Because I don't have enough to do as a teacher, mother, and novelist (LOOK FOR MY WORK COMING SOON THROUGH A NEW PUBLISHER! MORE ON THAT LATER), I decided to audition for a role in a Christmas production, the It's a Wonderful Life Radio Show, a delightful presentation of the classic as a 1940s radio program in which I would portray a voice actress doing several characters. When people asked the real reason why I wanted to be in the play, the answer came to me - I love being somewhere in which I am simply Courtney, not so-and-so's mom or so-and-so's wife or so-and-so's teacher. Also, theater is the one place I don't have to pretend to be anyone but myself. Except on stage, of course. I also feel I'm on the cusp of being a minor local celebrity, and want to ride that wave as long as possible. 

And, as president-elect of an Indianapolis social theater club, The Players (which is decidedly NOT a swingers club, despite the name), I figured I should get on the stage from time to time myself, if only to remind myself of the sheer vulnerability and risk of major embarrassment and shunning, should one not perform up to standard in front of a live, paying audience.

At the auditions, I earnestly presented my very best accents and projected my effervescence, winning myself several different voices in the show, including a dense but sweet secretary with a Boston accent; snobby east-coast wife; shrill and angry mother; and loud Italian pub owner. But I did not garner the coveted main female part. Though I long ago realized that I am "quirky, supporting actress" in both the theater and in real life, just once I'd love the spotlight...but I digress. I effusively accepted the role, and gamely threw myself into rehearsals and my role.

First, I had to develop my radio actress character. I decided she should be Violet McBride, an Irish immigrant who was once quite the looker, but is aging and now has the body/face for radio (again, a nod to real life). Being one of 16 children, Violet decided to remain single and throw herself into her career, not thinking about how aging is the death knell for women. After a few weeks of rehearsals, work, and juggling the kids/spouse, I wished I had tossed "narcoleptic" into my character's description, so I could take cat naps on the stage between my characters. This led me to the idea for my next novel, The Narcoleptic Actress, since it's hilarious to imagine a worse career choice for someone with this condition. Perhaps she'll be provided with an electric collar to jolt her awake? Or maybe my fatigue is causing me to once again find things funny that aren't.

Community theater (theatre? I'm never sure) people are the absolute best. They, like fellow writers, are my tribe. Creative, fun, weird, intense people who crave something more than, well, I can't really quantify it. But they all understand. It's a strange symbiotic relationship. We all need each other to make the play work, and it's like losing a friend when the run of the show ends. 

The play opened a couple of nights ago to rave reviews. I felt electric as the work we put in buzzed through my sad, middle-aged body. The audience reactions brought me out of my stupor and made me want to entertain them even more. Is it sheer narcissism to love it? Or to thing people want to read what I write? I shall ponder these things, but not stop because they bring me joy. 

SHAMELESS PLUG: If you live in the Indy area, you can some and see this terrific show, whose cast members include some of the most talented people I've ever performed with. We are at the CAT Theater in Carmel, IN, for the next few weekends! It's great for the whole family, and supports the local arts. Click HERE for ticket information.

While scrolling through Facebook earlier, I saw a dire warning - the Polar Vortex supposedly will be upon us come Thanksgiving. I loathe the cold like a fattie loathes a three-way mirror under florescent bulbs. Both, to me, bring on spasms of regret and despair. Being of delicate constitution, any temperatures under about 65 degrees are anathema to me. I cannot abide discomfort of any type.

Since I moved back to elementary school, I have recess duty, which requires being out of doors for at least 20 minutes each afternoon, supervising what can only be described as a scene from the Lord of the Flies. On cold days, it's Lord of the Flies begging to go inside where it's warm. Wimps. If I have to be out there, so do they. However, I don't really own a warm coat, as I simply avoid going outside in the arctic tundra. After the first frigid day of 55 degrees, I hightailed it to the local Goodwill to see what kind of coats they may have, since I refused to spend hundreds on some coat that acknowledges that cold weather is okay. I found a great long purple coat for $9, and snatched it up. It makes me look like Violet Beauregard after she gets to the blueberry pie portion of the meal-in-a-piece-of-gum she greedily slurped down. But it was cheap and it keeps the deep freeze at bay.

On those cold days, I reminisce back a month ago when I took a solo trip to the wine country for my cousin's wedding. Forest fires aside, it was a wonderful boondoggle. The best part? It was warm. California warm. Warm all year warm. Out there, the only Polar Vortex was the extended metaphor for my life, which unfurled over several days.

I found myself surrounded by Fabulous People. My new cousin-in-law (is there such a thing?) is a Master of Wine, meaning that she can, by what can only be described as olfactory sorcery, sniff and taste pretty much any wine in the world and tell you the vintage, grape, and region of the wine, among other things. My cousin is a wine expert, and he does all kinds of things I don't really understand in the world of wine. At their Napa wedding, I sat at a table with an opera singer, an orchestra conductor, more Master of Wine candidates, and other bright and interesting people. For the first time in a long time, I discussed books and music and drank really, really good wine, not the crap on sale in the grocery aisle that I'm kind of embarrassed to buy, but don't know any better. But the whole time my insides froze and vortexed. I felt like a fraud. I worried that any minute they'd realize I'm just a bumpkin elementary school teacher from Indiana, and I had no idea why these people accepted me as one of their own. Maybe it's because I'm hilarious and outgoing, and marginally inappropriate. I felt like I fit in with them in a way I don't fit in here in the heartland. It felt like my beloved Boston (where, for some reason, the cold is okay because there's an ocean - don't question my logic), full of kindred spirits.

The vortex grew only greater as I returned to my life. Don't get me wrong. I have a superb and kind husband, and the three best kids on the planet are my very own. I teach a group of inquisitive whirlwinds who teach me as much as I teach them, and let me joke around and give them ridiculous nicknames. But my breath caught as I drove through bland cornfields and past all the fast food restaurants. I missed the warmth of the wine country and the people there. I missed the feeling of belonging. I missed the top shelf wine that I couldn't ever afford because of said career as a teacher. I even missed the very quirky AirBnb house I stayed in that had a terrifying picture with eyes that followed me all around. I missed the life I thought I'd have, but that I don't. The thought that I'm 47 and it's getting too late to do all the things I believed I had forever to accomplish when I was 27. The Polar Vortex spins its ugliness in my heart and I push and swim to get out. Every morning, I've started focusing on the very real and wonderful aspects of my life (listed above) and ways I can get back to myself. And every morning I leave before dawn to go to my non-glamourous job that fills my soul with joy, and I think of the stories I want to tell the world as I navigate my Ford Flex through the streets. 

The meteorologists are telling me that this winter will be colder than normal. I'll want to run away to the wine country and the warmth and the interesting and fabulous people there, and I'll have to remind myself of everything I have right here. I'll get into my purple grape coat and carry on.

Let me begin by stating that here in the heartland, it's about 80 degrees today. There's a healthy wind, and my main reason for braving Target on a harrowing and rare Saturday run with everyone else in our town was to find a kite for my eager boys, who were imagining hours of carefree running about with a great plastic bird (or similar) soaring high aloft our neighborhood among the cornfields. As we navigated the too-narrow aisled and dodged abandoned-in-the-middle-of-the-store carts (do people actually not realize that leaving your cart in the middle of a row is not good etiquette?) in our fruitless quest for a kite, we were shocked to find Santa and snow globes and Rudolph next to the decorative gourds and mass-produced, flame-retardant costumes, just rows away from the discounted pool toys. Clowns to the left of me, snowmen to the right. I found my head whipping back and forth between the two, trying to reconcile the state of the world in which we live.

It all started this year with Pumpkin Spice offerings in August. Actually, it started before that, when I got my back-to-school summons with the date of JULY 31 ON IT. School should not start before Labor Day; Pumpkin Spice lattes should not exist before October; and Christmas should not be strewn all over Target before Thanksgiving. And kites should always, ALWAYS, be in stock. 

Thanks to global warming, I'm in a constant state of confusion as to what time of year it is. Seasonal decorations in the wrong seasons just add to my state of cognitive dissonance. When I was a wee lass back in the blissful days of yore, when parents let kids run wild and holidays stayed where they belonged, summers were long and Christmas didn't start until the day after Thanksgiving. I never had to peel back the layers of my feeble mind to determine which holiday I needed to prepare for. I just put out my acorns and colored leaves garland, bowl of lumpy decorative gourds and impossibly small pumpkins, and tall and fall-smelling pillar candle. But Target has moved headlong and wantonly toward December 25, brazenly displaying a creche next to a Grim Reaper. 

After loading my cart with paper towels, dryer sheets, a shirt for a homemade Halloween costume, death liquid (aka Diet Coke) for the husband, and some socks - everything except the kite we came for - we trundled to the parking after finessing the checkout line to get to the secret one that no one but us seems to see, thus avoiding the dreaded long wait at the cash registers, I felt a little sad that everything is such a rush. I looked at my three teens, loping along in that teen way, and wondered why we need to push through our years so quickly? With all the horror in the world - Trump as our president, crazies who murder strangers, schools so stressful kids are on meds in droves - can't we just have a little anticipation for Christmas magic? Life is confusing enough without Frosty among the pumpkins.

So, my oldest child now has a driver's license and a car. It's my old car, my trusty Mazda 5, which I hated for many reasons and wasn't all that sad to pass on to the next generation. I replaced it with a Ford Flex, which I love more than any girl has a right to love a car because I feel like I'm driving a cool surf wagon and the seat AUTOMATICALLY ADJUSTS TO WHERE I WANT IT WHEN I GET INSIDE, but that's another story...

The real story here is one of letting go, something my generation inexplicably has difficulty with. My daughter and I were slogging through the Saturday crowd at the BMV the very first moment she was eligible to receive her small, plastic ticket to freedom (for me as much as her). As we waited, we watched dejected people swear under their collective breath because they'd been denied something by a BMV hag. We amused ourselves by coming up with the answers to interview questions one must have in order to be hired there. Some examples:

Q: Is customer satisfaction important to you? A: No.
Q: Is being efficient important to you? A: No. 
Q: Do you like to take breaks at the busiest time of the day? A: Yes.

After we tired of that game, my daughter shared with me that she was surprised I was "letting" her get her license already, and that many of her friends' parents were too nervous to let them drive. Then, she revealed that many of her FRIENDS were too nervous to drive. Flummoxed, I remembered back to 1987 when I got my license. None of us could wait until we could drive. It meant absolute freedom and awesomeness. Why would anyone want to deny his or her child this autonomy and responsibility?

So after we got home after only two rounds and three hours at the BMV - I had not brought some obscure paper that we showed the lady on our phone screen, but we needed a paper copy - my dear girl drove off by herself as I took obligatory "driving away for the first time" photos for social media sharing, I did a little informal survey of people I know with 16 year olds. I was shocked to hear them say things like, "I'm not ready for (insert snowflake's name here) to drive. It's too scary," or, "(Insert name here) has anxiety," or "I don't mind driving (name) a little longer." It was the last one that really got to me - I couldn't wait to have my own snowflake driving herself to the dance studio and school and to her myriad social engagements! What has happened that we can't let kids grow up and be free? I don't want mine around living in the basement, so I'm sure as heck letting them hit milestones on time.

The best part of having another driver in the house came yesterday, when I was able to go out for cocktails and appetizers with coworkers after school. See, last week I wouldn't have been able to go because I would've needed to pick up one son at football practice. Yesterday, I texted the daughter, and made her go get the son. I got to be "not mom" for a whole hour until guilt prodded me home to fix food for everyone (why do they want to eat dinner EVERY DAY?).

My daughter and I both got more freedom that day at the BMV. Her head is a little higher as she knows I trust her, and she trusts herself. Do I worry a little every time I hear her fire up the fierce and mighty Mazda 5? Maybe. But I wouldn't trade that freedom for the world.

Confession: every year, I think about leaving teaching, usually right after retuning after Spring break when the whiff of despair that there are STILL SIX WEEKS left before the sweet release of summer permeates the building. I spend time updating my resume and spinning my teaching experience into something resembling professional marketing/writing/editing/whatever skills. It never works, and by the end of the year I have to slog through the diplomatically worded rejection e-mails telling me that "while your skill set is impressive, we've gone with another candidate at this time." 

Then the last day comes. The 6-page research papers are graded. The yearbook is pretty much done and edited. The students rebound from their own despair. The sun blazes and we can conduct class in the park with suspect "educational purpose." Joie de vivre replaces ennui, and I realize I don't want to leave teaching after all, especially when people with "real" jobs have to wake up the day after school gets out and go to some dreadful office as I sleep in - sometimes until 8:00. 

The first day of summer vacation is sublime. Ten weeks to loll about and the potential for a tan (though who are we kidding - this pasty skin hasn't seen a tan ever, only lobster-like searing). Stacks of books wait to be read poolside. Quality time with my children. Time reflecting on how I can be a better teacher next school year. I wonder why I ever thought about leaving teaching. 

One week into break this year, and I know why I'm tempted to cut and run every year. It's not the kids. It's not the teaching. It's the constant message from administrators and politicians that I'm not doing a good job. That teachers are the bottom-dwellers of the professional world. That no matter how hard I work - how many hours outside the school day, on weekends, and over that precious summer break - I'll be seen as someone who can't "do," therefore I teach. 

To boost my own morale, I created a list of #teacherperks to combat the dominant paradigm in this country which says that teachers are lazy union hacks who only work 9 months of the year:

1. The KIDS - I get to spend my days with the future of our country, helping them find out who they are and who they will become.

2. The TEACHING - Being a huge nerd, I love planning and executing lessons that engage kids and make them see how their 13 years of compulsory schooling are relevant.

3. The OTHER TEACHERS - Contrary to popular opinion, the teachers I've had the privilege of knowing are some of the hardest working, creative, kind, hilarious, inappropriate (when off-duty, of course), divergent thinkers I've met. They sharpen me, and I hope I sharpen them.

4. The SUMMER - Although I'll spend many hours each week and many days in professional development meetings getting ready for my first day (July 31 this year - egads!), it is a huge #teacherperk to have this time to refresh, reflect, and refine my teaching practice. Also, I get to spend time with my three wonderful kids, who are now teenagers and planning their own futures, which involve leaving home. This is exciting and devastating at the same time. I catch up with friends who I don't see during the school year. I purge my stuff and soak up Vitamin D. 

5. The AMNESIA - By the time break is over, the sun will have baked all my negative thoughts away. I'll have forgotten the administrators and politicians who make teachers feel less than (to be clear - not ALL admins and politicians are like this, but enough that I've been soured somewhat). And I'll start the year with all the feels as I look out over the shining faces of the kids who also benefit from some time apart, optimistic that the year will be the most marvelous of them all. 

I just returned from what will likely be the last band concert I will ever attend, as my boys have decided to pursue more athletic activities. I arrived 25 minutes early, and found myself relegated to suffer the hideous indignity of sitting on a bleacher bench. I do not have a core solid enough to withstand holding myself upright, so I slouched like a hunchback and settled in for the long haul. My mind filled with dread when the band director, a perky blonde, announced the concert would be "lengthy."

My boys are not in the "good" band, so their part was over in the first twenty minutes or so. I clapped dutifully and belted out the chorus of "Sweet Caroline" in unison with the crowd. As the better bands played, I started to lose interest and made good use of my time watching the kids and the spectators as I grew hotter and hotter, sweat making rivulets down my back. Of course, a man came late and sat right next to me with a spirited sprite of a girl who proceeded to jump and flail her little arms about until I had to give her the "mom" glare. She finally backed down and sat, trembling, against her father. Victory!

I watched a trumpet player consume a three-course meal of detritus from his nose. Boys snickered and girls giggled. As we headed into hour two of this thing, I started to wonder if it was ever going to end. Would my crooked and weary back give out? Would I get a blood clot from sitting too long? Why does that lady over there keep staring at me with her RBF? Is that nose-picker ever going to run out of his endless supply of snacks?

Mind you, there are four school days left. I have ten days' worth of grading to finish. Being an English teacher, my math skills are rusty, but I can extrapolate from those statistics that some things may end up recycled rather than graded. Certainly nothing productive was getting done as I listened to "YMCA" and performed the appropriate hand motions. I thought back to just last week, when I had to write the comment, "Don't use the word 'weenie' in a formal paper," and wondered if a nice, long hospital stay with a morphine drip could possibly be in the cards for me soon. Is that my appendix hurting? PLEASE? Let it be my appendix so I can leave...

Suddenly, the stream of consciousness writing I've been teaching made perfect sense. William Faulkner must have written his great works while trapped at the mercy of an unholy band director and her minions, keeping us captive through middle school renditions of The Beach Boys and Michael Jackson. One's mind must wander in order to keep sane. 

Finally, after what was admittedly an awesome drum line act, it was time to go. After three knee creaks and a lower back pop, I was upright and hobbling down the steps, hoping feeling would return to my cankles soon. Caught up in the swoop of parents frantically trying to reach their spawn, I felt a hint of nostalgia and a whiff of sadness that my band days are over. As I found my long-haired boys - easy to spot in the sea of their crew-cutted friends - I loved them a little bit more for letting me have a glimpse into the music world. Maybe these concerts aren't so bad after all.

While slogging through the interwebs trying to determine what is "alternative fact" and what is real, I came across several articles outlining the preparation of world leaders for an upcoming apocalypse. This very same topic was eerily shared with me on Twitter, so it must be true. As during any good and final tragedy - think of the violinists playing as The Titanic sank, leaving poor Rose nearly frozen to death on a wood plank but with a song in her heart - I've been thinking of a good playlist as the world turns into a mushroom cloud in a final showdown between Trump and the nameless, faceless gaggle of enemies he's already accrued. I'm thinking it'll be a short list, say 10 songs or so, to get us through the final moments of napalm burning our lungs. Feel free to steal and add your own in comments.

1. Disco Inferno - The Trammps, for obvious reasons
2. I Just Haven't Met You Yet - Michael Buble, for some irony
3. American Idiot - Green Day, because someone - and not a smart someone - got us into this mess
4. Fat Bottomed Girls - Queen, because it's my theme song/anthem
5. Toxic - Britney Spears, because the air will be toxic and because Brittney RULES
6. All I Do Is Win - DJ Khaled feat. Ludacris, because I'd want one more time to do the "Ludacris" part flawlessly
7. Notorious - Duran Duran, because I'd want to think about Kevin Kelly one last time
8. Don't Dream it's Over - Crowded House, for denial
9. Total Eclipse of the Heart - Bonnie Tyler, because of the likely eclipse of the sun from ash and debris
10. Relax - Frankie Goes to Hollywood, because that's really all you can do when the world goes down

When Donald Trump was inaugurated a mere nine days ago, I was willing to give it a chance, particularly since I didn't find any of the candidates this time around very exciting (refer to my "Clowns" post from a couple of months back). While I didn't vote for him (nor did I vote for Hillary), I do see why he was elected. The many, many people from the so-called flyover states/Rust belt have felt disenfranchised and unheard for years, and being called "deplorables" was likely the final straw that poked the beast to the ballot box. These people are being painted as redneck Christians who have no compassion and care only about their wallets. Trump is their Hitler, wantonly cackling as he signs executive order after executive order as his base cheers him on while drinking chicken blood and dancing around bonfires. 

I think what rankles me most is the throwing around of the word "Christian" as an insult and a broad statement about all people who support this dangerous administration. It's no better than those who throw "Muslim" around to describe all terrorists. I can't begin to wonder what sort of actual Christians are on board with Trump's plans to exclude people, to leave them on the fringes, to take away from the weakest and most vulnerable people, is in any way in line with what the Bible commands of the followers of Christ. 

Throughout the Bible, people are admonished to visit the sick and poor, to support widows and children, to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and welcome the immigrant. My hope that these things could come to pass - my hope that Trump's promises were much like any other politician's and unlikely to happen - has waned to the point of nonexistence. I don't see how the policies he's already set into motion align with the commands of the Bible. How does banning people who are trying to escape war-torn countries and taking insurance away from the poor fit in with the Christian described in Matthew? How does it help the "least of these"? How does de-funding Planned Parenthood help get care for women (federal abortion funding is already illegal under the Hyde Amendment, so this de-funding only takes away affordable care and birth control, which would REDUCE abortion)? How does keeping people who are legally allowed to be in the United States, who have created lives and families here, from coming home help anyone? How can a true Christian person be on board with anything he's done or plans to do?

And don't get me started on Betsy DeVos for anything to do with education. How can we conceive of putting a person who has never even breathed the scent of public school cafeteria food or a school bus in charge of public education? After suffering mightily as a teacher in Indiana under the iron fist of Mike Pence, who did all sorts of damage to public education here, causing a mass exodus from the profession and a teacher shortage, I can't fathom what damage this sort of leadership will do on a national level. 

For awhile, I hoped all the talk really was just conspiracy theories created by liberals in tin foil hats. All the Hitler talk seemed so preposterous. Even presidents I haven't liked in the past have, in their hearts, had the best interest of this great country in mind. I may not have agreed with their decisions or policies, but I'd be surprised to find out any sinister motive - just a different perspective. Trump seems to care about Trump. The alternative facts. The slashing of Obamacare without a replacement plan. Don't get me wrong - the ACA has definite issues that need looking at. But to pull the rug without another plan? Not Christian. Talk of building a wall? Not Christian. Putting people with no experience in charge of things because they donated money to a campaign? Not Christian (or smart). 

This is not to say that I've become a die-hard liberal or that I'm cutting ties with Trump voters. I love many people who voted for him, and they are not the monsters they're made out to be. But I think we have to be very careful with using the word Christian to describe anything our megalomaniac president plans to do. His actions do not show compassion or love or thought. They do not show intelligence or consideration or respect. Our president sits in his golden tower creating his own personal utopia without thinking how these actions will impact for the worse the very people who put him there. The Christians need to stand up and say he doesn't represent them and show people that they're not the enemy. The Christians I know are in the trenches loving people. They are marching. They are fighting. And I hope they win. 

If you have no idea what Festivus is, please stop reading immediately and find Seinfeld season 9, episode 10, and watch it at least three times. Once you pick yourself up off the floor, you'll have a renewed sense of seasonal joy.

Well, my friends, today is Festivus. A day of airing grievances, competing in feats of strength, and raising an aluminum stripper pole in place of the Christmas tree. I'm actually not sure it's a stripper pole, but it is quite reminiscent of one. Everyday events can be called a "Festivus Miracle" and the magic of the holiday lives on. It's also a day in which one is encouraged to blow off work for "religious purposes." It's the perfect holiday

The premise behind Festivus is that, unable to get the toy of choice for his child, Frank Costanza invents his own holiday to counter Christmas and the commercial mania that goes along with it. I don't think this is a bad idea, and have been casting about for a way to invent my own holiday for years.

This year, the "hot" toy is something called a Hatchimal. I praise the Lord every day that my kids are too old for hyped toys (and also that I escaped the ridiculous Elf on a Shelf mania, but that's a whole other post). Apparently, Hatchimals are some sort of creature hatched over several hours out of an egg. They look pretty cute, and like something my kids would've enjoyed in third grade. 

Upholding the Christmas spirit and traditions of greed, stress, and money-grabbing, people who have a sixth sense about what will be the "it" toy of the season snatched them all off the Wal-Mart, Target, and Meijer shelves back in the days of yore before Trump became president and everything went south. These toys are now selling for upwards of $200 on e-bay and on Facebook garage sale sites. I witnessed a rather ugly back-and-forth on one of these sites, in which an angry mob of Hatchimal-seeking parents vilified a capitalist just trying to make a buck this holiday. I expected the headlines the next day to be about desperate parents marching with pitchforks and torches on the mansion of the scrooge holding Hatchimals hostage for huge ransom. 

Pinterest has climbed on board with this madness, offering letters of condolence and promises of post-Christmas Hatchimal delivery signed by Santa himself for parents to give their grieving children on Christmas morning. There will be no Hatchimal under the tree, kids, because avaricious capitalists are selling them for more than mommy and daddy can afford, but you'll get one soon when the hype dies down.

Festivus counters all this. Instead, you get to air your grievances and get out your aggression, which seems much healthier than sweating to death in stores for trinkets. So here are some of my grievances, and I'll exhibit my feats of strength later in what will surely be a gruelling Orangetheory Fitness class far beyond my meager physical capabilities (burpees, anyone?):

1. My stepfather, in addition to hauling me into court with frivilous contests to my mother's will over the last two years, took all our family heirloom Christmas decorations after she died. 

2. It's winter. There are enless months of gray, cold, and miserable days still yet to come.

3. People where I live do NOT know how to drive and it makes me stabby. Also, pedestrians here walk WAY too slow and down the MIDDLE of the parking lot aisles. MOVE IT, PEOPLE!

4. I have friends who are really hurting right now and I don't know how to help them.

5. No matter how much I work out, I still have the body of a creature that would result if Bilbo Baggins mated with a manatee.

See, now, that felt good, although I'm right now countering these things with positives so I don't feel icky (which goes against everything Festivus stands for). I'd encourage you to look at the holiday season through the Festivus lens, and I hope you all experience a Festivus miracle or two today. And maybe even find a rogue Hatchimal at sticker price on a random shelf today.

This is not my manifesto. Credit belongs to the late E. Paul Torrance, a leader in gifted education. I learned of it during a most fantastic conference of the Indiana Association for the Gifted, of which I am privileged to be part of the conference committee and soon-to-be board member (knock on wood). Torrance, who prized creativity and independent thought, gives these wise words to children in his Creative Manifesto:

1. Don't be afraid to fall in love with something & pursue it with intensity.
2. Know, understand, take pride in, practice, develop, exploit, & enjoy your greatest strengths.
3. Learn to free yourself from the expectations of others and to walk away from the games they impose on you.
4. Find a great teacher or mentor who will help you.
5. Don't waste energy trying to be well rounded.
6. Do what you love and can do well.
7. Learn the skill of interdependence.
   

Take a moment and let that sink in. How many hours are spent trying to make kids "well-rounded" and learning to regurgitate what is told to them to earn a letter grade based on rather arbitraray measures? How often do the kids come up with the questions, the passion, the learning objectives that are meaningful to them, as opposed to answering the questions given them? Right now, in my Vera Bradley teacher bag, I have about 5 inches worth of level 2 and 3 questions about The Crucible to grade. Questions I think are important. Questions the kids were motivated to answer (in complete sentences with proper punctuation) in large part because it was for a grade and there's a test Thursday over the material. Looking over this list, however, it's hard to fit the expectations of school in with these very impactful words on how to be successful in life! It's as if school and life are compartmentalized. As if, as an adult, my work and my life are compartmentalized. How often do I waste energy doing things that aren't my greatest strengths, ending up frustrated and feeling like a failure? How often do I put my intense passions on the back burner to attempt to be "well-rounded"? I doubt Steve Jobs, George Lucas, JK Rowling, Ernest Hemingway, or any great leader in a field cared much for fitting into a box or checking things off a list of what makes a well-rounded person.

Going forward, I will put this manifesto on a little laminated card on my desk, and try to hit as many as possible when planning, and make sure my students get a copy. It'll be a challenge to fit state standards into all of these, particularly with students who decidedly do NOT have the passion for English literature that I do - but I want to show students how to funnel the skills they learn into their passions.

I'm fortunate to work at a school with a maker space - that's just one way the creativity and impulse to CREATE rather than simply USE goods can be developed in the students. I don't know any answers right now, but one of my passions (and something I love and can do well) is teaching kids. But I need to go beyond teaching and focus on developing student life pursuits of their own interests and strengths. Perhaps that will be what I create for myself. Perhaps I'll fail a whole bunch of times before I sort of get it right, but isn't that the point? To never actually reach perfection, but spend a lifetime in passionate pursuit of it?