Tag: reflection

Rustic wooden table with bowl of fruit and vase of pink and purple roses

We Live Inside What We Remember

by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings

Sometimes the moments we almost decline become the memories we treasure most.

“Isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back everything is different?”—C. S. Lewis

💌An Invitation I Almost Declined

As my husband and I drove to meet my daughter and her boyfriend for dinner, I could feel the dull headache just behind my eyes. My mind pinged through what I had already checked off on the administration’s end-of-the-year checklist. Tomorrow there would still be a few minor items to wrap up the school year and this year’s graduation. Saturday would still begin early with a long run, followed by household chores tucked in between loads of laundry. Ah, but I could look forward to putting my feet up Saturday evening!

“Do you mind if we come out Saturday? I was also thinking about bringing . . .”

My insides began to tighten. I am embarrassed to say that my first instinct was to protect my energy and say no because I was so dog-tired. My daughter is an educator too, and I knew she had to be exhausted. So if she was asking, it must really matter to her. 

Sensing my hesitation—she knows me so well—she quickly offered a compromise. 

“We can order pizza.” 

This would reduce my efforts, she added. 

Saying “yes” meant I would do some hosting prep, while still doing my usual Saturday routine. I would need to cut up fresh fruit and vegetables for hummus, toss a large green salad with more fresh toppings on the side, put together a few other snacks, and bake a homemade dessert. Surely I could manage that.

🏡The Business of Life

Once home from dinner, with Saturday’s plan fully established, I watched an episode of Downton Abbey. Mr. Carson observed, “The business of life is the acquisition of memories. In the end, that’s all there is.” 

That line struck a nerve. I had been trying to protect my rest when life was offering an opportunity for a memory. 

I looked over at our kitchen table. In the center of it sat a bouquet leftover from Mother’s Day, nearly two weeks earlier. Half of the flowers had already been tossed because they had faded and wilted. The rest looked as if they were hanging on to their last whisper of energy. 

In my mind, I sifted through memories. How strange it is to realize that my mind is filled with decades of unorganized snapshots: names half-remembered, a hodgepodge of family, friends, and former students—small moments and not-so-small moments that outlived many so-called major events. Strange, isn’t it, that we eventually live inside what we remember?

John and I have spent years investing time in the earliest stages of the lives of young people. There are many faces we remember whose names elude us. There have been countless students over whom we have worried and fretted, those who surprised us in ways we never expected, and untold small classroom moments that by some miracle remain in our hearts today. Looking back, it is stunning to realize that we are often so busy arranging the bouquets of life without fully knowing which flowers will last.

At this stage of life, it is hard not to measure. Some people have accumulated wealth. Others have attained status, square footage, or other visible markers of success. There is nothing inherently wrong with any of that. Hard work is hard work. 

But there is, perhaps, another type of good fortune: lunch dates with friends, graduation ceremonies, family gatherings, long conversations, children returning home, or even unexpected Saturday evening dinners. 

🚚Future Memories

My daughter and her boyfriend will soon be moving to Boston. Time with them will then become a precious commodity. Her young adult life will continue to bloom somewhere else—hundreds of miles away. Saturday night dinners will not always be available. And if my lived experience has taught me anything, it is this: we do not always recognize future memories while we are still living them. Yet later, we will live inside what we remember. 

On Saturday evening, plates were loaded and emptied. One story easily led to another. Laughter filled the rooms. We teased Maddie’s boyfriend far too much, but he was such a good sport about it. Our cat kept circling around our daughter, her boyfriend, and their friend—so happy “her girl” was home, if only for a short time. 

No matter how tired we are, or how carefully we guard our energy, love has a way of interrupting us. And in the end, if we are lucky, we live inside that love.

A person walking alone on a winding forest path with autumn leaves and sunlight filtering through the trees

A Prayer to Become Art

by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings

Reflections on quiet lives, steady love, and the meaning we leave behind

Perhaps it is aging, or the fact that I read too many books. Perhaps it is because I am a sentimental fool. But lately, I’ve had a persistent thought—maybe more of a prayer. 

Let my life have meaning. Let it become art for someone.

Not headline art. Not museum-worthy art. 

Just something that helps another person survive a difficult season.

The Question That Stayed

I think this inner prayer began earlier this year while reading My Friends by Fredrik Backman. In it, I encountered a quote that gave me pause. I read and reread the words. 

 “Art is what we leave of ourselves in other people.”

It was one of those quotes I immediately wrote down. From that moment on, a question kept returning to me: “What am I leaving in other people?” 

I began thinking about the people who had shaped my life, as well as those I had witnessed quietly shaping the lives of others. As I mulled it over, my heart ached a little. I found myself wondering what I had truly offered the world.

Quiet Lives

One of the first people who came to mind was my husband, John. He is a relational magnet. People are naturally drawn to his easygoing personality. He thrives publicly—the more people, the better. His students tell me all the time, sometimes sheepishly since I am also an educator, that John is their favorite teacher. I have always admired that quality in him.

Meanwhile, I am quieter, sometimes even awkward when it comes to small talk. I am comfortable and competent within the classroom, but less so outside of those four walls. 

The subjects John and I teach are different too. My class is harder to love because fewer kids read, and even fewer enjoy it. In the world of education, John’s class is birthday cake, while mine is more like broccoli. On my best days, maybe it’s a clementine—sweet and tangy, but still has to be peeled.

I love that for John, but I also wonder: is it the subject, or is it me? I do not always feel that I impact my students—or coworkers, friends, and family—in the same visible way he does. Still, I am trying to grow into a better, more open version of myself, though it does not come easily. 

Even so, I continue to prefer a quieter life. But can quiet lives still create “art”?  

Does quietly going about my work within the classroom make a difference? Can my passion for my students and subject still be felt through my actions?  

I try to create a structured, reliable classroom—one that challenges students while also giving them opportunities to succeed. I don’t want my students to fail, and I try to teach in ways that help them believe they can learn.  

But does the unspoken care matter? Does consistency leave residue in people? Must impact always be loud? 

The Art We Leave Behind

If “art” is what we leave of ourselves in other people, then I pray I leave behind a sense of love and worth. I hope others feel emotionally safe around me. I hope they sense that I believe in their ability to learn, adapt, and overcome life’s challenges. 

Hope springs eternal in me when it comes to my students, my family, my friends, and humanity itself. I pray that hope is felt.

I am more turtle than hare—more slow and steady than flash and flare. Still, I want to model a different way of moving through the world. I hope to show that aging does not have to diminish us, that nourishing our bodies does not have to be restrictive, and that fitness can take many forms. 

I want others to understand that you do not have to be loud to make a difference. To me, it matters more to live quietly and with integrity, trusting that perhaps someone, somewhere, might find strength or courage in an example of an ordinary life lived faithfully.

Most of all, I want to be the best mom I can to my now-adult daughter. I want to offer her emotional support and steadiness when she needs it, while also giving her the freedom to become fully herself—whether she chooses to live loudly or quietly. 

I want to continue nurturing the love between my husband and me, to love my family well, and to deepen the friendships I already have.

Let me leave warmth and gentleness behind.

Let me leave laughter and joy behind.

Let someone feel less alone because I lived.

Let someone believe their goals are possible.

Let my life be useful art in some small way.

Not grand.

Not immortal.

Just meaningful. 

What Holds

by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings

Marathon training changed what I thought was possible. It also taught me that some of life’s most important things aren’t meant to change.

“At the still point of the turning world. 

Neither flesh, nor fleshless; 

Neither from, nor towards; 

at the still point, there the dance is.” 

— T. S. Eliot

🌅 Morning Routine

It was still dark, cool but thankfully no longer the stinging cold of January. Reflective, fluorescent green straps and a chest lamp lit the road as I headed back to the car to meet my husband, John, finishing his workout at the gym. The first birds had begun, their harmonies promising the sun. I inhaled deeply and ran through the morning’s checklist.

Start the dishwasher once both showers were done. Finish herbal tea and refill my bottle with a hydration mix for work. Lunch was already packed—thankfully, my usual. Still left: pack my work bag, shower, and call my daughter. We typically chat most mornings while getting ready, fitting in conversation before the day takes over. Nothing unusual—just routine. 

By Thursday, fatigue would set in—work, early mornings, and daily workouts quietly draining both energy and focus. Routine wasn’t a matter of preference; it was, and still is, protection. Even then, something would likely slip through the cracks as the week wore on.

🧱 Building the Structure

I decided to run the Athens Marathon back in December, about a month after finishing the Marshall University Marathon. It felt like a way to give structure to the winter—to keep moving forward when it would have been easier not to. Paying the entry fee only strengthened that commitment.

It felt like stacking LEGO bricks into something precise. Each piece had to fit within the existing structure of life. Not everything is meant to change. Some things are meant to hold. 

Morning workouts were already the norm; they just needed to be retooled. Weekend runs grew longer. Laundry, errands, cleaning, and meal prep arranged themselves around them. The structure of the workweek held, so the miles moved earlier, stretching the edges of the day. At first, the fatigue of long runs was heavy. But the body adapted. Responsibilities did not. 

🕰️ What Changed—and What Didn’t

Brick-by-brick, I learned more about distance—and about myself. And still, there were only 24 hours in a day. Running became an integrated part of it, not the center. It provided energy for everything else. Life continued, steady as ever, carried by the constant presence and love of family and friends.

Beyond my own small routines, the world kept shifting—nationally and globally, in ways both loud and subtle. Change was constant, as it always is. And still, daily life asked the same things: to show up, to care for one another, and to keep going.

🫶 What Holds

In one sense, the training changed what I believed was possible. I stretched. I learned. I crossed the finish line. The goal was reached—but that was never the point.

Crossing that line was not about changing everything. It could not have occurred without what stayed constant—the steady and loving presence of family, the rhythm of daily life, the hope that carried me, the things that held when everything else was stretched.

Running Toward Hope: A Marathon of Movement and Love

by stephsimply, posted in Simple Observations and Musings

“Every run is a work of art, a drawing on each day’s canvas. Some runs are shouts and some runs are whispers. Some runs are eulogies and others celebrations.”—Dagny Scott Barrios

A group of three people, including a man in a green hoodie, a woman in a bright orange top with a running bib, and a woman in a gray sweater, gather smiling at a running event in an outdoor setting with other runners in the background.
Just before the start of the marathon I took time to get a hug from my two biggest supporters throughout the training process: my husband, L, and my daughter, R.

A Morning of Reflection and Gratitude 🌅

A light mist fell as an overcast gray morning began to chase away the night. I stood quietly in a throng of animated runners, taking deep breaths as reflection and gratitude washed over me. Months of preparation had led to this moment, and I felt thankful not only for my health but for the loving support that carried me here—to this celebration of movement, resilience, and connection.

Running as an Act of Hope ✨

It had been ten years since I last pinned on a bib for this distance, and my body hummed with anticipation, hope, and belief—the belief that movement is for everyone at every age, and that it is, in itself, an act of hope. I was about to embark on an emotional 26.2-mile trail of faith that became more about the people who supported me than the miles themselves.

Discovering Joy in Gentle Movement 😄

I came to running later in life, and it wasn’t easy at first. Only when I learned to approach running gently—to let go of preconceived (and societal) notions of what running “should” be—did I discover paths full of freedom, clarity, and renewal. Movement, whether running, walking, dancing, or stretching, benefits body, mind, and spirit. It brings a sense of structure to an often chaotic world and offers a feeling of accomplishment—if nothing else goes right in a day, at least I moved my body. Movement brings us alive to ourselves, our spirit, and, in turn, to the world around us.

The joy, I’ve learned, is in the doing—not in attaching to a pace, distance, or goal. Those things can be part of the experience, but they aren’t required.

A man and a woman embrace warmly in a crowded setting, both smiling in a moment of connection before a marathon.
Maddie’s, my daughter, boyfriend, Connor, flew all the way from Austin, TX to be part of this event. Together, with Maddie, he helped plan the marathon surprise of a lifetime!

Redefining What It Means to Age 🧓

As I neared my 60th birthday, I began to notice messaging that framed this decade as one of limitation. I decided instead to flip the narrative and celebrate the 60s as a decade of possibilities. Why not run into this new decade the way I ran into my 50s—with eyes and arms wide to adventure?

Training with Gentleness and Grace 😌

Since I was already running regularly, I committed to training for a marathon, but this time with gentleness. Instead of a traditional four-month build-up, I created a ten-month plan that encouraged patience, routine, and presence. Twice-weekly strength training and yoga joined the schedule, as did listening to my body and using the run-walk-run method as needed. I also focused on proper hydration and fueling before, during, and after runs. Most of all, my husband and daughter supported me from the very beginning—their quiet, everyday encouragement becoming a steady foundation of strength.

A woman running on a street wearing a bright pink long-sleeve top, black leggings, and a cap, displaying a race number on her waist.
Gentleness was a large part of the 10-month training block that led to this moment of hope and celebration.

Adapting Through Life’s Curveballs 😰

Training for a marathon brings rhythm and structure to daily life—the early morning runs, the long weekend miles that lengthen gradually, and the sweet evening stretches after dinner. But life, of course, has its curveballs: weather shifts, fatigue, scheduling conflicts, unexpected events, and bouts of self-doubt. With age, though, I’ve learned to adapt rather than resist these realities, co-creating a practical, flexible approach to progress.

As my weekend long runs grew longer, my husband and daughter often appeared—driving by, stopping to cheer, or jogging beside me for a short distance. These small bursts of love in action fueled my heart and kept me going. Training, I realized, was less about mileage and more about cultivating fortitude, flexibility, and gratitude—along with a dash of fierceness—all essential life skills carried from the road.

A group of enthusiastic spectators cheer on runners during a marathon, surrounded by autumn foliage and a partly cloudy sky.
Maddie, and my husband, John, often showed up during the last few miles of my Saturday long runs to cheer me on as Maddie is seen here doing during the actual event itself.

Race Day: A Celebration of Love 💖

As the marathon began, the city of Huntington vibrant in energy, rebelling against the lackluster sky. Rhythmic footfalls and nervous chatter surrounded me as runners jostled for position. Warmly dressed spectators cheered, waving handmade signs against a backdrop of burnished orange, crimson, and yellow autumn trees. Little did I know that my daughter had turned this event into an outpouring of love.

Surprises Along the Course 🫢

At the start, my husband, daughter, and her boyfriend—who had flown in from Texas to surprise me—stood cheering. But that was only the beginning. Every few miles along the route, my daughter had arranged for friends, family, and coworkers to appear, waving signs and calling my name. I didn’t realize the scope of her plan until near the end, but each familiar face filled me with renewed energy, gratitude, and joy.

A female runner in a bright pink shirt crosses a street marked by traffic cones, while a supporter holds a sign nearby in a lively downtown setting.
The look of complete surprise when I see my sister, Traci, and her husband, David, around the 19-20 mile mark of the marathon. I had no idea they would show up along the route!
Two women running together on a city street during a marathon, with one holding a sign. They are surrounded by a lively atmosphere and shops in the background.
Of course, I had to veer off the path to give her hug, which helped uplift me over the next few miles.

Crossing the Finish Line 🏁

As I turned toward the final quarter mile, a group of race volunteers began singing “Happy Birthday” while my daughter’s boyfriend joined for a short burst of encouragement. My husband stood outside the stadium offering final words of encouragement, and my daughter met me at the bottom of the stadium ramp to run beside me as I approached the finish line. I wasn’t just completing a marathon; I was receiving the best birthday gift—a living reminder of love: a convergence of community, family, and friendship. It was a story of hope, purpose, generosity, and perseverance—the joy and power of a shared journey.

Two volunteers wearing bright reflective vests stand by a crosswalk in a park-like setting with blooming flowers and trees. In the background, a pathway leads towards a building under a cloudy sky.
This was the point, less than a quarter mile to go, when a group of race volunteers, led by an unknown female spectator and Conner, joined in to sing “Happy Birthday” to me as approached and rounded the corner to the finish line.

The Marathon as a Metaphor for Life 🪞

This journey mirrors life: we move forward by faith and grace, one step at a time, through both joy and challenge, supported by others who believe in us. That’s the power of movement—it connects us to our bodies, to others, and to something larger than ourselves. Choosing to move, to train, to keep going even when the path feels long, is an affirmation that with faith, growth and renewal are always possible—at any age.

Movement as a Lifelong Invitation 💌

Movement can take many forms: walking, stretching, dancing, or choosing to train for something big. The point is to move with intention and persistence, to embrace your own journey, and not attach to societal and social media messaging. Just move—and let movement open the door to new possibilities, both inner and outer.

A runner crosses the finish line at a sports stadium, with spectators in the stands and a clear blue sky overhead.
Maddie runs alongside me for the last few feet, just as she did in 2015, to encourage across the finish line. Once I was close to the finish line, she dropped back behind the rope to let me finish alone. However, I really wasn’t alone. I was surrounded by a giant embrace of joy, hope, and love of family, friends, and community!!

The Joy Continues ☺️

The rhythm of footsteps, the smiles for miles, and the faces of loved ones along the route are forever imprinted in my heart—all reminders that every step matters. The marathon finish line was crossed, but the renewed sense of possibility and joy continues. Whatever your pace or path, keep moving forward—heart, mind, and spirit. You never know what acts of hope and love may be waiting for you along life’s path.

A group of runners participating in a marathon on an overcast morning, with diverse individuals wearing colorful athletic clothing and cheerful expressions.
The joy, and the journey of love and hope, continues . . .

A Grateful Heart 💜

P.S. Thank you to the countless and nameless MUM volunteers who invested hours of time to ensure the safety and success of runners, walkers, and those beloved spectators. And, an extra special heartfelt thank you to my friends and family who celebrated this milestone with me. And to Maddie and John, I love you to the moon and back.

A group of three smiling individuals taking a selfie on a subway or train, with a map visible in the background.
I wonder where the next path of adventure will lead?
An assortment of hydration and energy products for runners, including electrolyte tablets and energy gels, arranged on a wooden surface.
Shout out to Precision Fuel and Hydration for the support during this training journey! I learned a lot from your team.

See the soul and ignore the story: Lessons from a lifetime of teaching, part 1

Featured by stephsimply, posted in education

Ignore the story and see the soul.  And remember to love. You’ll never regret it.–Seane Corn

First years of teaching 👩‍🏫

Over the decades of teaching, I have accrued numerous experiences.  Several of these stand-out memories occurred during my earlier years of education.  Therefore, in honor of another school year’s conclusion, I will share some of these memories over the coming weeks, and the many lessons these interactions provided. 

My first teaching position was at Kentucky high school in the late 80s.  Newly graduated and exceptionally young, I was ready to change the world.  Like all first year career experiences, the theoretical training of a university was quite different from the reality I faced.  

I was one of five special education teachers.  Our classrooms were separated from the rest of the school.  We were part of the gymnasium facilities, and my classroom was one of three under the visitor’s side of the bleachers. 

Lines of Separation 📚

In order to get to my “classroom,”  I had to walk through two other “classrooms.”  One wall was slanted because it was the underside of the bleachers, and one wall was a rolling chalkboard separating my classroom from another.  One wall was painted concrete block, and the other side was a giant metal wall with a locked door that stored the ROTC weapons.  The desks were mismatched leftovers from a previous era, and classroom supplies were limited.

My first day of school was filled with nerves, and the isolation of my situation led me to feel even more anxious. However, there was little time to dwell on it as the students began arriving.

The Encounter 🗣️

The last student to arrive stood over six feet in height and brawny.  (I would later learn he worked as a hired-hand at various tobacco farms across the county.)  With one cursory glance, he sized me up, spit tobacco on the floor, and picked me by my shirt collar.

“You ain’t teachin’ me nothin.  I ain’t here to learn.  Only here cause it’s the law.”

His startling blue eyes conveyed his disdain for me as we locked eyes.  I knew this was a make or break moment, and I was determined to not break. So I said the most brilliant set of words.

“Put. Me. Down.”

It was an intense moment.  On the inside, I was filled with fear.  Fear I would lose my job after only one day.  Fear I was about to get hurt.  Fear I wasn’t strong enough to withstand the discipline this job would require.

Wordless Truce ☮️

Outwardly, my eyes never wavered from his.  I would not be intimidated by him.  Seconds seemed to stretch, although I am certain this was not a long moment.  However, it was long enough for me to take in the acne scars on his face as well as a few other scars that looked as if he had experienced his fair share of altercations.  His blonde curly hair was cut in a mullet.

I was acutely aware of the other students’ quiet stares taking in the situation as I once more repeated, “Put. Me. Down.”

Through some act of Divine Intervention, or perhaps the I-am-not-messing-around look in my eye, the student put me down.  I recall the way he smugly looked around at the other students as if to convey he had shown me.  

Peace Offering 🕊️

I could have taken him to the office or written his behavior up, but I chose not to.  Even though I was inexperienced, I knew that would immediately build a wall between not only him, but the rest of the students and me.  Instead, I believed I needed to find out more about him, and work on building a relationship with him and the other students. But, I wasn’t sure how, or even if, it could be done.

In the meantime, once things cooled down, I gave him cleaning supplies and asked him to spit out his tobacco in the trashcan and clean up the floor. Then, I walked away and busied myself with other students.  It took several minutes before he started, but he did clean it up.

Seasons of Change 🍁❄️

By late fall, the young man would occasionally engage in conversations with me, especially if I focused on his knowledge of raising tobacco and his work ethic.  He explained that he had worked alongside his dad, but at some point that stopped.

By winter, I had learned that his father was disabled, and no longer worked, but apparently still knew how to lift his arm to drink and hit. This partly explained the young man’s tough-guy persona. The student often stayed overnight with buddies around the county, or during certain parts of the growing season, he’d stay over at the farms on which he was working.

Misdiagnosis 📖

By mid-year, I felt certain that the student was misidentified.  He was no doubt dyslexic, but that had nothing to do with his IQ or his abilities.  There were so many life and reading skills that I wanted to work with him on, but time was running out.  The young man was determined to quit school once he turned 18, even though he was only a junior. 

One class in which this young man thrived was shop.  He could build and repair seemingly anything.  One of the special education teachers often talked about the young man’s talent and sometimes hired this student for work on the teacher’s farm.

By March, I had established a good working relationship with the student.  I teased him about his haircut and cowboys boots, and he made jokes about my height and “easy” job. Along with the other students, he learned to read and complete job applications, manage a budget, how to dress/act during a job interview, and even how to plan, shop, and prepare a week’s worth of simple meals. He was even reading short books with adapted text about famous athletes. 

Rumor Has It 😔

One day in April, the young man did not show up for school.  That wasn’t unusual.  Many of my students had irregular attendance.  After his third consecutive day of absence, I went to see an administrator to inquire about the student’s absence. He said he would check into it, but the gossip among students said he wasn’t coming back. The young man had had his birthday.

I have no idea what became of this student.  I would like to think the best, but I am not so sure.  Maybe he has a job, family, and even grandkids by now.  I can only hope, but I’ll most likely never know..

Lessons learned 📝

Nevertheless, I am grateful for this student.  He was the first to teach me to ignore the bluster of the student’s story, and see their soul–see the person they can be at their best self and recognize their potential.  I accepted him as he was, envisioned a better future for him, and tried to help him see it too.  

He also taught me that no matter how hard I work with students, they are still individuals who will determine their own fate.  That was, and still remains, a hard lesson to swallow.  So instead, I will focus on his best, albeit unintentional, gift:  See the soul, not the story.  You will never regret it; I haven’t yet.