Saturday, April 12, 2025
Today, I added more to my art piece, "Blended Chaos". It’s still unfinished—a weaving of found objects and ripped fabric—but maybe that’s the point. Like teaching, it’s a work in progress, constantly shifting and growing. As I wrapped yarn around a stick and tucked a bead into the folds of torn ribbon, I realized how much this piece mirrors my life in the classroom. Just like planning for the week or designing lessons that will actually mean something to my students, I never feel finished. There’s always something more I want to add—some new idea, some last-minute change, some unexpected twist.
The act of weaving calms me. It makes the chaos feel a little more beautiful, a little more intentional. I can always find a place to insert something new—a glimmering ribbon, a broken button, a forgotten scrap. Just like I can find a way to make room for a student’s needs or pivot when a lesson goes sideways.
Still, the pressure to fit everything into a single school day wears me down. I’m constantly cramming standards, interventions, SEL, movement breaks, and assessments into tiny windows of time that never feel wide enough. It’s like trying to stitch too many pieces into a fabric that keeps shrinking. I want to be innovative, creative, responsive—but there’s never quite enough space.
So I return to my mantras: I am doing the best I can. I can’t do it all—and I’m not supposed to. Some things can wait. These reminders help me exhale. Help me slow the spinning and trust that the threads I’ve already woven matter. "Blended Chaos" doesn’t strive for perfection. It’s textured and messy and layered with effort—and so is my teaching. Maybe the real art is in the ongoingness, in not being done, but still showing up and adding one more thread.
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