Pens

Dear Elena,

I’m writing this letter later than usual. I had a few ideas marinating, and I wanted to get up before you and have enough time to write, but our sleep cycles matched, and we both woke up at 6:03. Busy days = no free time for this challenge until 8 PM. I hope to do better tomorrow morning. You see, I noticed the missing piece today as I walked through my day, remembering I hadn’t blogged yet and wishing I could hide for 30 minutes to spend some time with the keyboard.

Lucky for me, it’s Thursday, and on this glorious weekday, I get to write as I tutor L. I’m sitting across from him, writing these words in my notebook as he tries to write while monitoring his use of punctuation. Could this be today’s slice?

Fast-forward to 8:07 PM. I see you sleeping through the monitor, and a song by The 1975 plays on Spotify. I transcribe the few lines I wrote with L and try to bring back this brief memory of our weekly encounter.

He sits with both feet on the ground—no shaking. He holds his pen with his right hand in a tight grip. With his left hand, he protects the pen’s cap. He has scrunched shoulders and messy after-school hair but seems so calm. His calm washes over me after a hectic day.

We meet every Thursday to learn a new quick editing tip that can help him write better sentences. I see the ease with which he writes word after word, momentaneously pausing to look for the best way to tell the world, yet again, how soccer is the best sport in the world.

We write together for a couple of minutes, then enjoy what he came up with; I teach him something, make a suggestion, and he reflects on what he could change. We set another timer and get back to it. I notice how his breathing slows down after the first two cycles, and he pauses again to consider whether to write “so” a 3rd time or to add a period and start a new sentence. I smile.

I smile because this short time feels like a gift. Back in 2014, I embarked on a writing journey as a teacher. I took a suitcase filled with endless new ideas, addictive inspiration, and a bunch of flair pens and traveled far away. I’ve gone places that bring me much joy, watching other teachers fall in love with writing and giving their students the space to be writers. But as I watched L write today and saw my marks on my notebook, I realized I love coming back home.

Home is my writer’s notebook covered with people, values, experiences, and reminders. Home is a quiet space with a Lo-Fi playlist to just write with students. Home is my flair pen and the lines I get to bring to life when I simply drop everything and write.