She stands in the middle of the room.  But it is not just any room.  It is a room, like so many other rooms, that has defined so many moments in her life.  

She stands there in the pit, the lowest point of the whole place, the point where a piece of the magic begins.  She turns to the back of the room, looking upwards over hundreds of battered, worn seats, seeing shifty figures and faces that have occupied them through the years.  She sees the tears and the laughter, the intense attention and the restless boredom, the family, the friends, the faces of people who made a regular moment wholly unique and irreplaceable, never to be found exactly as it was again.

Her eyes travel up past those seats to the doors which welcomed those faces in, to the booth which controls other pieces of the magic.  She lets her eyes travel across the high ceilings and up to the catwalk, caging in streams of light which illuminate and inform the magic, hanging from above the pieces that will bring people and moments to life.

Then, ever so slowly, she allows her body to turn, facing a gaping hole--dimly lit, empty.  The floor gouged, splintered, worn.  Remnants of tape and paint and blood, sweat, and tears sprinkle the surface which so many have occupied before her.  Remnants of successes and failures--that she does not remember--haunt the space before her.  

And she is not sure she belongs in this room, like she has in others from before.  The pieces of the past do not speak to her here, the pieces of this room are still foreign, strange.  She stands there looking, questioning, hoping, that before too long that strangeness will disappear.  She stands there hoping that the various pieces of the magic she knows so well will come together for her here.  

Because then, standing in the middle of things will feel less daunting.

It is simple.  It is true.

It is the living, breathing mushy stuff.

It's a solid "me and you."

Two hearts pumping and beating together.

It's as simple as "I love you."

When I'm worried, I think of...

First snowstorms

Flakes fluttering through bitter cold

Fireplaces lighting the dark

Steady hands and a gentle kiss calming my nerves

Teachers inspire me.

A poem given to us at our last department meeting.  

After almost two full hours of debate and complaining and whining and griping (sometimes rightfully) about anything and everything that needs to get accomplished but can't because we are only human and can only be expected to do so much, I am so grateful to have received this piece of writing.  

Its simplicity and poignancy reminded me why I do this.  It's not the CAPT scores or the piles of  college recommendations or papers or duties or web portals or professional objectives or whatever else's.  It's the students sitting in front of us.  It is the faint recognition, the pieces of me I see sitting in front of me.  It is the lessons I struggled so hard to learn.  It is the lessons I learned the wrong way.  It is the passion I had then that was stifled too early.  It is the purity and innocence I see before me.  And before that innocence is lost, I want to do something, say something, or not say something to help that purity become what is possible.  

Even though I am tired everyday, I don't regret a second I spend with my students, for my students, because of my students.  This is a life choice.  This is dedication.  This is for them.  Because I was them, and if it weren't for a very small few, I might not have become the me I am now.  

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in my first year, when i teach geography to seventh graders,

one little girl's voice faintly

reminds me of one of my college friends and

i almost give her an A just because she's an echo

of someone who formed a vital layer in me.

over the years I have more students who drift into 

reminders of people in my past;

sometimes I recognize the resemblance immediately,

like the profile of the low appalachian ridge outside the window,

and sometimes it hits me mid-year and,

having created the borders of the connection, 

i then chart the inlands,

embellish and illuminate mountains, floodplains, and

valleys with memory.

i wonder if we all listen to our students for echoes--

in the lilt of a laugh, or how one's hair parts in the middle,

like the friend we had in thenth grade

who wore mega-sweaters and leggings.

or in the turn of a phrase,

the cadence of a question,

the way a hand is slowly raised like the long neck of a dinosaur

in those long-ago science hand-outs,

that smelled like sweet cereal and purple ink.

each september it's as if we have a new chance

to fumble through the past, 

to listen for echoes of ourselves that inexorably decay 

as they resonate and ripple

off the earthtone and crumbly layers

of time, of characters in books, of friends and old lovers--

--and sometimes of the dead,

who we unearth for an hour or so each day; 

time enough to quietly say hello,

how you doing?  I'm glad you're still with me

in this young mind sitting across the canyon, across the great divide.

--Simao J. A. Drew  (teaches literature and language at Liberty High School in Eldersburg, Maryland, and is a member of the adjunct faculty at Frederick Community College.  At the Gifted and Talented Summer Centers sponsored by the Maryland State Department of Education, he teaches creative writing.  His poems have appeared in literary magazines including Scarab and Sandstone Review.)

From old notebook covers and college doodles comes Shakespearean wisdom. Oh, how timely and prophetic.

Our wills and fates do so contrary run

That our devices still are overthrown

Our thoughts are ours; their ends

none of our own. 

--Hamlet

This letter preceded a collection of writings through my past (they can be found under The Familia link).  A Christmas gift, I chose pieces from different points in my recent journeys, pieces that I think this person might appreciate more than some.  My intent--to let her in a little more.  I just hope she receives them the way I think she will.

Consider this another (or the first official) letter of my Letter Project!!

Saturday, December 20th, 2008

________,

When I picked your name last year, I was ecstatic. Not just because I thought shopping for you would be easy, but because I figured I could take the opportunity to thank you for everything you’ve done for me and my family since you entered our lives. But as I began thinking about what I could get you to show such profound gratitude, I came up empty.

There really are no physical things to say thank you from the heart. Finding an object to give as a gift, however beautiful or thoughtful, does not truly accomplish the task. The thing is, there really are no words to portray this feeling, either. And it is here that I stumble on a paradox, the paradox, in fact, of my life.

As an artist, a dancer, a writer, a poet, a teacher, a student of life, I am constantly trying to find a way to experience and express the inexpressible. I go through each experience in real time and then in dreamtime. I analyze and cry and think and laugh and feel my way through the stepping-stones of my life. Sometimes I make things more complicated than they need to be. Sometimes I find a way to see each piece of my puzzle, good and bad, in a new and more meaningful way. Sometimes I realize I need this part of me to survive—I need to dive into the ephemeral energy, the enigmatic space, and I need to flit, or trudge, my way out of it.

And I have done this for as long as I can remember.

When you came into our lives, I was doing just that. In fact, I have been doing just that for the past four years. Who am I kidding? I will probably be doing this for as long as I live. But what I want to share with you is a slice of that journey. I have been working my way into adulthood, and I’d like you to see some of it.

Why? Because you have always inspired me. You have never judged me. You have never made me feel like I had to be a perfect person. You have accepted me as I am and have encouraged me to grow into the woman I know I can be. When we spend time together, I am invigorated. When I am down, you know how to help me. You have selflessly thrown yourself into the morass of our family. You have helped me see that I am stronger and more forgiving than I think I am. For all of this and so much more, I will say the words that never seem to say enough: thank you.

Here are a few more: Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Peace Be With You. And most importantly, I love you.