Welcome.

A number of people have, shall we say, strongly encouraged me to post pictures of our apartment in Philly. After a few spurts of decorating, the most recent of which occurred this past super hot weekend, its becoming more and more homelike - and has finally reached the point where pictures won't feature mainly blank walls and stacks of empty cardboard boxes.

So, here, a brief tour of the flat... hopefully enough to whet your appetite for a visit ;)

our modern-day larder:

enough to feed my significant other for a week?

plus, three days worth of teaching materials packed and ready to go.

herbs sprout very quickly in a philadelphia "green house"...

a desk much cleaner than mine.

knick knacks in cubby holes: each with its own story.

a good space for living.

you're invited to dine with us.

note the theme?

wander down the hallway...

kitchen!

it gets pretty hot in here, but usually smells oh so good.

let your mind wander the world while you chop some veggies.

continue down the hall...

the loo.

(built for midgets)

morning view: eclectic living.

our lovely - and so spacious - back porch!

fabulous mulberry tree, whose fruits lie sleeping in our freezer.

A Phenomenal Poem.

When I went to the library to pick out Maya Angelou's memoir, I noticed a collection of her poetry sitting next to it on the shelf. Being myself, I naturally checked that one out as well. This afternoon, waiting for students to arrive for my classes, I flipped through its pages, reading this verse or that, losing myself in the rhythm of her voice.

I love poetry. There is something beautiful and monumentous about riding the ebbs and flows of language and cadence. I need to read poetry more often: this I realize every time I do immerse myself in verse. Sigh. And let it be.

Anyway, here's a poem from Maya that I - and the friends I read it aloud to this evening - absolutely adore. And I dedicate its posting to all the phenomenal women in my life...

"Phenomenal Woman"

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size

But when I start to tell them,

They think I'm telling lies.

I say,

It's in the reach of my arms,

The span of my hips,

The stride of my step,

The curl of my lips.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.

I say,

It's the fire in my eyes,

And the flash of my teeth,

The swing in my waist,

And the joy in my feet.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Men themselves have wondered

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can't touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them

They say they still can't see.

I say,

It's in the arch of my back,

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Now you understand

Just why my head's not bowed.

I don't shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.

When you see me passing

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It's in the click of my heels,

The bend of my hair,

The palm of my hand,

The need for my care.

'Cause I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Life Reflected.

I have just finished reading Maya Angelou's memoir, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. A teacher friend and I chose it as the first book for our recently started book club. It's taken me a few weeks to get through, but I have thoroughly enjoyed this book and the reflections it has elicited.

I first "discovered" memoirs a few years ago. I credit a mentor of mine, a wise and reflective woman, with that introduction. I quickly fell in love with the honest stories and the reflective wisdom which caresses my own poetic nature. Still today, there is something refreshing about slipping into someone else's story, listening to someone else's thoughts, and reflecting on the intersections of our distinct lives. It is a type of writing, a type of thinking, which comes naturally when my mind is calm and at peace.

It's a balance, this writing style, between telling a story from the past and reflecting on it in the future. Mixing the honesty of the experience once lived through with the meaning realized in hind sight. An art form, really.

Let me share with you, here, a passage I particularly enjoyed from Maya Angelou's work:

"My education and that of my Black associates were quite different from the education of our white schoolmates. In the classroom we all learned past participles, but in the streets and in our homes the Blacks learned to drop s's from plurals and suffixes from past-tense verbs. We were alert to the gap separating the written word from the colloquial. We learned to slide out of one language and into another without being conscious of the effort. At school, in a given situation, we might respond with 'That's not unusual.' But in the street, meeting the same situation, we easily said, 'It be's like that sometimes.'"

Pencils.

I decided today that pencils are my favorite renewable resource. (Well, or at least a close second to water...).

I'm a teacher.

I had a parent ask me a question today that I was used to fielding in Uganda (with this exact phrasing) but haven't dealt with so much in the US:

"Are you a teacher by profession?"

My response today, as it almost always is, was affirmative: "Yes."

Today's parent followed up with encouragement: "I can tell. You're very good at it." (A blessed confidence booster after a crazy afternoon of traffic that resulted in me reaching my teaching site ten minutes before that class started - so glad I didn't procrastinate this week's prep!)

I don't have a degree in Education (yet). I don't hold a teaching certificate. But I do have a decent amount of training in teacherly type things (and plenty of it specific to the work that I'm doing now) and a fair amount of experience.

I am a teacher by vocation - and, at least currently - by profession.

And, as a teacher, pencils are essential to my line of work. Other writing utensils can be useful, but even with my adult students, there are times when a good sharp pencil - with an easily rubbable eraser - is just a basic necessity.

Because I often require students to write with pencils (or at all), I have a bag of them that I bring to every class. Three weeks into this teaching term, I've seen a fair number of my pencils walk away. Or, perhaps I should say, I haven't seen them: students or their parents have (usually accidentally) walked away with them.

Given the frequency with which I lose pencils, one might expect my supply to be rapidly dwindling. This is not, however, the case.

Enter today's grand realization: Pencils are a fabulous renewable resource.

What do I mean?

Only this: as quickly as I lose pencils, I seem also to be gaining them. And some of the ones I've come away with are more fun than the ones I started with. For example, although I originally filled my bag with plain yellow #2 pencils, today's assessment notes were taken with a lovely white and green "Happy Halloween" pencil.

It might bother me that so many of my pencils tend to find new homes so easily - if not for the fact that I keep coming away with others to replace them.

Like I said, a fabulous renewable resource.