I dropped my croissant on the floor and I cried.

I dropped my croissant on the floor and I cried.

3/29/20

I woke up this morning before my family.

The quiet solitude of the house was refreshing...

I made my breakfast:

Two scrambled eggs with some shredded cheese on a toasted croissant.

It was the last croissant in a package of four; we don’t buy croissants too often.

They feel like an exotic luxury food.

I put my scrambled eggs on the toasted decadent croissant 

and added a small clementine on the side.

I had my steaming hot cup of green tea in my favorite mug.  

As I walked to the table with croissant breakfast sandwich in one hand

And cup of tea in my other hand,  I lost my balance--

I dropped my croissant on the floor and I cried.

I cried with my whole heart looking down at the egg, croissant, clementine, and

spilled tea on the floor. 

I cried for our Mother Earth who is so sick and has been sick for a very long time.  

I cried for the thousands of people who are sick.

I cried for the people who died.

I cried for the people who are going to get sick.

I took a breath in between hot tears streaming down my cheeks

and gasps for breath--

And then I heard the birds chirping outside as the rain gently fell on the early spring grass.

I then cried harder--messier.

I cried for the loved ones of people who are sick and can’t touch their loved ones because

they are in nursing homes and hospitals and live far away.

I cried for the medical professionals who are risking their lives each day.

I cried for the grocery store employees who are now first responders.

Then I paused again to breathe…

And heard my daughter singing and dancing to a tic tok video.

And my son playing an online video game with his friends’ voices coming out of the speakers.

I continued crying--

I cried for my students who are living in homes where their families don’t like each other.

I cried for my students who are working in grocery stores.

I cried for all the people who have lost their jobs and will lose their jobs.

I cried for my fellow teachers who want to teach our students back in the classroom.

I cried for all the parents who are doing their best.

And then my kind, gracious husband who had woken up and come into the kitchen to find me crying,

put his arm around me,

and reminded me:

We can remake breakfast--

Together.

Thank you to my students--past and present

It has been months since I wrote and posted a blog; I have been grieving the loss of my dad and it has been too painful to write.  And this morning, I felt like I wanted to write.  What I am compelled to write is the following:

My father passed away on September 18, 2019 after a 25 year battle with Parkinson's Disease.  The love and support my family and I have received from family and friends have been overwhelmingly gracious.   I do want to take a moment again to thank all of our loved ones--and for this blog post--especially thank my students past and present.

Thank you to my students who emailed me right away when they heard the news that my dad had passed.  Thank you for your kind, empathetic words and phrases such as:

"Everything will be alright."
"I'm thinking of you and your family."
"Let me know if I can do anything to help in class while you are out."
"I am sure your dad is proud of you for having such an amazing impact on all of your students' lives, including mine."

Thank you to my students who asked if they could hug me when I returned to school. Thank you to my students who said "I'm sorry for the loss of your dad." And thank you to my students who said nothing because you gently reminded me as the poet Mary Oliver said in her poem Wild Geese:

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

I remember the evening of Dad's wake, I was doing pretty good; it had been a few hours of thanking family and friends in the receiving line.  I am "good" at this sort of thing, because as most of you reading this post  know about me, I love connecting with people--and perhaps weirdly, in times of grief.  So it felt comforting to see family and friends paying tribute to my father's memory.

But when I saw a bunch of current students from my Advanced Journalism class walk in, I could feel a lump in my throat, the hot tears in my eyes, and a warm feeling in my heart.  I walked over to them and said something like "It is unbelievable that you all came." I remember one of my students replying, "Of course we would come, Mrs. Stoker."  So thank you, Period 4 Advanced Journalism students.

Thank you to my former students who were able to come to the wake--you know who you are and I am filled with a deep gratitude.  I am grateful to former students who reached out on social media and sent beautiful cards.

For years, my dad would visit yearly my junior American Literature/Studies classes to share with my students what it was like to grow up in the 1950's as we read novels like The Catcher in the Rye.  And as his Parkinson's Disease progressed, he would also share what it was like to live with a progressive disease.  It was a beautiful experience--essentially co-teaching with my father.  Thank you to my former students who reached out to say they remember that meaningful experience with my father.

So thank you to my students for being the wonderful human beings you are--I have been able to move through my grief during the school days this year while being fully present in my teaching, because we are moving together through this bruitful thing called life.