A Companis Journey - Connections

My Companis journey began as a series of connections.  It started with Donna Beth Blythe, of all places.  The Sunday I became a member of Seattle First Baptist Church (which houses Companis), I read a piece I wrote about my grandmother from the pulpit.  Craig Darling, the Pastor for Call and Vocation and Executive Director of Companis, approached me after the service, and I learned that he had known my grandmother.  That spurred our conversation about Companis, and me becoming a Companis worker.

When I met with Craig and Gary, we talked about my goals as an educator.  How I had learned I needed to be somewhere where I would build long-term relationships with students, the environmental piece could be put on hold for now.  I wanted to work with older students, not elementary aged anymore.  I wanted to get back to the demographics of Fraser kids, at risk youth who need the extra level of support and guidance, because for many reasons related to systematic oppression, that support is lacking elsewhere in their lives.  I mentioned Seattle Education Access (SEA), because I had learned about it from Charlie (my friend from IW), but we weren't sure if it was the right fit yet.

When we looked into it and realized it was actually the perfect fit, Craig and Gary had me come in to SEA with them for a meeting with Anthon and Sarah.  Everyone was looking at my resume when Sarah's eye caught the educational experience section, and I learned that she was also an Earlham English major.

Family, IslandWood, Earlham; I felt there were pieces of my life nudging me along this path I was leaning into curiously.  I started to sink into that feeling of being exactly where I was supposed to be.

That was the beginning of my journey, noticing and receiving the connections.  Now I'm three months in my year of service with SEA.  In my opinion, SEA is a gracious space, a term we've been talking about from Bill Graves book, Sharing the Rock.

SEA logo www.seattleeducationaccess.org

To me, SEA is a gracious place, because it is a place where we practice saying yes.  At SEA, students hear, "Yes, you can go to school.  Here's how..."  SEA is a gracious space, because it is a place of genuine checks-in and debriefs.  I hear the honest truth about others' lives, and share how I am really feeling, through the positive, and the hardships.  SEA is a place where the powers that be spend more time figuring out how to support the people under them, than how to milk them for capital value.

SEA is a place where people see the value in things that can't be measured.  I've had conversations with my bosses and co-workers about how part of our job is to show up and be present.  This means sitting at a drop-in site for weeks before the students feel used to you and ask for help with homework, this means sitting patiently through the silence with students as they work through decisions.  These moments of building something is important work.

My time at SEA is going to be split 50/50 between admin work and tutoring.  The tutoring has been a scary and exciting experience. I've spent the last two years focusing on large group management.  The curriculum I've worked with has either been for 5th grade and younger, or has been after school workshops.  Sitting down with adult students to show them how to do algebra, geometry, calculus, or write a paper was a terrifying feeling at first.

Although I don't remember calculus yet, I really love tutoring at the middle, high school, and even college levels!  So far, my tutoring experience at SEA is helping me realize I do want to be a teacher someday, and I have what it takes to teach math, science, English, maybe even history at the adolescent age level.

Chickadees in the Trees

October 8, 2011 10:00a.m. Low 60s and partially cloudy

Last night, the cloud cover in Seattle finally parted enough that the moon shown through.  Then I woke up this morning to sunlight streaming into my room for the first time in weeks!

I made some tea, bundled up, and went outside.  The only patch of sunlight I could find was across the sidewalk, under the Cedar tree by the curb.  I heard the Black-capped Chickadees first, then saw one flitting around the front door, perhaps attracted to the bird feeder Emily Jane puts out in the tree by the porch.

Until now, I've only seen and heard the chickadees by the side of the house, further away from the road.  This was the first they've appeared during my morning front porch sit spot.  From what I could tell, there were two of them.  The first one was pretty bold.  It hung upside down on one of the lowest panels of the house.  Then it flew over to the cedar tree, and perched all over the trunk, upside down, right side up, and finally settled in a branch.  I "psh psh"ed at it and it moved a branch closer.  Its friend bounced around a little further back.  Whenever a car drove by, or someone walked by with their dog, they both flew high into the Cedar where I could barely see them.

I have noticed many naturalists and environmentalists in this area are deeply curious how people got started naturalizing and building a relationship with the environment.  Some naturalists' stories start with a place-based experience, growing up in a rural area, having woods nearby to play in as a child.  Many others stem from having mentors and teachers who were enthusiastic nature lovers.  I've been thinking about my journey as an environmentalist, and am grateful to my creepy memory for the clear moments I can hold onto from when I first naturalized.

I think the Blythe Spirit, our cabin in Colorado, had a lot to do with starting me on this path.  One of the first summers in La Veta I can remember was when I was about 7.  The family was hiking to the meadow, and one cousin wanted a break before we passed the stone wall that supports the hill next to the cabin.  I wanted to keep going, probably mostly to argue with 4-year-old Jack, so Uncle David walked with me.  We walked to the meadow without stopping once, except for a moment around the bend while Uncle David explained his different questions about how the creek had once formed the cliff we were standing on and the one across from it.  At the time I did not understand the concept of rock being shaped by water, and did not immediately absorb the idea he was presenting.

When we got to the meadow, we kept going a little way through the trees at the other end.  We looked back at one moment, and Uncle David asked if I saw a bit of color.  I got excited because I did see a bit of red, it was Aunt Gretchen's shirt and the rest of the family had made it to the meadow!  Before we started back to meet them, Uncle David pointed out the color he had been referred to, which was a butterfly he had seen instead of Aunt Gretchen.  I shrugged off that moment, because again I was eager to brag to Jack and Laura Beth about how fast I had walked.

Photo by Carol Blythe

What's interesting to me about those two moments, Uncle David pointing out the ravine and the butterfly, is that although at the time I am sure I acted disinterested, those tidbits have remained with me to this day.  I vividly held on to that hike, and my perception of natural areas has probably been formed by it.  My favorite thing to do in my free time is to sit quietly in the woods, looking for butterflies or other creatures.  When I am in the woods with other naturalists, I love to talk about how features of the land came to be the way they are.

Experiences like these give me hope as an educator.  I have probably gone for hikes with hundreds of kids, ages six to sixteen.  I have heard more than my fair share of whining, complaining, seen plenty of eye rolls, had kids anxiously ask for "lodge time," to go home, to get out of the woods, to not have to stand quietly for one minute, to not have to listen for the birds, to not have to stop hiking to learn about the plant or tree.  Maybe they will never look back on those hikes again.  But maybe they will hold the full meaning of my lessons somewhere deep inside that will guide them for years to come.  Either way, my journey as an environmentalist allows me to feel blessed to share the potential of this path with others.

Craving

Photo by Emily Jane Schankerman

Yearning.  Desire.  Want.  Thirst.  This summer, same as last summer, I have it.

I think the reason is I am so completely dissatisfied with how I've been spending my summers.

Summers shaped me, they were when I learned to fall in love with the world.  Summers were about sleeping under open sky, rushing for the moment, finding myself inside a safe space.  This is all a magical way to say summers were about camp.  Staying up past responsibility to find something big enough to hold us all (beauty art love nature).

Being done with school and trying to figure out the next steps in the five year plan has made me think back to those times when I had no cravings because I was doing exactly what I needed to be doing.

Each time I look at the dim night sky from within the city, each time I try to describe my feelings and end up discussing logistics, each time I'm riding my bike and wondering why I can't just go faster, when I'm at a restaurant and no food or drink is quite what I feel I want, I get the sense that it all leads to one big craving for something spectacular.

Photo by Sarah Eisenberg

I'm excited because I think I'm on the brink of satisfying this hunger.  When I look back to those times with no yearnings, I can pinpoint why I was so happy, and I'm beginning to find and create those conditions again.

Sitting

I've had a few Sit Spots in my life.  While studying abroad in New Zealand, I visited a sit spot twice at Quaker Acres.  As I settled down next to the Peace Pond for the first time, I woke up too late to the fact that I was sitting by stagnant water at dusk.  Despite being eaten alive by the mosquitoes, I liked that spot to sit, and its serene and calm beauty in an obvious way.

Last year at IslandWood we had to do sit spots as a year long project for our Natural History and Ecology class.  We were told to sit for at least half an hour, so that our presence would stop being a disturbance to the natural flow of the ecosystem.  We were also told to visit our spots at different times of day, to see different patterns.  Dawn and dusk were my richest experiences sitting on the decomposing log off the first turn from the Treehouse Loop by the bog.

I want to go out to my sit spot during the evenings more, because on the 20th at three points a large bird, possibly an owl, swooped from one of the trees close to my log down to a tree on the other side of the spine trail.  Unfortunately, these bird sightings happened right as dusk was approaching, probably the worst time to actually see the birds.  What amazed me was how quiet the birds were.  Each time one flew near me, I had no idea it was there until I saw it, its wings made no noise during take-off or landing, which gives me the idea that this bird was hunting. ~Natural History Journal, 9/20/2009

The majority of my IW classmates became slackers when it came to this project, and I was no exception.  In about February I became invested and did five sit spots every other day, connecting my spots to another assignment we had and writing poems about my sits.  Overall though, my sits were sparse and scattered.

To prepare for my IW sits, my summer homework was to find a sit spot and sit two or three times.  This idea seemed ludicrous while running Camp Fraser, but I managed to work in two sits and even found the inspiration for my poem "Words in the Woods."  That spot was the campfire by the Deer cabin; I had a sick camper resting in the cabin, so my main sits felt more on edge than I thought the assignment was asking for from me.

My favorite sit spot assignment was at Earlham College for my class "American Literature and Ecology," taught by Scott Hess.  Scott has worked on pieces of writing calling for a localized concept of nature and wildness, instead of traveling to the ends of the earth and spending resources to find a sublime picture of the wilderness.  Our class focused on dissecting the dichotomy between natural and cultural areas, so perhaps it was fitting that my sit spot was my favorite hill on campus, which was really a drainage ditch.

The prompts Scott gave us for our sit spots were unlike any other way I had been asked to sit in nature.  He asked us to write reflections each week on our spot, sometimes asking us to look for patterns, imagine our spot 100 years ago, bring someone to our spot and reflect on that experience, write in a character voice about our spot, make a piece of fiction set in our spot, interact with our spot in some way.  Through Scott's class, I felt moved to see myself as an active member of the habitat of my sit spot; as a part of that place.  Instead of sitting quietly for half an hour and observing everything I could, I would roll down the hill, climb the tree, walk around my spot, bring friends with me and chat with them through my sitting.  I might not have seen as many birds or mammals this way, but I noticed the blades of grass, the dragonflies, and most importantly I recognized how I felt being a part of that space.

I breathe in the night air and feel my own memories seep in through my mouth.  Memories I scatter each time I come here.  I shake off a few moments of my life, and leave them in the soil.  They nourish the grass as it grows and get eaten by the bugs and fly through the air back to me and remind me of themselves when I least expect it.

Rolling down the hill is hard tonight.  I always give myself up to the hill, let my vulnerabilities down and then the hill takes them as I roll away and I think to myself, "And what?" and listen and hear the hill is speechless so I keep rolling.  Tonight I'm holding back for no apparent reason, and when I don't let the vulnerabilities go they're still inside me as I roll and punch around me with each rotation down the hill.  

That hill remained an important spot for me at Earlham.  Almost all my friends could tell you a time when we went to roll down it together some night.  It was a rare sledding spot during the Indiana snowstorms.  Despite being nestled by two buildings and a parking lot, there were some great views of the stars from lying on one's back at the bottom of the hill after finishing a good roll.

Photo by Emily Schankerman

At my house in Seattle, I got the inspiration from my friend Lily recently to go outside first thing in the morning, instead of turning on my computer and looking at a screen immediately after waking up for the day.  I make a cup of tea, sit in the sunniest spot I can find, and spend fifteen to twenty minutes listening and observing.  I've heard a robin's song, gotten smiles from some passersby, complete avoidance of eye contact of others, said "morning" to the neighbor as she drives off to work, seen the gray squirrels that crawl all over the roof at night, and breathed fresh air.  It's not as isolated from society as my previous sit spots, but after Scott's class, I prefer it this way.  The photo is by my roommate, as an example of some of the wildness one can see from our front porch.

As a lifelong learner, I'm glad to experience the value of this activity with no grade or judgment lingering in the future.  It's my new morning ritual; a way to set the day out on my terms with the world.

Mother's Day

My home church, Calvary Baptist in D.C., now has a security system where one must call inside on a phone to gain access to the building. Whenever I'm home for the summer or a week in the winter, and find I don't know the person answering the phone, I hear myself saying, "I'm Carol Blythe's daughter." These words give me a green light.

What power do those words have to open doors and clear pathways? For Mothers' Day, I've spent some time reflecting on what it means to be Carol Blythe's daughter.

I'm Carol Blythe's daughter, I hear a word as I'm floating about the house, and I'm triggered to belt out a song or make one up if needed.

Upon moving to a new city, I am pulled like a magnet to the most progressive Baptist church around, because I'm Carol Blythe's daughter.

I'm Carol Blythe's daughter, so I leave the house to go out, then come back in to grab my water bottle, then turn back again to grab my keys, then run back again to grab my phone.

I wear skirts that show my hairy legs, and I love myself this way, because I'm Carol Blythe's daughter.

I'm Carol Blythe's daughter, I inhale books as if they are air.

I set all my watches and clocks five minutes early in hopes that one day I will arrive somewhere on time, but when I do show up incredibly late, I tell my friend, "I had left the house at the time we were supposed to be meeting," as if this is a great achievement, and it is, because I'm Carol Blythe's daughter.

I'm Carol Blythe's daughter, so if there is a friend within a 100 mile radius of me with nowhere to stay, they are well fed and sleeping on the futon in my living room.

My sister Laura Beth reminds me of how we use our off days to give service to causes that feel genuine -- meals for shelters, cleaning schools, visiting church elders, creating fun activities that feed connections with kids and Downtown Social Club -- because we're Carol Blythe's daughters.

I'm Carol Blythe's daughter, which means there was no possible way I could have been friends with Carol Blythe in my adolescence, as my stubborn streak and determination to carve my independence in the world constantly caused friction with the woman who gave me all of this.

Biking and Butterflies

Last year at IslandWood, I came into my own, again, as my friend pointed out to me. I shaved my head, which I've wanted to do since I was 11. I wrote poems and shared them publicly. Lacking my cello, I learned how to play guitar and grew a voice.

And, for the third (and final!) time in my life, I learned how to ride a bicycle.

It's been a whole year since I got on the two-wheeled monster named Norbert and learned how to pedal and balance. I feel a bit like a child typing that. Although it took my own bravery and gumption to hop back on the bicycle, after two failed attempts in my childhood, I could never have done it without the support of the IslandWood community. From Zach actually guiding me through the steps toward peddling, to Kate lending me her helemt for months, to Ray's tips on zig-zagging uphill, to folks just hollering and cheering for me as I rode by, I felt a lot of support everytime I got on the bike.

Now I've bought myself a bike that changes gears and has thin enough tires to make it up substantial hills. Misty (the Kona Dew Seattle bike that are to the horses of Chincoteague what Norbert was to dragons) is a beautiful hybrid with colorful streamers gifted by my roommate E.J. I ride her several days a week, to school, to work, to the grocery store, to the Bagley house for an afternoon visit. I still have a long way to go to be a comfortable city biker, I stick to the trails as much as possible. But I really love being at the stage where everyday that I hop on the bike, I can tell how I'm improving. I get a little bolder signaling, a little faster on the hills, a little more aware of what's going on with my bike.

Inspiration and Identity

I think reading my roommate, Emily Jane's, new blog was my biggest inspiration to start one of my own.

Living on the other side of the country from where I was born and raised, working, volunteering, going to grad school, and having a social life definitely gives me lots of feelings to process. I want to honor the experiences I'm having and have a space to reflect and sort through how they are fitting into my life and helping develop my identity.

I think this first post needs to be about how all the different pieces of my teaching identity are coming together through all the different educational experiences I am creating and having.

University of Washington -- Grad School

Grad school classes on science, education, and science education at UW are shaping my teaching theories. I love, and have always loved, being in school because I love spending so much of my time actively reflecting on what I do with the rest of my time.

The most important lesson I have learned from grad school has been how to affirm myself. Although my teachers have been nurturing, I've noticed I get very little external praise. This is done in an intentional way that has helped me recognize when I need to be giving myself praise instead of relying on someone else's opinion. I am trying to affirm my students less, and instead guide them to learn how to praise themselves for a job well done.

LASER

We do not shoot the children with Laser guns, but I understand why everyone wants to ask this and/or make laser sounds when I tell them where I work.

Working at LASER has been helpful to get practice with large group management, dealing with behavior issues, and planning activities. This job has confirmed what I always expected, that working with children is more beneficial to me when I am building long-term relationships. I've been running the 4-H club every Thursday, and although that hour goes by fast, it's also nice to know there's next week to finish up the unfinished business.

Stewardship Stories

My Master's Project has been an attempt to forge all the theory and practice. The group of grads working on Stewardship Stories spent months going to meetings, writing up lesson plans, revising curriculum, creating schedules, researching theories of development, reading resources on storytelling, stewardship, digital media, media literacy, and writing our proposals (and this is not to mention months before we came onto the project when the IslandWood and Seattle Parks and Recreation staff planned goals, timelines, stipends, and more) to find ourselves scrambling every week to keep our heads above water as we lead workshops 2 hours long.

It has been amazing to finally start working with the teens. They are a great group of kids. They have so many interesting experiences that are being translated to three minute videos. It feels really good to push them to share their voices, because their stories are ones that need to be heard.

Youth Group

I've started helping with the youth group at Seattle First Baptist Church. It's a really small group of kids who grew up in the church and attend with their families, which reminds me a lot of my own experience as a youth at Calvary Baptist Church in D.C. Mostly I've just played games and hung out with the youth. This has been a good piece to include in my teaching identity, a place I go to completely as a volunteer, that's connected with my spiritual roots.

Alleyside Hotel

Living with four other educators, and having an open door to so many different friends and visitors, has been a grounding experience. It's fun to come home at the end of the day, share stories about children philosophizing about the rain, gather ideas for experiential games with balloons, get advice on dealing with children with behavior disorders, and know that I'm part of a community of creative educators.