Today I took two students for a little hike up Y Mountain.

After administering the PSAT for 5 hours, I needed some stress relief. 
Have you ever loved taking a test that long? Yeah. Neither did my boys. 
Poor little grumps.

Only thing is, when I told E & N about the hike, I undersold its strenuous qualities (1,100 elevation gain) in favor of highlighting its length (a mere 1.7 miles).

So how did that play out for me?  

What's the lesson in this, friends?

Forecasting. 

I did a horrible job forecasting and getting informed buy-in . . .  and directing shoe choice. This is true.

In my defense, it must be said, last time I took one of these kids for a walk in the snow, he wore flip-flops, so I thought I was all-kinds-of-good on the shoe front.

There are very few errors nature can't fix. 

And while the boys threw rocks with great precision, hitting a post 100 yards away, 
I soaked in some awe 
over how much difference 
a change in elevation makes.

I live here.

Here. 

Yes, the inversion is wreaking havoc and the commute is a beast, but it's wondrous. Does that seem like too strong a word? 

The rescued, cautious puppy dog Charlie cannot get over J. Charlie follows J and sleeps at his feet. 

How did J earn this undying affection?

“I just have a nice personality.”

Well we all knew that about J, but how did Charlie make the discovery?

“When he came, I just sorta petted him under his chin and told him that I’m not here to hurt him.”

It's true. I remember hearing J whisper that very thing in Charlie's ear last month. And that gentle attention has gone a long way.

“He came over to me more often. He just sorta became more friendly with me. I like him. A lot.”

The feeling is mutual. 

I first heard this from the encouraging and new-agey Julia Cameron (new-agey minus the healing crystals). 

This woman can beat the block out of any creative.

In The Artist's Way she calls such journal-puffs Morning Pages. 

Mourning pages, more like. Because who can stand to get up even earlier to scrawl out three pages of rubbish (says me at 1AM)?

Well apparently people with better immunity, higher creativity, happy-feelings, and clarity brain. That's who.  

Over the last two weeks, authors flooded the area.

Terry Tempest Williams led an inspiring writing workshop in the Orem Library; Cheryl Strayed brought us out for a luncheon at Sundance (meaning I paid big bucks to almost kill myself getting there in the blizzard); and Phillip Hoose presented a video documentary at The King’s English and even sang a charming birdie song he made up after a few drinks with his wife.

Terry has my heart. She’s a brave and lyrical activist with an amazing capacity to find beauty in pain. Her recent When Women Were Birds stunned me even more than Cheryl’s Tiny Beautiful Things. 

It’s a book I’ll probably re-read forever: rich, complex, deeply private, & wise.

“There is an art to writing,” Williams admitted, “and it is not always disclosure.” It’s tricky telling a personal story, one that resonates universally, because speaking from the truth of our hearts often requires a betrayal, a breaking of taboo, and she skirts this line with such grace.

Cheryl’s best known for Wild. Oprah got all excited about it, and the first third truly blew.me.away. It was cute to see Cheryl and Robert Redford gushing over each other. 

His take on Wild: 

She's insightful, searing, generous, and endearing. A killer combo. 

Phillip felt important because the plight and beauty of the Rufa Red Knot stirs me. One member of this 4-ounce species, tagged B95 and dubbed Moonbird, is nearing age 20 and has flown 325,000 miles: the distance to the moon and halfway back. 

In Moonbird's lifetime, 80% of the Red Knots' population has disappeared. His migratory pattern is a grueling flight from the bays of Terra Del Fuego--BELOW South America--to the Canadian ARCTIC. Mind blowing. The way his body morphs, his struggle to feed and survive, astounds me. 

The Red Knots’ most important US location is Delaware Bay, where they either double their body weight in two weeks or die during the second half of the journey. Hard because we-the-people now harvest their main dish. Extinction is feared unstoppable without decisive action, but the Fish and Wildlife Service won’t list them under the Endangered Species Act because although “warranted” there are higher priorities than the Red Knots.

Stunning . . . to live at a time when we’re forced to pick and choose the species who will survive. I wish I could matter, help with this process, and I admire Phillip for making us aware. 

It's something I love about Terry Tempest Williams, too. She’s constantly calling us away from numbness and exploitation, toward attention, empathy, and passion.  

Today 40 students recited poems in our school-wide competition. It was glorious! Even staff recited. Karl did a beautiful version of "The North Wind Doth Blow." John read one of his own delightful poems, " Lemonade," and Vanessa gave us chills with "The Highway Man."  

Our first place winner will go to Regionals and from there, cross your fingers, State & Nationals. He is eligible to spout his way to $20,000. 

The winning floor (highest average score) gets dismissed from 7th & 8th period on Thursday for a movie & pizza party, and our judges are taking the top 6 finalists out to lunch. 

I'm both sad & glad I wasn't a judge. Having worked with the kids so much, I'm sure I would have been biased. Some of them fought to remember every word. Boys were seen muttering in the hallways. One practicing student recited his love poem between classes, and a boy nearby whispered, "If I had a soul, it would have trembled." 

I was so proud of them, standing at the mic, declaring words they found meaningful in a high-pressure situation. Talk about emotional-flooding. They are impressive, hard-working, poised young men.

Of course, a couple boys didn't take it as seriously, but I was surprised by how many that did. I'd say 90% went all-out. And I'm happy they were involved, even if Roses are Red. Violets are blue. . . is the only poem they can still recite as old men. Kidding. Nobody did that poem. Boys selected poems from the Poetry Out Loud database.