entry twenty

Sunday, April 6, 2025

    I made some art today and it unexpectedly healing for me. I returned to my group of sticks—the same bundle I’ve worked with before—but this time, I wrapped them in strips of fabric. The process started with ripping. I grabbed old pieces of cloth, some colorful, some plain, and tore them into long, uneven strips. The ripping made a sound that I can still hear in my mind—sharp, raw, repetitive. There was something almost primal about it, like I was letting something out with each tear. I didn’t realize how much I needed that.

    The repetition of the sound and motion drew me into a rhythm. I got lost in it. For a little while, my mind wasn’t racing with to-do lists, IEP deadlines, or how I’ll support a student tomorrow who struggles with transitions. All that melted away, and all that existed was the ripping, the wrapping, and the weight of the sticks in my hands.

    Wrapping each stick over and over felt soothing, almost like creating a cocoon. The motion was monotonous in the best way—it allowed me to reach a zen zone I rarely find in the chaos of teaching. With every turn of fabric around the wood, I felt like I was covering the hard, splintered edges of my own exhaustion. It was quiet work, and it gave me space to breathe.

    Afterwards, I felt lighter. There was a surprising sense of relief, as if the act of wrapping helped me wrap my thoughts, too. It reminded me that even when things feel jagged and messy, there are ways to hold it all together—with care, patience, and a little creativity. Maybe that’s what art is for me: not just expression, but restoration. And today, I really needed that.

    As I sat with my finished piece—sticks wrapped tightly and lovingly with fabric—I began to ask myself: Was this self-care? It wasn’t a bubble bath or a nap. It wasn’t a walk in nature or lunch with a friend. But it felt… important. Calming. Necessary. The simple act of creating, of focusing my attention on something tactile and present, helped me step out of the nonstop mental spin that teaching—and life—often brings. In that quiet rhythm of wrapping, I found a stillness I didn’t know I was missing.

Can making art be self-care? I think the answer is yes. Especially for teachers like me, who give so much of themselves emotionally, physically, and mentally. Creating something with my hands—something that doesn’t have to meet a standard or be assessed—feels like giving a gift to myself. Art gives me a place to process feelings I haven’t yet put into words. It allows me to feel and let go at the same time.

Self-care doesn’t have to be glamorous or even relaxing in the traditional sense. Sometimes it’s repetitive, messy, even emotional. But if it brings me back to myself, even for a little while, then it counts. And today, making this art counted. It mattered. I mattered!

Me:  You look so simple, yet I spent so much time with you. Why does wrapping sticks with fabric feel more healing than anything else I've tried lately?

Just Keep Shining:  Because in every rip and wrap, you were releasing something. You weren’t just covering me—you were uncovering something in yourself. You gave your thoughts a place to rest.

Me: I didn’t even realize how much I needed that. The tearing sound, the soft pull of fabric—it became like a heartbeat. It helped me forget the chaos of the week. But… do you think this counts as self-care?

Just Keep Shining:  Absolutely. Self-care doesn’t have to be loud or grand. It can be slow, repetitive, quiet. You gave yourself time. You were present with me. You allowed your hands to lead when your heart felt too tired. That’s care.

Me: There’s something comforting in the way you turned out—messy but beautiful, strong but soft. You remind me of my students in a way.

Just Keep Shining:  And you. You want them to feel safe, to be held gently. But don’t forget—you deserve that too. You wrapped me with intention. Now wrap yourself in the same kindness.

Me:  You’re right. I pour so much into helping my students feel safe, seen, and supported. But some days I feel like I have nothing left for myself. The burnout is real—like I’m unraveling while holding everything together for everyone else.

Just Keep Shining:  And still, here you are—wrapping, not unraveling. Even in your exhaustion, you chose to sit, to create, to feel. That’s not weakness. That’s strength. Burnout thrives in silence, in pushing through without pause. But you paused with me. You listened. You let your body lead when your mind was too tired to think.

Me:  It felt like a release I didn’t know I needed. But the scary part is how normal burnout has started to feel. The Sunday dread, the constant planning, the emotional exhaustion—it’s become part of the routine. I worry I’m losing the version of me who once loved teaching without feeling so depleted.

Just Keep Shining:  You’re not lost. You’re just buried under too much. Each strip you tore, each layer you wrapped, brought a piece of you back to the surface. Burnout tries to convince you that you’re alone, that you’re failing. But this art? It says you’re still here. Still creating. Still caring. Let this be your reminder: healing starts small, sometimes with fabric and sticks—and the courage to keep going.