Sunday, May 25, 2025
Today I returned to Blended Chaos, and what I added… it changed everything. Or maybe it just exposed what was already there, what I’ve been trying not to admit. I keep calling this piece a "weaving," but if I’m honest, it feels more like unraveling. It’s the inside of my mind, my body, my classroom— just all a tangled mess. Pulled in too many directions. Coming apart at the seams.
I began with the feathers. Soft. Airy. Shiny. A part of me still clings to the hope they represent. Those rare moments when a student surprises me with a question that shows they’ve been thinking deeply. When a kid who usually explodes instead takes a breath. When I laugh—really laugh—with my class. The feathers are those breaths of grace. But putting them in almost hurt. Like placing something precious into a room I know will collapse. I don’t know how many more of those moments I can collect before they’re buried by everything else. The rough fabric—that was harder to blend in, but more honest. That texture lives in my throat most days now. It scrapes against my patience, my compassion, my capacity. That scratchy fabric is every redirected behavior, every crisis call I make, every time I brace myself when a student slams their desk or screams words they don’t mean—but that still pierce. It’s also the texture of the paperwork I never catch up on, the cold silence after I ask for help and get none. I touched it today and thought: This is what burnout feels like. Not fire. Not a blaze. Just abrasion. Constant. Quiet. Unrelenting. Then, I added some dark fabric - black. I didn’t realize how much of it I had until I started folding it in. There’s a weight to it. Not just visual, but emotional. It’s the part of me that has started to believe I’m not doing enough. That I’m failing. That the angry parent or the disappointed administrator or that one cruel online review might be right. It's the voice that says, You're the problem.
Next, I placed the bluebird. I had to sit with it for a long time before I could actually attach it. It felt almost too sacred. My dad loved bluebirds. He cared for them like they were his calling. I never fully understood it as a child—why he would drive out every weekend to check nesting boxes, gently brush ants away from hatchlings, record observations in a little worn notebook. But now, I think I do. He found peace in tending to something fragile. He showed up, again and again, for something small and vulnerable and beautiful. That bluebird is my anchor in the chaos. When I got that horrible review—heartless, inaccurate, public—it felt like someone tore the veil off my effort and said: Look, she’s not enough. I spiraled. I cried. I questioned if any of this is worth it anymore. And in the middle of that spiral, I saw a bluebird at the park. It landed on the railing and just looked at me. My dad used to say, “Bluebirds show up when you need reminding: you’re still here.”
So I put that figurine in the weaving today. With it, I stitched in a piece of my grief. A piece of my longing. A piece of the me that still wants to believe I can do this. Not just teach—but hold space, make meaning, offer sanctuary. The piece as a whole? It’s dark. That’s just the truth. It’s not soft and hopeful like I wanted it to be. It’s honest. Grief is in it. Exhaustion is in it. Anger, too. I didn’t want to admit how much rage I feel—at the system, at the silence, sometimes even at myself, but it’s in there. So is fatigue. So is love.
Blended Chaos isn't beautiful. Not in the traditional sense, but it’s real. It’s where I am. Maybe, in some small way, naming that chaos, showing it—bluebird and all—is a kind of healing. I miss my dad. I miss the version of myself who believed she could fix everything, but maybe it’s not about fixing. Maybe it’s about staying. Stitching. Showing up anyway.
me: I came back to you today, and it hit me—I’ve been calling you a weaving. But you’re not. You’re an unraveling.
Blended Chaos: That’s okay. Unraveling isn’t failure. It’s honesty. You stitched me together because you needed somewhere to put what doesn’t fit anywhere else.
me: You look like my brain. My classroom. My body, honestly. Tangled. Tense. Scraped thin. It’s not what I meant to make.
Blended Chaos:
It’s what you needed to make. The soft feathers, the rough cloth, the black folds, the sticks—they’re all part of you. You keep trying to smooth me out. Make it look more “put together.” But maybe the truth is… this is how it feels right now.
me: I wanted those feathers to float. I wanted hope to feel light. But even placing them felt painful. Like I was decorating a place that might collapse.
Blended Chaos: Because you’re not sure how long hope can last in here. I get it. That feather-light feeling? It comes and goes. A good question from a student, a shared laugh—it’s real, but fragile. You’re scared it’ll get buried under everything else.
me: It already feels like it has. The rough fabric—God, that texture is too real. I can feel it in my throat. That’s what burnout feels like, doesn’t it? Not fire. Just… abrasion. Every day, a little more scraped off.
Blended Chaos: Yes. It’s every desk slam. Every silent hallway after you asked for help and no one answered. Every time you showed up with compassion and got chaos in return. It’s the system on your shoulders and the silence in your inbox. It’s not dramatic. It’s relentless.
me: Then there’s the black fabric. I didn’t even know how much of it I had until I started folding it in. That’s the worst part—it felt endless.
Blended Chaos: Because those voices are loud. You’re not doing enough. You’re the problem. Everyone sees it. That fabric is every doubt they planted in you that you now carry as your own.
me: Then the bluebird… that almost broke me. I held it in my hand for so long. It didn’t feel like it belonged in something this dark.
Blended Chaos: But it does. That’s what anchors everything. The bluebird is your dad. His patience. His presence. It’s what you want to be, even in the chaos—someone who stays, tends, notices, shows up.
me: I miss him. I didn’t understand his quiet care until now. He didn’t fix the world. He just… showed up for something fragile. And that meant something.
Blended Chaos: That’s what you’re doing. Even when the system wears you down. Even when your confidence cracks. You’re still showing up—for them. For you. For what matters.
me: But this piece—it’s so dark. It’s not the kind of beautiful I wanted it to be.
Blended Chaos: No. But it’s real. It holds rage, fatigue, grief, love—all of it. And maybe that’s its power. You let it say what you’re too tired to explain. You let yourself be seen.
me: It’s not fixed. I’m not fixed. But… I’m here.
Blended Chaos:
Exactly. That’s the stitch. That’s the staying. That’s the healing. Not in the perfection, but in the naming.
me: So I keep weaving?
Blended Chaos: Yes. But not just to survive. You're translating pain into meaning—turning what's heavy into something honest, something human. That's not just art. That's healing.
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