Now that I have finished running the writers workshops at Minnetonka, I am able to move on to the creation of the book itself.
The morning that my grandfather passed away, the first snow fell. Not in a mass of white, spread across the sky and eventually blanketing the ground, but rather, a breath of frozen air that flew across my windshield. It happened so quickly that I had almost thought I imagined it. The alignment of the two events was so serendipitous, it was as if the flakes had been waiting for him. But over the next few days the air continued to frost, the clouds began to weep blizzards, and I was left to appreciate the cold for what it was; the rest of the world had pressed pause.
The other night when I was driving home from school I watched a young boy climb to the top of some outdoor bleachers. I was confused by the determined look on his face as he raced up the steps, and couldn't help but wonder what could be so important to this one kid. While every other child leaving the school yard remained oblivious, he had built this bubble around himself that seperated his story from the amoeba below. I twisted in my seat as we started to pull past the boy, needing to know the purpose behind his activity, and held my breath. As he pulled a folded white page from his pocket and released it into the air, we rounded the corner, and I lost sight of him.
If my life were boiled down into some sort of emotional soup right now, that soup would taste like panic, stress, and a pinch of nostalgia. For those of you who are blissfully unaware, I am in grade 12 and that of course means that I graduate this year... *internal screaming*
Over the last couple of days, I have been given the chance to participate in a spoken word poetry workshop called Inside Voice/ Outside Voice, taking place at GCI. The workshop invited students interested in writing from several schools in the LRSD to work with professional poets over the course of two days. During the workshop, we were given many opportunities to both write, and share our work, but the most valuable part of this experience in my opinion, was the chance to widen our sense of the writing community here in Canada.
This week Mr.Patrician shared an excerpt of the book that he is currently reading, with our class. Creativity Inc., written by Ed Catmull, and Amy Wallace is centered around the concept of 'fearless innovation' and uses the authors experience working with Pixar Studios as a source for exemplary material. The few pages of the book that we were able to read suggested in many different ways that "The process of developing a [project] is one of discovery".
"For my Propel project I wish to create and publish an anthology. This will consist of both written work, and various art mediums that I will aggregate throughout my time in the program. In order to share the knowledge I have accumulated in writing, and embrace my passion for teaching, I also wish to organize a writers workshop for an elementary classroom. Moving forward I will be exploring multiple ways to connect these two aspects of my project in order to find a more encompassing creative resonance.".
When I was in second grade I followed my teacher Ms. Sawers around our playground at recess. I never really enjoyed having fifteen minute breaks wherein I was forced to venture outside in freezing Winnipeg weather. I hated the fact that I was pulled away from learning to go and kick a soccer ball around so that I could “clear my head” even though I was obviously already engaged. The way I saw it, recess was the most stressful part of my day. It placed me in uncomfortable situations, so I found other ways to utilize my breaks.
My thoughts aren't linear.
I think in the shape of word webs,
and snow globes.
With a clustered construction of language,
and flurries of polaroid-printed memories.
Our trip to the zoo made me feel like I was in kindergarten again. Not because the content was immature, but rather, my mom came with us. As a kid, my mother attended every single field trip my class went on up until I entered the fourth grade. Nostalgia does not even begin to cover the cloak of my thoughts that day.