on being a late bloomer

This is the hashtag I used on Instagram -- #teachinghongkong2015 -- to document in photos my trip to Hong Kong this month. You can find photos of the trip there, and even more on Facebook, here, along with a few thoughts about teaching writing to students who are learning to be fluent in both English and Mandarin Chinese.

 We mainly focused on personal narrative and moments we could add color and flavor and texture to, characters we could create from those moments -- and how to make them come alive on the page -- and then we moved into fiction with them.

We used several mentor texts, including FREEDOM SUMMER, LOVE RUBY LAVENDER, and EACH LITTLE BIRD THAT SINGS.

I learned to write by reading like a writer, modeling my writing on what I admired, then making it mine, so that's how I teach. I turn my life into stories. I understand how I do it. I have broken it down to the foundations of how it works, and it's always a stretch and a pleasure to share it with young writers and their teachers.

I am a writer who teaches, and to that end, I will always be a writer first. I have developed my teaching over the past twenty years by teaching in classrooms, from K through college, and I know that what I have to offer is substantial, meaningful, useful, and offers a lasting toolbox partner for teachers and their young writers to use for years to come.

And yet.

I am thinking about who I am today, as Jim and I return home to spring in Atlanta -- we left in a February snowstorm. This ruminating always happens after I am thrust for a sustained time into an unfamiliar environment, where I am constantly thinking on my feet, meeting new people in new cultures, learning new customs and traditions (and food!) and discovering how people make meaning in their lives.

Traveling, especially internationally, invites me to rethink everything. Invites me to make meaning. It reminds me of my young life, when, as a teenager, I became a mother, and a wife to a boy I did not know, and moved to a place I did not understand, with no support, with people and customs I could not comprehend, and with fear and isolation so complete it would take me years to assimilate and integrate and create meaning from it.

So I am thinking.

I want to chronicle some of that thinking here on the blog. I'm going to play with short posts about what I'm discovering, and just see where it leads me. I can feel myself entering a time of change. I'm working on a sort of manifesto for my sixties. God. I grew up in the sixties, and now I *am* sixty. 61. Talk about a late bloomer.

I raised a family first. I was homeless first. I was lost, first. I had to find ways to stabilize my life and my children's lives, first. I had to live some, first. Make sense of some things. Find my way into my life. Do a whole lot of different things with my life and teach myself how to do... pretty much everything. It would take me time to learn how to help myself, so I could help someone else.. I taught myself how to write so I could tell my stories and find home, belonging, safety, meaning, love.

My first book was published the year I turned 48. I went back to school that year and got my credentials to teach -- I'd been teaching informally for years without them. I became suddenly single that year. My heart was broken. I wrote EACH LITTLE BIRD THAT SINGS in response to that loss.

By the time I turned fifty, I had lost not only the long-years marriage, but my mother and my father and my siblings and my home of 25 years and my hometown. My youngest of four graduated and left home for college. I moved to Atlanta. The dog died. My beloved editor was fired. My publishing house was decimated.

The bitter was tempered by the sweet. I had created a support system by that time, and my friends became my family. They held the space for me, held me up until I could stand on my feet again. I met my husband, Jim. We had a three year long-distance relationship, a three year Atlanta relationship, and then we married. My books did well in the world, even though my life was so chaotic for a time, I couldn't always appreciate it or participate in the book community that celebrated all of it. Much of my life was a blur.

Little by little, though, I came back from a devastating time of loss. My children grew into interesting, resilient adults and began to blossom. I began to create a home, here in Atlanta, a family home, a home for friends, a home for my own heart to rest in once again.

It took me a long, long time to do this. I was scared, and once again lost, even in the midst of the sweetness. But I kept writing. I kept teaching. I kept on trying. I have been emerging from that difficult place, once again forging an identity and discovering who I am. Making meaning. It's a process. Life long.

I am happy to be here. I love my life. I know how lucky I am.

17 comments:

  1. This is lovely and offers hope to those who need it. Bless your heart for that. :-)

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank you, my sweet friend. Love to you. xo Debbie

      Delete
  2. Thank you for sharing this. I, too, have had a long, meandering journey and am still finding my way, but honest posts like this remind me it is a glorious journey of learning and becoming, and others walk and write with me.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Amen, sister. Amen and amen. Glad you are here.

      Delete
  3. This made me a little teary eyed. There's a lot I can relate to here, perhaps not all the exact circumstances, but in making meaning of my own circumstances and my growing understanding of what home means. Your books mean so much to me, Deborah. They've helped me make meaning in my own life. (P.S. YOU mean so much to me too! One of my favorite memories of my so-far career in books is that you showed up at my first book signing in Atlanta and welcomed me with open arms. xoxo!)

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank you, Kristy. I loved coming to your first signing! You were so happy. I still have my photos from that day. Thank you for your loving words. They mean a lot to me. I will see you in Los Angeles, yes? :> Love right back to you. xoxoxo

      Delete
    2. Hooray, hooray, hooray! I will see you in Los Angeles!

      Delete
  4. Thank you for your generosity in sharing the hard times and your emergence into the good times. You are a writer first, and for that we are grateful.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank you, Sarah. It's good to hear from you. Grateful to know you.

      Delete
  5. I knew you were special from that first time we met when you spoke about the newly published Love, Ruby Lavender, and I couldn't wait to spend more time with you. I still use your ideas in my classroom. I was so happy to reconnect with you in person last June at the Reading Summit in St. Louis. I sing your praises and promote your amazing books any chance I get. Keep doing what you are doing. Bravo for the 60s, both the decade and the age. :-)

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. And I knew how special you were, too... what an amazing teacher you are, and what a friend to me. I still have my hat. :> Much love, Kathleen. So glad we reconnected in St. Louis. Thanks for the love. xoxoxo

      Delete
  6. One pomegranate seed, followed by another....

    We're all (most of us, anyway) planting the seeds of change, so it's wonderful that we can gather 'round our virtual campfires to talk about the fruits of our labor. Thanks for sharing yours, and for teaching others to do the same. I'm looking forward to sharing my own story, hopefully soon.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Love those pomegranates. I look forward to your story, Melodye! xoxo

      Delete
  7. This comment has been removed by the author.

    ReplyDelete
  8. I really appreciate this. I lived most of my youth waiting for the next thing to happen, the next milestone. Once I was an adult, I found there wasn't much left to wait for, only things to work for. But milestones and lessons pushed their way in and shoved other things to the side, so that the things I worked for are the things I am working for still. I am almost forty. And I am still working on my first novel. The one I was working on before my divorce, the one I was writing when I still had babies. I had not planned on being a late bloomer. But I am glad to know I am not the only one. So thank you.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Jamie, 40 is a good time to bloom. Keep going. I'm cheering you on with a string of tiny grow lights. Thank you for writing. xoxoxo

      Delete
    2. Jaime. :> thats' the correct spelling. Got it. Bloom on!

      Delete

Howdy. Moderating comments to prevent spam. I'm sure you're not that. Thanks for your thoughts! Write on, warrior on. Make art.