Lost it. My fault. Got distracted. And before I knew it, I was back where I was: spending way too much time writing lengthy comments on my kids’ work. Old habits die hard. Maybe they never die.

I didn’t mean to lose it. Of course, I didn’t. I know better. And–most of the time–I do better. Most of the time. But even as progressive as I imagine and profess myself to be, I still cling to old habits; I remain tethered to an imagined master who holds the strings of tradition and convention, and I play the puppet in a pathetic play.

And whether it’s my having to compile evidence of student growth for TPEP (our teacher evaluation here in Washington State) or my imagining an audit of my work from some unknown but feared outside entity (which has never happened and never will), I perform. The strings make me dance. And so, I capture–painstakingly and thus inefficiently–my feedback to my kids by writing down lengthy comments that are grounded in the criteria of the standard, that are written for the eyes of an educator. For the eyes of an educator. What is wrong with me? What educators? In my twenty-two years, no one–no one–has raided my file cabinets, digging into the comments I write to my kids. No one’s been impressed. No one’s criticized. No one. And yet I play. I perform. And no one is in the audience. So, I am done. I vow to be done with the sham, the show. Yesterday, I cut my strings.

And I didn’t crumble to the floor. No master reattached my strings. No. I took a few tentative steps. I walked. I danced. I found my groove. And it was a familiar feeling, a liberating feeling. I was free.

I just simply met with and talked to my kids about their writing. I asked them questions. I made suggestions. I looked into their eyes. I listened to their spirits. I walked in their shoes. We shared in moments–as writers, as humans. We learned, and we grew. No show. No strings. Just connected moments.

Here’s the deal. It’s not that we didn’t share in these moments before. We did. All the time. But, in this moment of honest of honest disclosure, they were made less-authentic because I was too often worried less about my kids’ learning than I was about capturing that learning for eyes that did not exist. So, I spent more time writing comments to ensure that the magic was being captured, instead of just letting the magic happen, letting the magic be between my students and me. My students and me. That’s my groove. One does not need strings when he’s in a groove.

I’m not sure all that made sense, and I am sorry if I am less-adept or perfect than maybe you imagined, but in the end, I am just simple Sy underneath the Superman shirt. I fail. And I succeed. Only to fail again. That’s the reality of a Do–Reflect–Do Better existence. That’s my groove.

Today’s Trail

Along today’s trail we will…

…begin with Smiles and Frowns.

…connect through our work.

…end with a Sappy Sy Rhyme.

Have a groovy Tuesday, all.

Do. Reflect. Do Better.