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When my parents were killed eight years ago, I wrote their eulogy. I remember the priest was a little nervous about including a eulogy. He said often a family member would get in front of the congregation and fall apart. I assured him that he didn’t need to worry. I knew that not everyone that attended the service would understand the rituals of a mass and I wanted to make sure there were words for everyone attached to my parents final celebration. A story for those that knew them, not just in church, but in life. And I wanted to tell their love story for everyone.

Most of the events of those days are kind of a blur for me. I remember being completely exhausted, but unable to sleep. Shayne was in the throes of psychosis and I just had no idea what to do about him. He would talk to himself and pace the house, sometimes walking out the front door in his pajamas and disappearing down the street. I’d assign myself a to do list for the day and push off the sheets with this song lyric in my head, “I’m coming up, so you better get this party started.” I know it is completely incongruous, but that’s what I felt like, like I was getting up and showing up and hitting all my marks. Like some damn performance. I remember so vividly my to do list the day before the funeral. Write eulogy was number five.

I remember using one of my daughter’s school notebooks and sitting cross-legged on my bed. All my best writing is done in bed. I chewed on my pen, considering my audience. My siblings. My cousins. My aunts and uncles. Father Dan. All the people who knew my parents. Then I wrote a one page story about a poor boy from San Luis Valley who traveled the seas to meet an Irish fisherman’s daughter. I contrasted their differences, highlighted their strengths and honored their faith and love, just like I was writing an essay for college. My parents in 250 words or less.

The day of the funeral is erased from my memory, except I get flashes sometimes. I remember Father Dan motioning me to the mic at the alter. I had a little glitch in my brain taking in how full the church was. It could have been an Easter Mass. I saw my human resource director come in and dip her finger into the holy water and my high school art teacher behind her, holding the program with my parents’ picture. And my neighbors from childhood were there. My Colorado Springs cousins to my left. The ladies from City Market in the back. All these people who had been touched by my parents’ lives and their love. I could see what the priest meant about falling apart, but I took a breath and started speaking. I got through my eulogy without tears, without wavering. The words felt strong and true.

I was going to repost the eulogy on my blog to commemorate my parents’ sixty-first anniversary today. I think the torn off notebook paper is in a box of my writing that I keep around. I also think I might have posted the eulogy on Facebook after the days of the funeral. But I realize that I don’t want to sift through those memories anymore. I have a different story of love to tell now.

I was over at my mom and dad’s on the day of their last anniversary in 2015. It was early when I got there, but my dad was gone and my mom was still in bed. Shayne was days out of his first experience of being hospitalized and injected by force with Haldol. We were all holding our breaths about what was happening with him, but hoping everything would be okay. I grabbed the paper off the porch and let myself into the house to work on the crossword puzzle. My dad showed up in the backyard with a hanging basket of flowers and hung it on a hook on the back porch. I watched him through the window. The flowers were a beautiful mix of pink cascading blossoms. Mom loved her pink.

When Dad came in, I passed him the front page. “Those are gorgeous,” I told him. He flicked open the pages of the newspaper and said, “She’s going to move it to another hook.” Mom got up a little while later and came out to the kitchen in her bathrobe. She noticed the flowers right away and went outside to admire them. Dad and I watched her through the window. She touched the blossoms and then reached for a step stool. She lifted the basket off the hook and moved it to another hook. I looked at Dad and he laughed. “Why didn’t you put it on that one to begin with?” “She always moves it. It’s got to be her choice.” When my mom came in the house, neither one of us said a word. Instead I wished them a happy anniversary. I asked them what it was like to have been married all those years. Dad said it went so fast. Mom said she wouldn’t change any of it. And then they started making breakfast together. Totally in sync. I can’t know all the ingredients that created the love that my parents had. But I do know the constant, everyday, little things are what left their mark on me.

So here it is again. Their anniversary. Another June. Shayne is in the throes of another crisis and I am facing life changes again. I literally have asked out loud my parents to help me. To show me the way forward. I realize they have already done that. Get up. Do little things. Pull the weeds. Make the bed. Be kind. Be accepting. Laugh. Have faith. Believe in the good. Everything will work out how it is supposed to. That’s the love story they left me to tell. But now I know am telling it for myself.

Explaining the layers of my family is like giving a science lecture; I need a flow chart and a lot of space. To keep it simple though, I didn’t have a grandmother growing up. Instead, I had Genevieve and the Sisters, three maiden aunts that were sisters of my father’s mother. For as long as I can remember these women were the matriarchs of the family, holding the threads of our sprawling family together with green chili, watermelon slices and rosary beads. They knew all the stories and memories and I can see how I grew up thinking women could do anything, because these ladies did.

Genevieve lived on the property where my father and all his siblings were born. Her house was an old adobe place with a flat roof and a wood cooking stove. My memories of that small kitchen are as rich as the fresh,, warm tortillas that were passed out anytime my brother and I asked. The Sisters were sisters, but also nuns in the Sister of Mercy order. During the school year, they were teachers in New Mexico, but in the summer, they would come home to Genevieve’s.

The Sisters were Sister Concetta and Sister Magdalene. We just called them Sister. And as a child, I didn’t really spend a lot of time, trying to separate them into individuals. The three of them were a package deal in my mind. But as I got older, I grew to see them as unique.. Genevieve was the strong one. She lived on the land herself and had cattle, and chopped wood for the fire. She knew everyone for miles and men would pull up in front of the house and take off their hats at the door and inquire if there was anything she needed. She’d send them on their way, but maybe with a handful of fresh roasted pinion, or some cookies.

Mary Magdalene was the sweet one. She was a first grade teacher and she liked kids. She was the one that taught me how to make an ojo de Dios. Or a God’s Eye, a Mexican folk art with sticks and yarn. Every year, I would teach that craft to my students and always tell the story about my aunt teaching me that it was a custom of protection. Fathers would make them for their children when they went off to school. I wouldn’t tell them about how her hands held mine and guided me through the motions of the weaving, but I would never fail to forget that memory. I will never forget the day she was buried in the mountains.

Sister Concetta is the only one left. She was the smallest and youngest, but always a take charge kind of girl. She was a principal during her education years and always very well caught up on world affairs. She had good timing and would slip a joke into a story and make everyone laugh. For awhile she lived alone on the ranch, doing all the things all three of the ladies had done for years, chopping wood for the fire, lighting the stove, moving the snow to get to the gate. She was almost ninety years old when she went to live at the Sister of Mercy motherhouse in Nebraska. It always bothered me a lot that she was so far from home. I have wanted to go see her, but I haven’t until now.

This marks Sister Concetta’s 80th year as a nun. In the faith, this is called a jubilee. With five of my cousins, I joined the celebration. Sister is our family saint, but she is well-loved in her community. She is 102 and going strong. I guess chopping wood has given her some stamina. Her hearing isn’t great and she didn’t recognize us, but she knew the names of our parents and then would remember who we belonged to. I am not sure she knew the celebration was for her at first, but she caught on and joined in the singing and sang each of my cousins and myself a blessing as we were leaving.

Afterward, the six of us had dinner in The Haymarket section of Lincoln and it was like all the meals of my youth–laughter, stories, sharing. I can see how love, faith, and strength was born in my life. I am glad I made the journey and made these memories with my cousins. I guess our aunt isn’t done doing her job, because she is still bringing us together and showing us how to be joyful.

This is supposed to be the first week of summer, and the stress of the school year should melt away. Instead I keep thinking about my students, keep wondering if I should try and find out Surenaty’s ball game schedule, or see if Jaydin and Alyana want to help me paint. I have also been sick with a sinus infection and an earache. I wonder if I have battle fatigue.

Monday, I drove up to Gunnison for a class. The class was for art teachers and taught by all the art professors at Western State. The first session was a clay class. The prof did a mini slab throwing lesson and then instructed us to make a mug or a vase using slab. I wasn’t feeling it. I just wanted to lay my head on the table and go to sleep. Instead I made a rose with my clay, even though that was not the assignment. It just made me think about my mom. June is not my favorite month.

In the afternoon, we did cyanotypes. That was a little more my speed because all that takes is putting some objects on material and setting it in the sun for nine minutes and then washing the chemicals clear. There was a whole room of objects, but I just grabbed a bike gear, my car keys and took off my rings–Mom’s wedding ring, my breast cancer survivor ring, and the birthstone ring of my kids that I always wear. I realized that I just put the my personal story of the last eight years on that paper.

I was the first person done with the composition and I sat outside against the wall of the art building. Gunnison is a beautiful place with the mountains and wildflowers and a lazy pace. I watched the other teachers put their boxes down and mill around talking quietly. I thought about actually doing this project with students. There is no way, kids would stand around quietly for nine minutes. I realized that I didn’t need to think like a teacher at the moment. And maybe June doesn’t need to be about grief anymore.

After I hung my fabric up to dry, I left. I had planned on camping, but instead checked in to the Roadside Inn and went to bed. I slept for twelve hours straight and woke up with the absolute worst earache. I felt like I was about twelve and really just wanted someone to take care of me. I thought about bailing on school and just going home. Instead, I stopped at Starbucks and went to campus. We learned how to make paint from things like dirt and crushed leaves. I messed around with my colors, even after everyone went to lunch.

When I got home, the cats were overjoyed to see me. My son on the other hand was out of it and I was unsure if he knew that I had been gone. I am going to have to deal with how far gone he is, but I felt like my ears were closing down and and my body was aching., so for the next couple of days, I just tried to get well. I finished painting a sign for High on the Hill Farm.

Hand painting signs is a side gig that I do sometimes. I like the lettering and working on the wood, but it is slow meticulous work. Usually, I work with the tv on, or music, but this time I worked in silence, trying to quiet the school year from my mind. I thought a little about getting a summer job. I know staying busy is how I cope with not dealing with my emotions.

I made a list. 1. Breathe. 2. Art. 3. Family. 4. Home. I decided that I felt well enough, so, I am with my cousins on a road trip to meet up with other cousins. Our great aunt is having her 80th Jubilee as a Sisters of Mercy nun. We spent the night in Cozac, Nebraska. The town is full of wings. It started as a local movement to honor the memory of s little girl who died and the wings are everywhere. I like that idea. Celebrate a memory with light and color. Make pain into something joyful. Once again, the universe has given me what I needed. Looking forward to today’s journey.

Because I have been teaching art for so long, my last of school usually looks different than other teachers.Typically, I don’t see kids and spend the last day packing up the room. Sometimes kids drop by and ask me to sign their yearbooks. Some cry and I have been puzzled by that in the past. It is the last day of school. Summer vacation. Why the heck would anyone cry about that! This year, I had my first ever traditional LAST day of school and I found myself numb for a few days.

When my parents were killed I noticed that I seemed to have a switch on my emotions. I had the power to turn them off and move ahead with the things that needed to be done. Last year, the switch broke and layers of grief and trauma broke through and I was terrified all the time. I left teaching 300 students a week, because I thought fifteen kids would be easier. Instead those fifteen kids taught me that there is no off switch to trauma. There is no easy.

I had no idea that being a classroom teacher and managing all the curriculum would be such a learning curve. I mean I managed six grade levels as an art teacher and tons of supplies and ways of approaching art. Mostly, I just had to do reading and writing and math and science and social studies. And the scope and sequence was laid out for me. How hard could that be? Pretty hard when my group of kids couldn’t easily access grade level content, and they really weren’t super interested in trying to access it either.

The academic battle was only part of the problem. I was dealing with kids who had been seriously traumatized. All of them? Yea. All in their own way. One of them told me about his memories of sleeping on the sidewalk. He said he had a little bedroll and he would sleep tight up against a wall, so no one would step on him. He told me that he would never forget the bad times, because that helped him appreciate the good times. Outwardly this kid seemed like he had it going on with good attendance and good grades, but the moment he stumbled, he’d start hitting himself with a ruler or bang his head on the desk. As the year went on I saw their traumas triggered over and over. Behavior is communication.

Somehow we made it to the end. They grew in math and English. But it didn’t feel clean or tidy. I didn’t feel like I did my job, because I don’t think they are prepared well for the next grade. I was ready to end my time with them because I was exhausted, but I didn’t know how to say goodbye and send them on their next journey. It felt like I was sending kids to a battle with toy guns.

On a whim, I decided to give them gifts. Not teacher gifts of school supplies and trinkets and candy, but real gifts that showed thought and maybe gifts to give them a little hope, or a little reminder that someone believes in them. I bought some of the gifts, like I gave one of the girls a baseball bat. I told her that she was not allowed to hit anyone with it, or destroy property with it. I told her major league ball players signed their bats and they were worth a lot of money sometimes. So I signed her bat and told her that I wanted to be invited to her first high school game.

Some of the gifts were more sentimental. I gave another girl a mirror that had been my mother’s. I told her about how beautiful my mother was and how she could always see the good in everyone . I told this girl that my mother would have loved her and she would have wanted someone to use her mirror everyday instead of just leaving it in a box. I saw this girl take the mirror out of her bag three times and look at herself. I hope one day she sees what I see.

After the bell rang and the kids left, I went outside to the playground and worked on the llama mural for awhile. One of the girls came over from her house and sat with me. I gave her some paint and had her put snow on the mountain tops. When I met this kid in August, she reminded me of a squirrel. One day she asked me if I liked hugs. I remember it was not a good moment, but I hugged her for a second and it actually brought down my blood pressure. After that moment, she became my fave. She worked so hard and grew so much. I am so proud of her. Her heart is so good, even though her eleven year old life has had so much pain.

So yeah. I had all these feelings the last day of school with these kids I tried to not think about it at first, but I know that turning off emotions doesn’t work out so well. Truth is, I don’t know if I will ever see any of them again. I might never know what happens to them. 5th grade. Just nine months in a life.

I will never forget Room 201. These children were given to me for a while. They taught me so much about strength and resilience. Sometimes I wonder why I keep getting more lessons in strength, but instead of questioning why, I am just trying to appreciate all the gifts.

This past week was interesting.

Sunday my son was standing on a chair in the garage swearing at the top of his lungs. He called me, “Michelle,” which is a bad sign and then when I asked about his meds, he got angry. I ended up spending the night at my cousin’s house.

Monday, I called Shayne’s doctor and found out that he’d missed his April appointment and had been unmedicated for at least a few weeks. I told him that he needed to get back on his meds or find a new place to live. He went to the doctor all by himself and got a dose of meds and a new prescription. Surprised the hell out of me.

Tuesday, I invented “a novel in a day” and my students and I read Frindle. I had my end of the year review and realized that a large majority of my students had more than expected growth in math and reading. That made me realize that all my tears and work had amounted to something. After my school day, I drove over to the library to pick up the art show pieces. The sky was all hazy from the fires in Canada. From the walkway bridge at the library, I could see the valley Pueblo sits in, with the river and spring trees and the stacks of the steel mill. It was kind of beautiful in a gritty way. And I had this strange feeling of home.

Wednesday, my students had their graduation ceremony and all but one of my students showed up to the ceremony. This is an achievement because attendance has been a struggle all year. But they showed up. They brought their families and stood with me to get their awards. I took picture after picture with my kids and talked to all the family members and had an enormous sense of pride and love for all of them.

Thursday, I got a call that my car was considered a total loss. I started tearing down my room because I am not teaching fifth grade next year. Someone else is already planning on moving in to the space. I took down my Banksy poster and Jarmiah asked if he could have it. I told him only if he was going to hang it up and truly treasure it, because Banksy is my favorite artist and it is my favorite poster. He hung his milk carton key chain on my key ring. A trade from the tough boy who has been to date the most unforgettable student I have ever had.

Friday, I got up early and walked down to my old elementary to help with field day. I got hugged by at least 100 kids. One of them said, “I am not a hugger, but it’s you.” The kids have grown so much, but I realized that I have moved on. I am not their art teacher anymore. I am no longer part of that community. And I am not sad about it.

People keep asking me what I am doing next year. Will I go back to art? Come back to teach in Canon? Stay at Park View and teach kindergarten? I don’t really know the answers to any of those questions. People keep giving me all kinds of advice, and I am trying very much to listen to what my heart is telling me. But my heart is very much like the shy kid in the back of the room who speaks in whispers when forced to say anything at all. I have to completely shut everything else out to hear it.

The car accident really messed up my thinking. I don’t love being on the road all week. I don’t think leaving Shayne alone for so long is the best. I am not sure what the solution is, but maybe things don’t happen to us, maybe they happen for us. We just have to be brave enough to accept the gifts even when the packages aren’t beautiful.

So I am concentrating on the gifts I have been given lately. I think my heart is telling me to stay at Park View and teach kindergarten. Paint my llama mural and maybe some other things on the barren blank walls of the school yard. Keep writing my blog. Inspire hope in places where it hasn’t been before. Make a difference. Maybe do Destination Imagination again with these kids who don’t even know how magical creativity can be. I don’t know where crashing my car and my son fit in all of this, but I know the answers are there. I just have to be open to listening for them.

Saturday. Tomorrow. All the possibilities.

I am not going to lie, I was dreading this week at school. My class is tough to engage and they are done. I feel like my bag of tricks has been turned over and the last crumbs have been licked clean. This morning I walked in with a complete sense of aversion to trying to engage them in the same formulaic language arts curriculum that I have been trying to engage them in all year. Read a story. Work on vocabulary. Cite text evidence. I decided to do something different. I went into the resource room and looked for a chapter book had that enough copies for all my students, was fifth grade appropriate and could be read in a school day with some hustle. Frindle by Andrew Clement looked like it met my requirements, but I had never read it. I looked over the first chapter, and decided it would work. I told my class we were going to read a book in a day.

My class moaned and groaned, but when I stopped after the first chapter and gave them a challenge that tied in with the chapter and set the timer for eight minutes, they were all in. I came up with activities as we read, probably not perfect planning, but on the fly worked for this. The day sped by and we finished the book at 2:30, half an hour before the end of day.

After the students left for the end of the day, I met with my principal for my end of the year meeting. My students actually had more than expected growth in math and reading. Shock of all shocks. I feel good about it, but also feel like I have worked my butt off to get here.

Tomorrow night we will celebrate our fifth grade graduation. I don’t know what life has in store for these kids. I would love to get a graduation announcement from all of them when they reach high school. I would come watch them play ball or cheer for their first jobs. Probably though, I will never see some of them again. But no matter what, I will never forget these kids. Some days have felt like a battle, but today I tasted a bit of victory.

I left work in tears yesterday. On the drive home, I tried to breathe and look at the scenery and get in a better headspace. I stopped off at Home Depot and my truck stalled. I couldn’t get it going and a guy came over and helped move it out of the way. I called for help and I sat there in the cab of the truck waiting, tears running down my face.

As I was sitting there wondering if I should apply for a job at Home Depot, a woman came up to my window and asked me if I was okay. I told her that I was having a bad day. She told me that it was her birthday and her son took her to buy flowers. She touched my arm and told me that she hoped my day got better. She was wearing a pink blouse and it reminded me of my mother. And it made me smile, because I had been wishing I could just call my mom. I told her that I was sure things would get better.

The truck DID start this morning and I headed off to work, trying to be positive. I listen to this inane radio show every morning and sometimes can feel my brain cells shrinking with the pure banality of it. But sometimes, there’s just enough SOMETHING that keeps me listening. Today they read off a list of simple pleasures. It was so sweet that it inspired one of my own.

1. Iris blooming.

2. Sitting on the steps of my front porch with a cup of tea in my hands.

3. When someone at the grocery store offers to let me go ahead in line.

4. When I run into old students and they light up.

5. Opening up a new can of paint and seeing the color so clean and smooth.

6. Talking to my girlfriends on the phone.

7. A song coming on the radio that I love.

8. Big furry bumblebees in the honeysuckle.

9. Honeysuckle.

I realized that my list is endless. So I am sitting in the truck that got me to work. I have my list in my mind and I am ready to face whatever the day has in store for me

I went to Albuquerque, New Mexico to watch my daughter graduate from college. I think she walked in the ceremony more for me, than herself. I am proud of her. Going to college in the midst of a pandemic added extra challenges, but she stuck with it and I guess I wanted to see her wear the gown and watch her walk on the stage and get the diploma. But I realized that when I got there and she was showing me her new house that the ceremony was just another thing to be stressed about for her. Maybe what I should have said was, “Hey, I am super proud of you and how would you like to celebrate?”

Anyway, she walked in the ceremony and we had a celebratory dinner and I headed back home. I was getting close to Santa Fe and the car in front of me switched lanes and I saw the tire. Not just debris, but a big solid tire. I swerved to the right to avoid it, but then I heard a hit and really nothing after that. It was like being caught in the vortex of a storm. I thought that we were going to die.

The car stopped though. Smoke was coming up from somewhere and James was telling me to get out of the car because of the smoke. I stumbled out. The car was far off the highway, inches from a concrete retaining wall. I was shaky and trembly and felt punched all over. I sat on the retaining wall and looked at my foot. It was bleeding. I don’t know how that happened.

At some point in the midst of the emergency vehicles and the police and the questions, I noticed the cars going by in one lane, slowly, like they do when there is an accident. They were looking at me. I looked around and took in the mountains and desert and breathtaking landscape and took a deep inhale. I was okay. James was okay. The car even could be okay. Maybe. Not sure about that yet.

The whole time I was sitting there on the side of the road and in the rental car on the way home and even now as I write this, I am replaying the night I lost my mom and dad. The shock and numbness are stealing over my senses. I think of my own kids and then put on the brakes because I just can’t let my mind go there. It’s not doing great things for my PTSD.

Sometimes I hate that I look for the silver lining. I have heard it called toxic positivity, but I guess the only way I can make sense of things is to try and see the lesson. There was a tire in the road. I tried to go around, but it didn’t work out so well. But that doesn’t mean the journey is over. It just means another direction has presented itself.

So now what? Well, kudos to my girl for graduating. I am proud of her strength and resilience. I can’t wait to see where the journey takes her. And grateful that I am still here to be part of the ride.

When I started working at Park View last fall, I needed a school t-shirt because the staff wears them on Mondays. There was a pile of old designs to choose from. I picked out a couple and my teammate gave me some that she said didn’t fit her anymore. One was an aqua shirt with a llama that read, “fast llama club.” I had no idea what that meant. I thought the school mascot was a cub.

I saw a book on my classroom shelf about llama training and realized that it must be some sort of classroom management thing. I took the book home with me, but it took me a long time to get through it with all the other million things I have had to learn this year. There is an analogy that teachers are like llamas in the grass and students are like hunting, stalking tigers, so do you want to be a fast llama, or a slow one? The book speaks more deeply about relationships with students and implementing systems to build trust and success.

Last week when I was gone, one of my students got suspended. She was mouthy with another teacher. It might have been just one of “those last straw” moments because this kid is HARD. Well, anyway she returned today and I heard her say, “Ms. Taylor is mad at me, I bet. She didn’t even say hi to me.” So I went over and gave her a hug, which she was not expecting and said something super gushy and over the top to welcome her into the room. She laughed and so did the rest of the class. And it was the first time that I realized that she really did care what I thought about her. It honestly felt like winning a gold medal at some impossible event

After the kids left at the end of the day, I started painting a mural on a retaining wall in the playground. I have looked at the bare cement all year and imagined what could go up there that would make the cracked, rusted wall look better. I originally thought about bear cubs, but when I put the first stroke on the wall, I realized that llamas would be a great beginning.

I worked on the wall for three hours and only got one llama done. But it’s fine because tomorrow is another day. On the drive home, the sun was setting and the mountains were breathtaking. I realized how calm I felt, like wide open to all the beauty. Painting on a big, old concrete canvas is THE thing that I could do every day for free. It feeds my soul. I don’t know if I will finish the wall before the end of the year, but I hope to leave a vista of color and imagination for all the students to come.