with a favorite toy under his muzzle before I entered the room. I know he will sleep well tonight, and I will sleep more deeply because we are home together.

For the first six months of life, Mateo was a street dog in San Juan, Puerto Rico. All of the challenges he presumably faced in that life were intensified in the aftermath of Hurricane Maria. An animal rescue pulled dozens of dogs off the streets and rehomed them in Florida where I lived at the time. Ironically, the day I met Mateo, my young son and I had decided to go to PetSmart to get a gerbil for his first pet. When we walked in the front door, I saw Mateo in a makeshift play area the rescue had set up for an adoption event, and I forgot about the gerbil completely. My son understood with wisdom beyond his years that we would be adopting this crazy-acting puppy instead of a cute rodent, and Mateo became part of our family. We learned over time that Mateo's life on the streets shaped a unique personality: He can open jars without breaking them, he hates the water, and he cannot share his food. Let me be clear, Mateo absolutely can share my food or your food, but no one can share his. Lastly, Mateo knows what home is. Home is where your people are, where your needs are met, where you contribute in real ways, like guarding against the UPS delivery guy's imminent attacks and cuddling with anyone who is feeling sick or sad. Home is where you feel safe and sure enough to let out that sigh of relief and gratitude when you finally get there. Sweet dreams, Mateo.

Slice of Lucy: The Fickle Road

In forty years of driving, I've seen a fair piece of road, and in the 4000+ miles I just drove on a trip, the road was my constant companion, more impactful than my passengers. What I learned about her is that she is fickle. Beyond variables like the weather or the driver's abilities, the road meets you or eats you.

I love to see a road cruise through a landscape, finding a path that surprises the driver with a new vista or challenging her with a higher grade or tighter curve radius. Obviously, the workers who built the road decades ago had some influence on her route, but I bet the road fought them when they tried to avoid a certain thrill or challenge she wanted. When driving into the setting sun, the road seems at times to play peek-a-boo, the blinding variety, providing blessed momentary relief in a dip before rising to force you to stare into the fiery orb. Just when you cannot stand the glare any longer, she provides a respite in the shade of a cliff. 

There are times when other factors change a driver's experience on the road, and when that happens, the road does not care the cause or cost. While driving through western Oklahoma and the Texas panhandle last week, every driver was struggling with the relentless wind blowing across the high plains and highway. I thought my stress levels were high, as I tried to figure out the ballast of my rental SUV in the 60-70mph gusts. Then, I saw a semi on its side, pitifully incapacitated, a long, dark, humiliating skid marking its demise. I could not believe what I was seeing and what it meant for me and other drivers on that stretch of I-40. The road was nonplussed and gobbled up the carcasses of one, two, three more semis in my rearview mirror. To make the scene more dramatic, wildfires erupted on both sides of the highway, licking the road and reducing visibility with a dusky smoke. I raced to outrun that hellscape, but the road was just the stage on which the drama unfolded, a veritable Greek Chorus.

A few days ago, on I-40 once again, eastbound outside of OKC, the road served me a freak encounter. Traffic was dense and demanding a fast clip. I was holding my own in the far right lane, nearing the exit for my hotel that night. I was following a sedan when it swerved onto the shoulder. I had enough time to comment, "Gosh, that car just ran off the road," then I saw why. By the time I processed everything, I'd run over a large piece of metal, resulting in a terrible thud-crunch-screech from my car. Just then, the road gracefully offered up a gentle exit, which I took gratefully, lulling myself into the belief that I had gotten quite lucky. I was able to drive to my hotel and park, ascertaining that everyone was uninjured, though shaken. When I stepped out of the vehicle, however, I immediately saw the fluid flowing freely from the engine compartment and, when I tried to open the hood, spotted the crunched fender and grill. The road had chewed me up and just spit me out to deal with the aftermath: towing, insurance claims, a replacement rental, and an altered itinerary due to lost time. Embarrassingly, the road saw everything. She was neither friend nor foe, instigator nor accomplice - simply a witness to my skewering. 

For the rest of the trip, I seemed to have heightened awareness about the skid marks one sees along any highway. Some bump against the guard rails, pointing to sharp, startling creases caused by impact. Others veer off into the soft shoulder, then back toward the road, hinting that a sleepy driver might have been startled by the rough and tried to regain the straight and narrow. I found myself wondering about those drivers' stories - what they'd been doing just before the event, what caused the skid, their injuries - physical, emotional, financial. The road knows all the stories, but she's not telling.

Slice of Lucy: Water Is Life

While driving throughout the Southwest this March, I've noted that nearly every bridge over a river or stream has had a dry bed beneath it. At Horseshoe Bend in Page, Arizona, the mighty Colorado River seemed more like a lazy river at a water park:

This is not just a clueless tourist's observations. Due to low water levels, Glen Canyon staff recently issued warnings about quicksand, and a marina is being moved to make sure there is boat access to nearby Lake Powell this summer. The Rio Grande was dry as a bone where I crossed it west of Carlsbad, New Mexico. I know the wet season is yet to come in this region, but hailing from the shores of Lake Erie, the desiccated channels have been worrying. The land looks thirsty, plus I've encountered dust storms and wildfires. What is land or life without water? 

Driving through Saguaro National Park outside of Tuscon, Arizona (with an extreme heat dome in place causing temperatures over 100°), I encountered a sign indicating an upcoming roadside exhibit; the word "riparian" in the title leapt out at me. I had to pull over to investigate because my brain could not square my understanding of that word with the desert landscape stretching all around me. 

This display succinctly informs the viewer that the dry-looking hills actually store water, plus the whole area can be flooded when a rain event occurs. The people, flora, and fauna of the area are acclimated to the boom or bust water cycle; their hardiness and endurance are truly remarkable.

There is no doubt that Arizona is in the midst of a drought exacerbated by outsized demand for fresh water and gross resource mismanagement in the broader region. Perhaps the resident wildlife and humans will adapt and find a way to survive and thrive in a drier world. That said, I must be a softer kind of person because, as I head homeward, I am relieved to feel the pull of greener, wetter places. 

Slice of Lucy: Ranch Decor

This morning, as my family and I shared breakfast at the Tuscon ranch where we were staying, I looked up and saw this wreath displayed in a lit alcove, a place of honor:

I immediately had some thoughts, most not too charitable. 

My biggest takeaway was, you gotta work with what you've got, and this ranch has lots and lots of prickly pear cacti. People in Bar Harbor, Maine make lobster trap wreaths, and folks in St. Pete, Florida fashion sand dollar wreaths. What other options would an Arizona-based wreath maker have - scorpions? (Actually, this wondering led me down a rabbit hole online, and it looks like wreaths made of chilies are very popular in the southwest, not scorpions, after all.)

That said, based on other art in nearby alcoves, I am guessing the wreath was faux prickly pear, which of course, made me wonder about how in the world one would dust it. Plus, what did the factory worker think as she attached the spines, probably "Who in the world needs pieces of faux prickly pear?"

Lastly, this wreath made me reconsider the ideal of beauty. Is beauty truly in the eye of the beholder? In this case, I am the beholder, and I have no aspirations to copy this design. Maybe beauty is in the eye of the maker, like all mamas believe their babies are beautiful. So, now, I really want to know who made this wreath. What if it was crafted by the elderly matriarch of the ranch family with knotted (and bleeding) fingers? I daresay I would find the wreath more beautiful, if that were true. If instead it was factory-made, a less burning question would be, who saw the wreath and clicked to buy it, knowing the perfect spot to hang it? 

The truth is, no one else has thought about this wreath as much as I have, although a similar one is trending on Etsy right now.

Slice of Lucy: Iced Tea

 

The movie "Steel Magnolias", which came out in 1989, spoke to me as an 18 year old southern girl who was hungry to shed home, get out into the world, and live a life I chose. The characters were a mirror to my life and identity. If ever there was a steel magnolia, it was my maternal grandmother, all 4'9" of her. She could command a room with her hard blue gaze, shoulders back and hands clasped in front of her, hair coiffed, wearing kitten heels and a wide gold wedding band, while feeding you some of the best food you'd ever eaten. Steel magnolia, indeed. 

In the movie, I loved Truvy's character, all the more because Dolly Parton played the part. (She was the kind of steel magnolia I wanted to be.) Truvy delivered my favorite line of the movie, probably a throw away for most people, but central to my lived experience. She said that iced tea was the "house wine of the South". Truer words have never been spoken. Now, my grandmother would not have approved of a wine reference outside of the type Jesus consumed, unfermented according to her religious teaching, and she certainly would never have approved of Truvy, although she would have prayed for her. However, my grandmother would have wholeheartedly agreed that iced tea is the beverage of choice for any and every occasion. Grandma always had iced tea at the ready. She brewed the tea in a small metal bowl with a full cup of sugar, then mixed in cold water and half a squeezed lemon in a large, pebbled glass container. She plied iced tea as a social lubricant, offering a tall glass to every person who darkened her doorstep, friend and stranger alike. When the women gathered at the dining room table to talk, our hands were wrapped around glasses of iced tea, which flowed as freely as the gossip. Those scenes are the backdrop of my childhood, and iced tea had a starring role. Iced tea is the comfort food of my childhood.

All this talk about iced tea was inspired by a rough day. When rental car issues and Arizona heat sapped the joy from our travels today, I found solace in iced tea. I drank at least a gallon, none of it as delicious as my grandmother's, but it made me feel better, physically and emotionally. Thank you, Grandma; I miss you.

Slice of Lucy: Looking Back

 

Driving thousands of miles provides the opportunity to mull over ideas and things that have happened. So it is three nights later that some nuggets of wisdom have bubbled up from my experience at Lower Antelope Canyon in Page, Arizona. Lower Antelope Canyon is a slot canyon on Navajo land. Physically, the canyon is surprising and stunning. From the high desert, one descends seventy-five feet to the canyon floor, then wends through the water-carved chambers for a quarter mile. Every step reveals novel shapes of flowing stone, and the colors crafted by light and shadow are indescribable and ever-changing. In fact, what you see depends on the time of day and season you visit. Our guide, Trey, laughed at people's attempts to take pictures early in the tour. He said, "Come on, we're not even to the good part yet." In retrospect, I think he was really laughing at the idea of capturing anything permanently in that space. 

That said, based on professional photographers' tips and TikTok videos, Trey could take your phone, quickly change several settings, and click an awe-inspiring image, worthy of any social media platform, like this:

Trey took that picture in less than thirty seconds with my Samsung. In retrospect, I think he was doing that because he recognized I thought that is what I wanted, plus it definitely generated gratuities from everyone on the tour. At one point, though, he told me nonchalantly that he does not take pictures in the canyon for himself. I don't think that is because he goes there three times a day; he is not apathetic or underwhelmed by the canyon. He just knows it cannot be captured. As a picture-taking, semi-obsessed scrapbook-building woman, his wisdom gives me pause. What can I really capture of my life and my people and my world to keep on a shelf?

Halfway through the canyon, Trey and I were slightly ahead of the rest of the group, and he gently reminded me to look back. He said sadly, "Everyone always forgets to look back where they came from." This Sankofa-esque moment stopped me in my tracks. I wanted to go back to the beginning of the canyon and start over, looking forward and backward, up and down, inside and out, with just one goal of seeing the canyon. Of course, that's not how a tour or life works.

Looking back, those perfectly composed pictures mean nothing and show less. They do not reveal what the canyon meant to me, at all.

Slice of Lucy: What Do You See?

A parent's main job, after providing basic needs and unconditional love, is to figure out who their kid is. If we know our kid as well as anyone can know another, we can advocate for them, seek opportunities, and even protect them. 

My son is his own person and has never fit neatly into a standard box. I love this about him, but sometimes, it is challenging to understand where he is coming from and what is driving him. About five years ago, I had a real breakthrough moment with him. We were driving along a residential street after a big snowstorm. I gestured and commented on the expansive front lawns of the houses we were passing: 

"Wow, would you look at that!"

My son replied, "Yeah, it's gross."

"Wait, what?"

"It's so dirty, almost black."

For a moment, I could not figure out what he meant. I kept processing all of the details until I saw what he saw, the narrow stripe of dirty, plowed snow at the edge of the street. 

"That's what you see?"

"Uh, yeah."

What I saw from the same window of the same car at the same moment was the blanket of pristine, newfallen snow to the right of that dirty edge. In fact, my mind did not even register the dirty snow until I worked to see what my son was seeing.

"Yeah," I acknowledged, "I see that dirty snow. Do you see all of the pretty white snow past that?"

"Yeah, I guess."

Now, whenever I am not 'getting' my kid, I look for the dirty snow, and I admit that I try to help him see the beautiful snow. We're both right, of course.

Fast forward to today...My son and I were hiking the south rim of the Grand Canyon. I kept stopping every few minutes to breathe in the view and try to capture some sliver of its greatness with my camera. Completely exasperated, my son finally exclaimed, "Geez, Mom, it's just a hole!" 

I felt disappointed. I tried to impress him by explaining that the Grand Canyon is one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World. He replied sardonically, "It's a wonder-full hole." That's when I laughed, and for the next few miles, we competed to come up with the best 'hole' jokes.  In that moment, I could see clearly that my son, even though he did not have the same motivation as I, had chosen to take a hike with his mother, and I am wholly grateful.

Slice of Lucy: The Sun

 

The Sun

The sights of Arizona have been awe-inspiring and overwhelming today. The Painted Desert and Petrified Forest offered views that were baked over millennia and made one feel as though a visit on this date would differ little or maybe not at all from one in 3026. The colors and other-worldly landscapes constantly amazed me, but what was indelibly imprinted in my memory was the intensity of the sun. 

The sun never relented today, burning across the sky, unforgiving. There were no clouds or trees, and it pursued me whichever way I turned and whenever I tried to duck away. Every time I stepped from the car to explore, I considered the sun, and even while in the car, I leaned away from the window and contorted myself to gain some relief from the visor. My left hand was permanently positioned to shield my eyes, and when I forgot momentarily why I needed the protection, allowing my fatigued arm to drop, I snapped it back immediately into a weary salute position. Unbelievably, I found myself yearning for the cool gray of spring in Cleveland. 

I'll have to hope the sun fades in my memory, thereby allowing other aspects of today's beautiful vistas to shine in their own way. 

Slice of Lucy: Yield and Merge

 

Texas: Yield & Merge

In just two days in the Texas Panhandle, I learned some important lessons about driving and maybe living, too. Texans clearly think of driving as a team sport, whereby people must cooperate and communicate. I base this analysis on their expectation that drivers can and will honor the intent of yield signs and merging. Let me explain.

I had the pleasure of staying overnight in Shamrock, Texas, a little town with big spirit and recognition as the inspiration for Radiator Springs in the movie Cars. At night, I was smitten by the gorgeous Art Deco facade of the U-Drop Inn (where Elvis ate!) and the iconic Tower Station, which was lionized in the movie. However, as I drove around in the morning, I was stunned by the town's reliance on yield signs. Yes, they use stop signs where tourists, like me, blunder through the bigger intersections. Where the real Texans live, where two roads meet in the neighborhoods, they use yield signs. Think about that; to yield means to give way, which is other-focused rather than self-focused. It is based on the premise that someone driving through the neighborhoods would be paying attention and aware of the goings-on. It is not draconian in requiring everyone to come to a complete stop and to obey the correct order of right of way (counter-clockwise where I am from). They soften the rules significantly, but one assumes they want to maintain safety and order. So, they must trust that everyone wants to look out for each other, which is not how it feels where I am from. 

Later in the day, when I exited the highway, the off ramp dumped directly into a two-way side road running parallel to the highway, requiring the driver to cross the two-way road and merge with any traffic. I realized this as I was decelerating and figuring out which direction the gas station was, so I got lucky. If someone had been coming, it could have turned out badly. I am accustomed to an exit ramp that ends at a traffic light, very prescribed. Again, I like the Texan version, which boils down to the idea that drivers exiting the highway should mix into local traffic with awareness and caution. Entering someone else's town should involve a high degree of deference, after all.

Underlying these traffic rules are more salient expectations about how we should interact with the people around us. Instead of tight regulation, there seems to be a symbiotic connection between the people who make up the community. Indeed, yielding and merging seem like an excellent foundation for communal living.

Slice of Lucy: Buy Local?

 

'Buy Local' Has New Meaning

For two days, I have been driving westward. My body aches from the long days at the wheel, but my mind is popping with new sights and lots of time to think. While plowing through Missouri and Oklahoma, the long highway stretching in front of me, I have navigated carefully around hundreds of semis, with just as many headed in the opposite direction. After logging hours and hours of this phenomenon, I am convinced of one thing: The ubiquitous demand for immediate gratification via 24-7 online shopping is too costly to support. 

I do not shop a lot, but I am willfully ignorant of the distance my orders travel. My mom's birthday was a few weeks ago. She asked for a glass white board to keep track of details that keep slipping her mind. I was happy to order it for her, but man, it took forever to get to our house. I was really frustrated that it spent several days in some warehouse in California before being shipped, and as a result, it arrived two days late. I'm sure you have had a similar experience, as have the millions of other online shoppers in this country. Amazingly, the stuff we order is usually delivered within two to three days; it is rare that it takes ten, as it did for this gift. 

I thought about that glass white board all day as I drove and drove and drove. 

After awhile, I did not just think about that white board traveling across the United States; I felt embarrassed that I pushed the button that launched its transnational voyage. When I thought about the white board's even longer voyage from its manufacturing site in China, I felt outrage that it was so incredibly easy to push the button, that whole systems have been designed so I do not think about the bigger picture of my consumer habits, that I became complicit in that system. 

Simply said, a birthday gift, even one for my mom, does not merit such an expenditure of energy and effort, not my energy and effort, by the way. I don't want to swear I will only buy local because I know my consumer habits are well-established and will take practice and intention to change. A blithe promise inspired by road trip observations will not achieve the change that is needed, but I am newly confused, disgusted, and disappointed by the gross reality of consumerism. Driving the route my mom's white board took has brought me some clarity.

Slice of Lucy: The Mother Road

 

The Mother Road

Today, I left home with my 15-year-old son and 81-year-old mother on a 4500+ mile road trippin' adventure. At my last session, my therapist asked me if I was testing my coping skills by setting up this grand experiment. Honestly, though, this is exactly what I want to do right at this moment in my life because I might never have this chance again. Part of the trip will be on U.S. Route 66, The Mother Road, which suits us perfectly, a mother curating this adventure for her son and her own mother. 

Just this first day has found us booking some serious miles and aching from belly laughs, thanks to a stop at Uranus Fudge Factory in Indiana. That goofy shop built on sophomoric fun and puns hit the sweet spot for our little family. I hope the sweetness of this day portends well for the whole trip, and I also hope the Uranus jokes dry up overnight.

Slice of Lucy: Insights

Insights

Every March, teachers at my middle school are given the opportunity to design a one week, deep-dive, multi-grade level class. Students are invited to rank their choices, and everyone is placed, as a result of the director's diligence, in one of their top two choices. All other classes are suspended, so students and teachers can engage fully in this week-long class. As you can imagine, all of the preparations leading up to Insights while teaching a full load is a bear. Someone recently asked me if all of that work and cost are worth it. Having just finished this year's "Insights" class this afternoon, I can affirm, although wearily, its value.

This year, I co-created an Insights focused on creating children's literature. We hung out in the stacks in the children's section of the local library to revisit stories we loved when we were children and to hear from the librarians what kids want from their books these days. We spent the morning in a workshop with a local author/illustrator/professor who shared her process and inspired thoughtful consideration of the relationship between the text and visuals in any book. We worked one-on-one to plan story arcs, develop characters, and fiddle with layouts and formatting. We visited an elementary class to field test our ideas and learned that little kids can be brutally honest, but also encouraging. We ate so many snacks, but we decided that was OK because creators need creature comforts to stay on task and push/pull our ideas into being. We laughed, disagreed, pushed gently, celebrated, and created. Their biggest challenges? Pacing themselves with the snacks and embracing the iterative process of creation. Physician, heal thyself; these are my growth edges, too.

Slice of Lucy: 20/20

 

20/20

Everyone in my circle has eye issues, from middle-aged myopia to glaucoma to ocular tumors. In my immediate family, we all share the joys of snapping zonules (sounds fun, but it's not) and inevitable lens subluxation. No matter the condition, everyone seems to have the same experience when they go to the ophthalmologist. The doctor measures and tests each eye under prime conditions and announces the vision is "not too bad". This misunderstanding arises from the fact that there is no glare in the room, nothing is moving, and there are no flashing lights or precipitation. This would be akin to testing a new car design in the factory rather than on a test track replete with falling rocks, flash monsoons, twists and dips, and sudden stops. For example, when I take my mom for an eye appointment, she waits until the perfect moment when the floaters drift away to dash off the letters on the eye chart quickly. Seriously, the eye doctor is not actually measuring what she can see on any given day, which is what truly matters. Having removed all obstacles and potential complicating factors, the eye doctor sees my eye as an organ functioning in a controlled experiment. If the ophthalmologist could see what the real world looks like through my eyes, she might not sign that form for the BMV.

This misalignment is not unique to the ocular experience. How about the difference between hearing and listening? The eye sees, and the ear hears, but what is actually processed and comprehended? Anyone who has raised a child or taught secondary school can attest to the fact that a perfectly functioning ear does not a listener make. A passing hearing test will not relieve the stress and frustration of a person who does not or will not actively listen.

Maybe this is the problem with western civilization in the 21st century. We can tick all of the boxes for the requisite devices and access to information, but we can make less sense of anything than ever before. We prime perfect responses to challenging debate in the silos of our homes and echo-chambers of our feeds, but we cannot dialogue with each other in order to find solutions that apply to real problems on our streets. We can tend to business, but we cannot cooperate to build anything beyond our immediate scope of interest or control. We tell ourselves that our days are "not too bad", but we struggle to find meaning in our lives. We are highly functional most days, passing all of the tests we impose upon ourselves in terms of being successful, but we are not actually measuring what matters.

Slice of Lucy: English is Messy

English is Messy

I actually love teaching grammar and vocabulary. I make lots of corny jokes and reassure my 6th graders that there is no such thing as perfect; we are all just trying to use the language well. I often punctuate lessons and practice with this refrain: "English is messy." Afterall, there are many exceptions and contradictions, and some rules just do not make sense. 

One fun way to get students thinking about the messiness of English is to ask them to identify some homonyms. They happily shout out examples, and we guffaw at the ridiculousness of homophones and homographs alike. I mean, how is someone supposed to master English when two words are spelled or sound the same (or both), but mean totally different things?

train: Is it a massive vehicle moving at the speed of a bullet or the long extension of the back of a fancy dress? No? Oh, are you trying to get your dog to catch a frisbee? 

bark: You mean that loud noise a dog makes, or it could be the outer layer of a tree...cause that makes sense.

tear: Depending on how you pronounce these four letters, you could mean a rip in your favorite hoodie or a watery secretion from your eye!

bow: I still have to pause and look at the context before proceeding with this one. There is a bit of distance between meanings, including the way to tie a ribbon decoratively versus a weapon with which to shoot arrows. Plus, with a slightly different pronunciation, it could be an actor bending from the hips toward the stage in grateful acknowledgement of the audience's applause.

privy: A personal favorite that I have to teach the kids is the close relationship between knowing, as in "privy to", and an outhouse. Then, I have to make the joke that they are newly privy to the function of a privy.

The list goes on and on:

current

address

fair

spring

wind

English is rife with opportunities for confusion, whether (weather) it's one's first language or second.

A day ago, I was reading the newspaper and saw an article about the war in Iran, specifically the House bill to register males in the United States for the draft automatically. My mind immediately identified the options...

draft: 1) an iteration of a piece of writing or drawing; 2) a current of air; 3) a banking transaction; 4) a technique whereby one racer stays behind another to benefit aerodynamically; 5) negotiations related to trading and choosing athletes for a team

As the mother of a 15 year old boy, I shudder to consider the only other meaning of the word I know. 

Slice of Lucy: Nothing to Write

 

Nothing to Write

Tonight, I have nothing to write. Every idea that crosses my brain pan seems too massive, too serious, too personal. Now, I know how my students feel when I excitedly reveal a writing prompt at the start of class, and they've got nothing to say. 

Empty. Mute. 

When so many big things are happening, it feels disingenuous to prattle about the small things. Now, I know how my students feel when they have to produce a daily journal entry while mentally juggling their parents' not-so-quiet fight about money the night before, their best friend's mercurial behavior, and the chemistry test that looms at the end of the tunnel of a day. 

Choked. Weighted.

Come on, just think of something! Something seemingly light, but simultaneously meaning-dense.

Yeah, no. I have nothing to write tonight. My eyes and mind are heavy; any insights are cemented in my core. I give up, but only for tonight.

Slice of Lucy: Sit & Think

Sit & Think

Today, a seventh grader spoke to my middle school class about his process as a writer. My co-teacher and I hoped his advice would be more readily absorbed, considering he just successfully self-published an amazing book. With a nonchalant confidence, he said all of the right things without prompting:

• Write about what you love.
• Edit.
• Find little corners of time to write in your busy day, like study hall.
• Edit some more.
• AI can be a good tool for illustrations, but you have to start with your own ideas. You should give AI clear directions, like tell it to change a specific detail and to leave everything else unchanged.. AI will not get it right most of the time.
• Keep editing.
• Have fun.
• Ask someone else to look at your work with fresh eyes.
• Amazon takes all of your money if you sell through them, so use your connections at school and in your neighborhood. Get someone who is active on social media to promote your book. Connect with local bookstores.

(Don't you love this kid?)

Then, he dropped the mic...

"It's OK to sit down for 30 minutes and just think."

Just like every other day of teaching, I got more today than I gave.

Slice of Lucy: Sunday Night Reflection #1

 

Sunday Night Reflection

With a week of posts under my belt, I thought I would do what I always ask my students to do - reflect. 

What went well? 

I showed up and wrote every day. 

I pushed through a wall of vulnerability to share with the Slice community and even with some friends and loved ones outside of Slice.

I am walking through the day with a writer's eyes, noticing, wondering, toying with ideas.

Where are my growth edges? 

I need to work on writing concisely while maximizing the power of each word.

I need to think about my audience more. What does my audience need and want, and what do I have to offer them? Oh, by the way, who will be my audience after March is over?

I need to better understand the anatomy of a blog. With outrageous hubris, I imagined I could blog simply because I know how to write.

What support do I need? 

I am going to need people, in and out of Slice, to read critically and give feedback that will uproot me from where I am as a writer. I'm a puny geranium in a too-small pot. I can survive like this forever, but I want to grow and thrive, not just mark the days.

What are my next steps?

idk (just kidding...I had try my students' default response.)

It might seem strange, but I want to figure out why I want to write. 

I want to keep a writer's notebook to jot down words, phrases, moments, etc. that could be used at some point.

I am going to pick a new blog with a different style than I normally choose in order to expand my exposure and understanding of the blogging culture. 

Advice I freely offer my students that I actually need myself: 
"If you always do what you've always done, you'll always get what you've always gotten."

Slice of Lucy: Everyone is Line Dancing

 

Everyone is Line Dancing

For me, line dancing is joy. When I walk into the cafeteria of a nearby Catholic church on Tuesday nights, I leave the world at the door and boot scoot like I don't have a sink full of dirty pots and a bag full of student journals. I laugh (at myself), sweat, sing along, and relish moving my body. I love wearing my cowboy boots, but most people wear workout clothes and portable neck fans. There is a $5 cover for the whole evening from the beginner class to intermediate. So, if you have the stamina, you can dance for over three hours. I'm not there yet, but do you know who is? The lady I call The Nun. 

The Nun is in her sixties. I actually have no idea if she is a nun, but she dresses in black, all the way down to her sensible shoes. She has cropped gray hair, and her spot is a little patch of turquoise linoleum in the front right corner. The Nun is chill, and she knows hundreds of dances. She never hesitates to execute each step, not shyly or self-consciously, but with some reserve. It makes me happy to see The Nun dancing, and gratefully, I often look over at her feet when I cannot remember the next step. 

The whole class is full of interesting people. Probably half of the room is over 50 with the younger set from a local bar in the back, energetically adding turns and heel-toe pivots. They're not showing off; they're just doing their own thing. There is one burly young man who loves to stomp. I mean, he adds stomps, almost like musical accompaniment, and when the dance calls for a stomp, he puts his heart into it. There's a woman in her seventies who brings her older, frail husband. Based on the grip she has on his arm, she clearly expects him to join in some dances, and he dutifully shuffles through the steps, then sits and watches when he gets tired. I imagine they've been dancing their whole marriage and practice all week long in their living room before class. Maybe he used to lead in the past. 

You might have suspected that everyone in my line dancing class is white. They are. I am. 

What is fascinating to me is that just twenty miles to the west, Black folks are line dancing, too - older and younger, experienced and newbies, some with awesome outfits and clack fans and others in athletic pants and Ts. There are characters and veterans there, too. 5, 6, 7, 8...The steps and teaching are the same. The sense of community and judgment-free culture are the same. The joy is the same. 

These separate line dancing groups are bound by joy and don't even know it. We should be dancing together. 

Slice Of Lucy: Friday Night Why

 Friday Night Why

It is March in Ohio, which means our Friday night movies in the living room will be interrupted by....the whine of a leaf blower? Come on! We are experiencing a fleeting warm-up, yet the high maintenance Ryobi blower jockeys are riding tonight. 

These blasted machines are the scourge of neighborhood living and represent an intolerable self-centeredness. "To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world."

1) Ridiculous, inescapable, typically sustained noise. There are scientific studies and new bans to prove a blower's sound is damaging, and it's a type of pollution a neighbor cannot escape. What does it mean if I close my windows and doors, and the whining roar still invades my personal space? It means my neighbor's landscaping "rights" just trampled all over my napping/reading/talking/writing rights. 

2) Disturbance of duff. You see, leaves have fallen from trees for...awhile, and nature has developed a nifty system for reusing and recycling the carbon and nutrients. The accumulated decaying leaves also serve as a nursery for the millions of critters that make gardens work. Blowing duff in the fall or spring (or on a slightly warmer day in late winter) is counterproductive. Would you fill a flower pot with Miracle Grow dirt, then dump it?

3) Lastly, where does the blow go? Let's be honest, blowing leaves is a perverse art form; my neighbor waves and twirls his blower to make the leaves fly up and move together toward...the street. He does not bag them. He does not pile them. He blows them away from his property and into his neighbors' properties and the street, then turns and proudly walks away. Why does that feel okay to him and countless others?

I really do believe in "live and let live", but I also believe your rights end where mine begin, which sometimes cannot be protected with an imaginary property line. With just these few established facts, I feel confident that Thomas Jefferson would be on my side. Besides, my neighbor just finished blowing, and I have a movie to watch.

Slice of Lucy: Action!

Action!

"You all know by now that acting is 50% acting...and 50% reacting."

This wisdom was dropped on 11- and 12-year-olds just moments before the audience was ushered in for their first performance of this year's middle school musical. Actually, the director paused dramatically after saying "acting" and waited for the kids to join her in finishing what must be a mantra of sorts in her space. I think they understood the assignment.

That equation resonates with me as a Humanities teacher. I plan and prepare for a class, show up at the appointed time, and with various props and good material, welcome my students into a story. However, the magic in orchestrating a meaningful learning experience is in eliciting and expecting students to react to what they are reading, researching, and discussing, then building on their wondering and pressing need to know more. 

Case in point, Hamilton by Lin-Manuel Miranda. This musical blurs the line between actor and audience; we are all in the company, powerless to resist the unfolding story. From the opening measure, one reacts viscerally to the music. One reacts to seeing Black, Latino, and Asian actors as the age-old characters of our nation's revolution. One reacts to each character's personal story. One reacts to the stark class lines made visible and indelible. Our reactions help the cast tell their story. It is impossible to watch Hamilton; one is swept up into it!

When I was studying history at my students' age, my teacher, Mr. Blair, droned on and on, listing every detail of what happened on a given day in God-forsaken medieval England. Despite the fact that I had a huge crush on him, I could not stay awake because his recitation was as unhealthy as blood-letting. I never felt like I was part of the learning experience; I was only a semi-conscious observer of his monologue. I'm not saying academic classes have to be show-stopping, but Mr. Blair could have learned from a drama teacher or Lin-Manuel Miranda that delivering lines is the equivalent of an F, that is, only 50% of a rich learning experience.

Slice of Lucy: Confirmation Email

Confirmation Email

At 4 p.m., the email popped into my mailbox. At the time, I was working with a student after school, but I was attuned to the slight vibration of my phone. I'd been expecting it, been led to believe I would receive it. I discreetly verified it was what I thought and hoped it was, then turned my focus back to my student.

This evening, I realize I am happy and grateful to have some small sense of security in this chaotic world, to be able to provide for my family for the foreseeable future.

I am humbled. Some colleagues did not receive the same type of cover letter or any attachment at all. 

I am hopeful about the students I will teach and the growing we will do together in the year to come.

I am proud that I still have something to offer and a place to contribute.

I am also excited (and terrified) to think of what might be next because I have decided I will only sign two more contracts after this one. In May 2029, I will see my son graduated and end my teaching career. I've been a middle school teacher for twenty-six years. Based on the sage advice and example of my mentor who retired before anyone wanted her to, I will stop teaching before I am the teacher everyone wishes would retire.

Quite honestly, I am relieved. I first started mulling over this decision a year ago. When I opened the email and saw the contract today, my decision to retire in three years felt sound. I am confident, fulfilled, and successful as a teacher today and for the next few years, but by May 2029, I believe I truly will be ready to sashay out the door to my next career.

I remember when I signed my first teaching contract in 2000; that was the right choice, too.

Slice of Lucy: This Isn't Ireland

 

This Isn't Ireland...

Saturday's weather was lovely. Temps were in the 40s, and there was a bright blue sky. As per usual, overnight, we slid back into a winter pattern with temperatures in the 30s, mixed precipitation, and gray, gray, gray skies. By this morning, the persistent drizzle was back, washing everything in a bleak monotone, creating icy patches in unexpected spots. I live in Cleveland. 

Five years ago, I uprooted my family from St. Petersburg, Florida, and moved on purpose to Cleveland. (That's a sentence that probably has never before been written or admitted to.) Nearly every Clevelander who hears my relocation story insists that I got it all wrong; most people leave Ohio to move to Florida! I say, you all do not realize that living in Florida is different from vacationing there! 

Anyway, believe it or not, I love Cleveland, even these rough winters. In fact, the weather reminds me of the glorious six months I lived in Cork, Ireland, in 1991. I was colder in those months than I've ever been, including my college winters in Maine and my five recent Cleveland winters. It was deeply, penetratingly gray, hence many hours spent in various pubs with excellent beer, music, and camaraderie. 

So, my wondering today is born of a comparison. Why do many dream of Ireland, but disparage Cleveland? I do understand the differences, of course, but if we just focus on the weather, it does not add up. The way I see it is that those never-ending, wet, gray stretches in Ireland and Cleveland make possible the long-lasting verdancy and abundance of June, July, August, September, and October, plus those same winter stretches create a yearning in the people who squeeze every drop of joy out of spring, summer, and fall. Why can't people appreciate that? Cleveland is the Ireland of the Midwest! By the way, we have the beer, music, and camaraderie covered, too. But what do I know? I'm the one who left Florida with zero regrets.

Cleveland go Bragh (Cleveland Forever)!

 

Slice of Lucy: What Does It Mean To Be Late?

What Does It Mean To Be Late? 

What does it mean to be late? 

It might mean the plane taxis to the runway without you.

Or you get an annoying fee added to your credit card bill. 

Or you might be delivering a baby in about nine months!

This morning, it meant another exasperated car ride to school, deafening, tense silence blooming between my teenager and me. 

My son is a night owl, sleeps through anything, and is a sloth in the morning. During middle school, he would ride with me for our taxing five-minute commute, arriving nonplussed because my start of day was earlier than his. He slow-rolled into school like he had all of the time in the world while I slouched self-consciously into the faculty meeting. 

Fast forward to this year, my son has to catch the shuttle from my school to his before my start time. All of a sudden, he really cares about being on time. He might not spring out of bed until 7:35 a.m., but he is wheedling about it being 7:45 a.m. the second the oven clock presents the magic numbers. How can he not see the irony of his snarky comments as we race out the back door and his leg-pumping as we wait for the light to change to green?

What does it mean to be late? 

Sometimes, it just means things did not go to plan, a detail was neglected, or a barrier presented itself stubbornly in your path.

But it can mean you do not care enough about another person's day or, simply, about someone other than yourself.

It can mean you did what you wanted instead of what you should have.

It can mean stress and disappointment and disrespect.

If we compare time to location, it is plain to see how much precision matters. If we agree to meet at 41° N, 81° W, which is Cleveland, Ohio, and you arrive a few degrees to the north, you will be floundering in Lake Erie, and I will be tapping my foot impatiently, wondering where you are. We will not be in the same place, and I'm guessing we will have feelings about that! 

Time, expressed in hours and minutes, is just a human construct, literally invented to facilitate a workable train schedule. Yet, it bears more meaning when navigated and negotiated between two people. I know too well the impact my son's delays had on me in previous years, so I think I am going to try to do better each morning with him in mind. Giving up a few minutes of washing dishes in trade for a calm, on-time departure would mean a great deal to both of us. 

Slice of Lucy: Learning Piano

 

Learning Piano

This is my first post...ever. I'm 55 years old, and I kind of wonder why anyone would want to read something I've written about something I'm doing. That said, I can write my story even if no one wants to read it, right? I have thirty minutes until my piano lesson, so here goes!

When I was a little girl, I loved to dance. My family somehow scraped together the money for lessons, and I invested myself wholeheartedly in ballet and Russian folk dancing for a decade. Due to time and financial constraints, each kid in my family basically got to do one extra-curricular, and dancing was my thing. Dance gave me a sense of community and joy; in fact, I still take a dance class each week. 

However, thirty years later, when I was awaiting my son's birth and contemplating all of the hopes and dreams I had for his life, I promised him (and me) that he would get to study music at a young age. I knew it would be easier to learn then and would light up neural pathways in his developing brain. True to my word, he started Suzuki violin around the age of eight, and according to that philosophy, I was a partner in his lessons and daily practice. 

After awhile, for a host of reasons, my son switched to piano, so I was no longer a part of his lessons. I felt a sense of loss, not because I was absent from his lessons, rather because I was not learning music. Five years ago, we moved a thousand miles to a new home, and he started piano lessons with a new teacher. Within a year, that piano teacher had a new student -- me!

Beyond my hopes for a child fluent in the language of music, I had always dreamt of sitting at a piano next to an open window, curtains gently buffeted by an evening breeze, a glass of wine breathing and waiting for me to finish a tune, something jazzy and layered, like Diana Krall's "Peel Me a Grape". So, I decided to do something about that dream and signed up for music lessons. 

At the age of 51.

I started with Faber's Piano Adventures Primer, literally a cast-off from my son's earlier lessons, bearing depleted scratch-n-sniff stickers and penciled-in admonitions about shifting finger positions and practice reminders. 

A few years later, I'm still learning piano, and I'm already on Book 3A! That said, although I have learned to read music, every note still takes my whole concerted effort, thinking about what I need to do and actually making my fingers do the required action. 

You might think it is humbling, even depressing, to be such a struggling beginner, especially when I practice after my son who is quite fluent. 

Nope, I love it. Of course, there have been a few tears and some cussing. 

Actually, lots of cussing. 

Truth told, I love working at it, letting the world fade away and exalting in each step toward a recognizable rendition of the assigned piece. 

I love asking my son for help when I cannot figure out the bass clef or something sounds off, especially when he shares that he, too, struggled with the same piece years before.

I love when my mother who lives with me now recognizes the piece I am practicing, which must mean I am actually doing it, playing the piano, right?

I love sharing with my 6th grade students that I, too, have to practice piano each night, and they goggle at me, wondering how and why their middle-aged teacher would subject herself to such a vulnerable and must-be-embarrassing endeavor. 

I'm learning piano! Almost every week, I secretly believe I will not be able to play my piece with any accuracy by the time of my next lesson, but day by day, I build muscle memory and confidence. I marvel at my progress each week from when I first turn the page and see the new music to my last practice before I head out the door to play for my teacher. Speaking of which, it's time to head to my lesson...

At our shared lesson, I love listening to my son work with his piano teacher, asking questions about music theory and struggling with her to figure out a tricky rhythm or chord. I also love letting my son sit in the room while I take my lesson so he can see what it means to always grow and do. Dreaming about what you want to do is just the first step. I always want to take that next step, the doing, and I hope my son will, as well. 

I am a dreamer and a doer. What's next?