No one told me about divorce diarrhea.

Warning: Anyone with significant bowel issues or weak stomachs – walk away now.

oatmeal dog

I’ve had enough friends get divorced to know what to dread and what to look forward to. Or, I thought I did. I fully expected to begin crying at any time for any reason, to drop some of the 20 lbs I gained over the last few years (thank you Divorce Diet), and to vacillate between benevolent understanding and the red hot fury of Mount Vesuvius. I’m comfortable with utterly unpredictable urges for loud music, general violence, or watching Disney movies and sobbing. It happens.

But no one told me about Divorce Diarrhea.

I may not be eating much these days, but when I do? Let’s just say that once I signed my name on that very important line, everything just kind of, loosened up. Is it instead because I am forcing myself to eat a bowl of oatmeal every morning? Maybe.

And I know. I KNOW that this is not what you want to hear right now. But if someone had warned me? I would have prepared.

imodium

All I know, is that I wish I had known I would, after paying the requisite $120 for a divorce in Maine, become intimately familiar with every public bathroom in the greater Bangor area. That I would be in the middle of a lesson on critical theory when I feel like Taco just unleashed the brown note. That I would be writing a blog post about poop.

Consider yourself warned, friends. If there is anything else you forgot to tell me? Please. Tell me now. In the meantime, I’m going to go make some chicken and rice.

xoxo

Heather

Aftershocks

A post in which I use a tired metaphor because my brain is tired and I can’t really think of anything else.

If I were a geologist, I would have seen the earthquake coming. Unless it’s one of those disaster movies (why do I love them so much?!) where the fancy ass scientists don’t recognize the warning signs and only the nerdy crazies know what’s coming but nobody listens to them. In that case, someone would have noticed, but I digress.

I didn’t.

I should have. (Shit. Does that make me the obtuse and narcissistic scientist? Let’s pretend no.)

I barely got out in time. I am, if we’re sticking with this metaphor, still driving as the ground crumbles behind my back tires. But we all know that I will make it. You all know that that dusty truck ALWAYS drives toward the rainbow.

But now I recognize pieces of my life are beginning to settle into old and new places.

I am consumed with hope simply because it has been so long.

It’s itching at my clavicles and my heels. It was there all along.

This is new. Before, I drove and sobbed and contemplated and reckoned carefully. I am sure I am not finished driving and sobbing and contemplating, but it is no longer ALL.

And the aftershocks are coming, I know. I am going to do just what I always want my characters to do: keep my running shoes on, pack water, look up.

xoxoxo

Heather

 

 

An Announcement,Some Bravery and One Poem

The Announcement: Time to preorder friends. My across-the-web friend, sister, and mentor, Glennon Melton of Momastery, is releasing her second book. Love Warrior. It is about marriage. But it is also about us. (Do you love that I’m telling you about this book I haven’t even read? I can do this because I have been reading with Dear G for so so long. I know the story that gave rise to THIS story, and I trust in G and her infinite wisdom and grace).

This is some of what she has to say:

“Listen to me: Some loves are perennials—they survive the winter and bloom again.    Other loves are annuals—beautiful and lush and full for a season and then back to the Earth to die and create richer soil for new life to grow. The eventual result of both types of plants is New Life.

New life for annual and perennial plants. New love for annual and perennial loves. Nothing wasted. No such thing as failure. Love never fails. Never never. Are you still married? Your love did not fail. Are you divorced? Once? Twice? A third time? Your love did not fail. It made you who you are inside of THIS VERY moment. Love never fails.”

 

Some Bravery: Glennon (see above) has this idea that life is brutiful, the inextricable qualities of brutal and beautiful. I’m reminded now, more than ever, that they truly cannot be separated, and that one colors the other in a constantly shifting perspective.

Right now? Life is messy and complicated and heartbreaking. Life is beautiful and amazing beyond belief, and I wonder if this part of life is the psychological equivalent to what Phillip Petite felt like while walking between buildings, suspended directly in between beauty and freedom and impending death. I need to tell this story, yet, this is not all my story to tell. But I have learned so much. So much about addiction and love and mistakes; about my own capabilities, and the patience of my friends. I have learned I am learning I will be learning.

Yet.

I am waylaid by beauty.

 

And one poem. 

 

Untitled

 

When your husband no longer loves you

or you, him

 

you teach him how to roast a chicken,

how to prioritize — which task

needs doing first.

 

You begin to help more.

 

You think about the bandit who cut

your wedding cake when no one was looking.

The haircut, your hesitance. The scale

with which Father Bill confirmed you were

the most mismatched couple he

had ever seen.

 

You think about the difference. What

it feels like, now, to kiss someone who wants

to kiss you.

 

You can’t actually remember how long

because it feels like forever. Like you have

not been loved in forever.

 

When your husband tells you he wants

to love you, you are relieved. Not

with the want, but the admission.

And this makes you feel less crazy.

 

You remind him not to overfill the

washing machine.

You get off the couch.

 

You make dinner again.

 

You play cards at night, kiss chastely,

say “please” and “thank you,”

and mean it.

 

You become okay with not knowing

what happened.

 

It just is.

 

You are here, and something is next.

 

 

Much love, friends.

xoxo

Heather

Miso Soup for One

I just gave the kids what they wanted and fixed myself my very own meal.

Neither of the boys (one mine, one borrowed) are picky eaters, but 1. I didn’t feel like the production of cleaning my kitchen so I could make them a meal and 2. I wanted to let them pick as a treat. They ended up choosing a local burger joint and, when we called in the order, I ordered just for them.

As soon as we arrived home, I sent them upstairs with a bag of burgers and fries; I opened the refrigerator and took inventory. Asparagus. Miso. Mushrooms. Avocado. Cheddar. Making a careful choice between the standard avocado, cheese, and cracker board and miso soup, I chose the soup.

See, it’s rainy and also that weird time between meals where you need something, but not too much something. In my rummaging I remembered a few lines from Phyllis Grant’s Food 52 piece recollecting the joy of making a solo lunch. While far from Phyllis, I felt like taking time to actually make something for myself would be a good choice.

It took 5 minutes, tops.

After picking out my prettiest bowl, I pulled two stalks of asparagus, two baby bella mushrooms, and the container of miso from the refrigerator. I kicked the kettle on to boil. I washed and diced the asparagus and mushrooms so they were teeny, teeny, tiny.

IMG_3267

I scooped about 1/2 of a big tablespoon of miso from the container and placed it in the bowl.

IMG_3268

 

By this time the water was boiling. I added just a tablespoon or two of water at first to make a slurry. Don’t skip this step – you’ll be stirring forever. Just smoosh up the veg and water and miso paste until it’s evenly distributed. Then, add water to your desired strength.

IMG_3269

Please forgive my weirdly lit and placed phone pictures. My house is a mess and I am eh, a little lazy.

Once your soup is prepared, place a cloth napkin or kitchen towel under your bowl and walk into whatever room you want to be in. I chose my living room. And in the time it takes you to turn on Hulu and select the latest episode of your favorite show, your soup will be cool enough to eat.

I often hear the standard “take care of yourself” line, which is always vague and often offensive. It’s the nicer little sister to “I don’t know how you do it.” I always want to tell the deliverer of this message to give me $100 and drive my kid to hockey practice.  This five minute miso is my way to say “I do. I do take care of myself.”

Storm Envy

I am jealous of the disaster-level snowstorm that is now descending upon the mid-Atlantic.

big_snowstorm

I, of course, know that big storms bring big problems, and that people and structures are put in danger because of these storms. I don’t wish that upon anyone.

What I am jealous of is the stop-everything-gather-food-and-family-and-do-not-leave-home imperative.

You see, I am a teacher and mother to one teenager, two rivalrous dogs, and far too many chickens. And even when everyone is at odds, I enjoy the moments when we are all home (when weather removes any chance of escape!) more than any others. Power goes out. Eventually we get bored. The dogs fall asleep, as does my husband. Or he and Colby both finally run out of any other option for entertainment and play board games with me. We sit by the fire, scrounge for food, huddle under blankets. We are present. There is nothing to do next, no place to go.

It is the end of January and we have had 0 of those moments this year. It has been endless and brutal. Lovely at many moments, but utterly exhausting.

Our lives are busy in the best ways: great friends, various interests, hockey and hockey and hockey. But when the busy is paused – man, those are the moments.

Friends, I hope you are all safe and warm.

And also that I will get at least one big snowstorm, preferably BEFORE April, this season. I mean – I don’t live in Maine for the mosquitos.

xoxo

Heather

 

Room of Requirement Potato Pancakes

 We ate these suckers hot out of the pan, burning our fingertips as we shoved them toward our faces.

A mere twenty minutes earlier we were on our way home from school and crankily listing all the shit we needed to pack for our next stop. Colby was going to attend my evening classes with me to get homework done, and I was trying to recollect my lesson plan for the night as I drove. Neither of us had eaten lunch.

We rushed toward the house as soon as I threw the Subaru into park. We had one mission: food.

And I swear, my refrigerator turned into the Room of Requirement. Like, Ron Weasley was in there holding up a bin of fresh eggs. Hermione was (rather condescendingly) pointing toward a pot with last night’s mashed potatoes in it. A bag of cheese actually FELL out of the door. It was eerie and exciting and all of my long, wiry white hairs stood up on my head.

“POTATO PANCAKES!” I yelled up to Colby. He grumbled or stomped or gave some other form of assent.

And then it was over. In mere minutes I preheated a cast iron fry pan, took the pot of cold potatoes out of the fridge, cracked a few (?) eggs into it, added a handful of cheese and some garlic powder, and stirred like crazy. The pan was sizzling and I plopped four, pancake sized blobs into it and watched the magic happen. The edges fizzled and crusted just like a flour pancake and the middles got all glossy and melty. I called Colby downstairs.We did not even dirty any dishes – just stood over the stove eating hot potato pancakes with our hands.

It was glorious and delicious and we were soon out the door, exactly on time, sated and happy and ready for our second shift to begin.

File this recipe away for the end of this month  when you have a dump truck sized pot of leftover mashed potatoes in the back of your refrigerator.


Room of Requirement Mashed Potato Pancakes

  • butter or olive oil to fry with
  • cold mashed potatoes (I’ve since tried this with hot ones – edible but def not the same)
  • eggs
  • garlic or garlic powder
  • cheese

Preheat fry pan – preferably cast iron – with butter and/or olive oil. While this is heating mix all ingredients together and stir well. Like really, really well. The mix will be runny, so if yours looks a little too thick add another egg. Plop in the pan and loosen the edges with a metal spatula as they cook. Once the edges are nice and crispy brown and the cakes seem to be set up, very carefully flip and squish. Loosen the edges and watch. Sprinkle with some good sea salt (we love crunchy Maldon) as they finish cooking. Pile up on a (paper) plate while you cook the rest and, while I guess you could wait and eat them like civilized people, eat them while they are punishingly warm. You’ll be glad you did.

 Do you have any accidental weirdly fast and

satisfying and low prep meals? Is your refrigerator, too, magical?

Let me know. I need all the help I can get.

xoxo,

Heather

The Equation of Happiness

It’s no secret that my life is BIG. Not ‘just got back from Paris’ big, but ‘I fill every cranny of my life with amazing things that I could not stand to NOT be a part of but the sum of which utterly DOES ME IN’ big.

During the summer this is fine. I’m a teacher, and while I do spend an incredible amount of time planning and taking classes and reading during the summer, the most important thing that happens is that I have time to think and process. This cannot happen during the school year for reasons that parents and teachers can understand, so it happens during the summer. When there is time and space and five QUIET minutes. I drive, wearing running shorts and dirty t-shirts, to and from Colby’s various events, and think. I visit my friends, watch hockey games, read a bajillion books, swim every possible afternoon, play in the garden, and it all seems to work.

I can manage during the summer. Wearing Old yoga pants! Running shorts! Anything with an elastic waistband! We eat dinner at 10 p.m. and often that dinner consists of any variation of toast and whatever came in from the garden. Can you sense what’s coming here?

We’re going back to school.

Freshmen orientation is tomorrow and my very own special-flower-man-child-superstar-genius is In. My. Class.

Send prayers and wine.

Some people transition. They plan and pack bento box lunches and iron their work clothes. They have checklists and a plan. I, as you know, do not.

I have been grocery shopping in the garden for WEEKS.

My work clothes will never be pressed.

All of my child’s school supplies are in a warped cardboard box on the porch.

Yet, we ARE ready.

I mean, I just put lasagna in the oven and it is sure to boil over and ruin the oven any minute, but shit, I put LASAGNA in the OVEN. Let’s focus on accomplishments, people.

My syllabi are done, orientations completed, and posters hung. I have shiny classroom floors, an activity for tomorrow, and a really good feeling about where this year will take us. These kids are my PEOPLE. They love the same books and shows as I do and they are interested in EVERYTHING. We never lack a topic for conversation. At the end of every August I leave my own world, but in a way, I am going HOME.

I’ve also picked a fight with my husband about tomatoes and utterly neglected a towering stack of laundry that is now living in my green chair. It is judging me and I am maybe a little vindictive and refuse to cave into its snarky demands. Sheets. If you want to get in the closet than maybe you should slink your cotton ass up the stairs and put yourself away.

I’m busy.

Like the rest of you, I am still that carnival act spinning a million plates. Off my feet, head, hands, that pouch of baby weight that I meant to lose fourteen years ago . . . We’re spinning meals and spouses and soccer practice and new books – pets and car repairs and laundry – meetings and community and the best friends in the world. And while everyone around us says: “I don’t know how you do it!” we KNOW that we could not have it any other way. Each plate balances the other, and the loss of one would throw us irrevocably off kilter.

I explain this to my husband, friend, colleagues, etc. by telling them that all of these areas of my life contribute to my happiness. I like a lot of people and a lot of activities and a whole lotta Netflix; my dogs, good books, and music; taking classes and teaching classes and playing in the garden and reading about livestock.

After 34 years, I think this is just the way it is going to be. Not ‘crazy busy’, but dear God, so lucky.

How blessed we are.

Fourteen for ’14

Well, hello.

I’ve been thinking of you all for some time now. I’ve scripted topics and sentences and ideas and questions in my head, while wondering how to explain my absence.

Here’s what I’ve been doing: Recovering, reading, walking the dogs; gaining weight, folding laundry, parenting a teenager; learning how to be married (not as easy as it looks, friends); surviving my parents’ move down the Eastern coast, thinking, walking the dogs, feeding the chickens; petitioning Matt for a cow and/or a goat and/or a puppy, taking fertility drugs and turning into Attila the Hun, et cetera.

Today, though, I have a list.

Fourteen (favorites) for 2014

Screen Shot 2014-12-30 at 4.18.03 PM Screen Shot 2014-12-30 at 4.15.07 PM1. Eleanor and Park and Landline by Rainbow Rowell – Immensely readable, thought-provoking, and empathetic, both of these books present fully human characters (with some not-quite-realistic situations). Eleanor and Park skews young-adult, but I recommend it unreservedly so that we can remember that young people have stories beyond our imagining. Landline is decidedly adult fiction with an adult, harried-mom/career-woman protagonist, but the juxtaposition of cultural norms and artifacts presented in the time traveling plot are entertaining to youngish or oldish adults.

Screen Shot 2014-12-30 at 4.19.16 PM2. First Aid Beauty Ultra Repair Cream – Cue aging skin. This is the only thing that has not instigated allergic reaction on top of existing allergic reaction. Easily absorbed, doesn’t give me hives or acne, and quells the flaking skin exodus that is now my face.

Screen Shot 2014-12-30 at 4.20.18 PM3. Yeah. Those are my abs. Sure . . . The pants ARE Athleta’s Bettona pants. Stretch pants that look like fancy pants. Need I say more?

kale4. Don’t kill me – kale. never enough kale. I can’t help myself. We, having soccer-season-brain all around, stupidly forgot to move the cold frame ONE. FOOT. OVER. to cover the kale. As soon as we took the electric fence down the deer feasted. So no freezer crop of kale for us. While I’m happy they had a snack, kale from the store tastes like, you know . . . not the same.

5. Taking Charge of Your Fertility by Toni Weschler – It’s been a long year and Clomid is not my friend. I’ve found myself among many, many friends dealing with similar issues, and though we are still not pregnant, we’re okay. This book, though, is something I wish I had at thirteen and twenty-two and thirty-two. While some of it is a little woo woo, the science is there. All things fertility related (how TO get pregnant, how NOT to get pregnant, how to survive menopause) are covered, exhaustively. Lots of helpful charts and resources. This is much easier to read than the four million websites and message boards available online.

Screen Shot 2014-12-30 at 4.23.42 PM6. Coffee By Design’s Frosty’s Favorite coffee (known to be found at Giacomo’s in Bangor, ME). – The best. That is all.

7. Boyhood a Richard Linklater film with Ethan Hawke and Patricia Arquette – One of two movies I’ve been able to convince Matt to go see with me. A friend and I did argue, though, that this should have been titled Adulthood. Beautiful, intellectual, and entertaining.

8. Burt’s Bees Tinted Lip Balm in Red Dahlia – Because I’m convinced a little bit of color will help me pull it all off.

Screen Shot 2014-12-30 at 4.26.03 PM9. Boi-ing concealer by Benefit – The patron saint of parent-teacher conference week. “Who’s excited and well-rested?! You’ll think it’s me!”

10. Mark Bittmann’s Spanish Tortilla recipe from How to Cook Everything – We’ve needed a way to get rid of eggs and feed everyone something other than straight up eggs (boiled . . . fried . . . scrambled . . . poached . . .). We could eat this every single day.

barred-rock-chicken11. Chickens – So what if we spent the first snow storm insulating the coop (see above kale incident to register our general unpreparedness for winter)?! When I pull in the driveway all the chickens go to the coop window. When I say “where are mama’s pretty girls!?” they all start talking. They will do nearly anything for a handful of cracked corn or some meal works (except for that Steve French – she’s a little bastard).

12. Hand-me-down perennials – Our neighbor was cleaning out her perennial beds and had the foresight to ask if I wanted any. Boy, did I! I spent a handful of afternoons happily digging and splitting and planting. Hopefully the farm stand will have baby perennials for sale early spring, and our perennial beds will have a little more love.

13. Verilux Happy Light Liberty – I don’t winter well. This September I prepared and purchased a light-therapy box. Two sessions daily, and I’m doing alright. Check again in February.

14. Habitat for Humanity ReStore in Bangor, ME – Retail therapy for the perennially broke. This place is a bargain hunter’s dream (especially if said bargain hunter owns a rental property and a broken old farm house)!

That’s it for this list of favorite things (Cue Oprah: “And a chicken for YOU and YOU and YOU”). I’ve had lots of favorite moments, but I thought a list of things would be shorter and less reveling.

How about you? What were your favorite things this year?

Here’s hoping you all usher in the new year happy, warm, and safe.

xoxo

Heather

The end of school, some animals and the sweet spot of parenting.

It’s been a doozy, friends. One for the books. A year to remember. Interminable, exhausting, exhilarating, and joyful. But sweet hallelujah — the school year is OVER.

Have I told you this already? With my endless bitching and moaning and OHMYFREAKINGGODAMIREALLYSICKAGAIN? book slamming? Sorry. Really. No one likes a Crabby Patty, and I ended the year like a napless five-year-old with uncomfortable clothes. In the classroom I was all smiles and “These things happen, guys” when my students were concerned. In the office and at home, well, not so much smiling – a lot more napping and stomping and unremitting diarrhea. But you know what? These things happen.

A student of mine had a similar year; it seemed like they couldn’t catch a break between crisis and injuries and illness. I’d like to write a revisionist history where I handled my setbacks in the same way as my student. However, I didn’t, but I learned a lot.

Some chronic health issues have colored the last few months. While untimely, it has forced me to examine the ways in which I spend my time and energy.

How I spent the last week of school - alternately titled "barfing during finals"
How I spent the last week of school – alternately titled “barfing during finals”

 

And the dogs. My God The Dogs.

Sam is recovering from surgery to repair her cruciate ligament and meniscus. Everyone is saying “poor Sam” but you know who you should feel bad for? Her poor mom. Literally. Poor. She’s being spoiled and loved and well cared for. Her sister is pissed.

Sam demands to be wrapped like a burrito while we ice her knee. She says it's too cold.
Sam demands to be wrapped like a burrito while we ice her knee. She says it’s too cold.
And Bella is BORED.
And Bella is BORED.

Sam has doggie rehab/physical therapy once a week. Consequently, Bella likes to terrorize her at least once a day. Now Bella looks like this as she goes to doggie daycare:

Actually this was on the way home. She loves her new friends.
Actually this was on the way home. She loves her new friends.

Then they can snuggle like the best friends (bahaha!) they are.

It's rough, right?
It’s rough, right?

Oh, and we’re trying to keep the chickens and garden alive. What? Oh yeah. By ‘we’ I mean Matt. Obv.

None of the chickens were harmed in the making of this post . . . yet.
None of the chickens were harmed in the making of this post . . . yet.

 

So between illness and runaway chickens and injured or otherwise assholish dogs, I nonchalantly asked Matt if he would want to go to the beach with us this weekend. July is a hot, uncomfortable mess with Colby going between our house and with his dad. I desperately wanted to do something fun – with all of us. I was so surprised Matt agreed that I kept waiting for him to come up with an excuse not to go. I was okay taking the kids to the beach on my own – I always have been – but I was really hoping for his company.

We made arrangements for a friend to come along (lest Colby be stuck with the old farts all by himself), and I packed the car last night. I took sandwich orders: pb with fluff and nutella (x2), gluten-free pb and nutella (x1 and g.r.o.s.s.), pb with nutella and a banana (x1). I packed drinks and four tubes of sunblock and hats.

I had us in the car by 8 a.m. and we were off.

9 a.m. gas station Red Hot. Great idea, right?
9 a.m. gas station Red Hot. Great idea, right?

We drove and listened to the radio and barely heard a peep from the kids. Thank you teenaged sleepiness and Nintendo DS.

See the kids? Way up there?
See the kids? Way up there?

As I scrambled up some rocks, it dawned on me that we are still in the sweet spot of parenting. (I’m sure you’ve heard me say this already – and I’m sorry if you’re not there yet. I’m not trying to throw this in your poor, sleep-deprived and over-stimulated face. I’m just letting you know: Trust me. It gets better.) I was ahead of the kids, not directly behind or beside them. I could climb a bit, stand ahead, and know that they were coming along (instead of being convinced of their imminent deaths). Matt and I could carry on a conversation EVEN IF THEY WERE OUT OF EYESIGHT. I knew that they were okay.

I run anxious already, but it’s like I never knew how debilitating it was until the fabric of worry and doom and danger that had covered me all started to unravel. I think I lost a strand in the third grade when Colby could finally tie his shoes. Another when we entered into a new school community. Another with some honest conversation. Another here, another there, until WOMP – here I am.

We got home from super-awesome-beach-day a couple of hours ago. Not long after that, Matt left with the dogs and Colby left with his dad. Even a year ago – the sudden absence of all of my people (yes, dogs included) from my immediate reach would have sent me into a vortex of nothingness: where I couldn’t concentrate on anything less something catastrophic happened and I needed to be ready to run. But – here I am, sitting on my front steps with a glass of Pinot and talking to you!

I don’t know if THIS is the result of Colby’s independence or my, uh, maturity (does that make me sound geriatric?). I guess I hope it’s both.

We spent our day here..
We spent our day here.

So I spent the day in thanks. Thankful for the warm air that felt better than my heated blanket EVER will, thankful for the company of my husband who will swim in the cold, cold ocean with me, the soft breeze and the sound of the waves. Most of all, I was thankful for the opportunity to read AN ENTIRE SECTION of the weekend Times, on the beach, knowing that my kid was just a half a beach away, and he was just fine.

Teacher Brag: On end-of-the-year projects and Alice Hoffman’s The Dovekeepers

I’m mad proud of my freshmen right now.

student artwork inspired by The Dovekeepers
student artwork inspired by The Dovekeepers

We’re coasting into finals week in English 110. Students have finished their LAST essays, reviewed their finals study guide, and completed their Multi Genre Book Projects. This is my favorite way to end the year. It allows our stress dissipate before the frenzy of finals week. This space gives us time to reflect upon the year, visit, and best – talk about great books. That, my friends, is EXACTLY what we are doing this week.

One student chose a favorite of mine, The Dovekeepers by Alice Hoffman. She asked early if she could go over her time limit. I didn’t tell her: It’s the last real week of school. I didn’t care if her project consisted of cupcakes and cartwheels. I said “of course, as long as it’s relevant”.

I wish I had recorded her presentation. She was so concerned about communicating the book accurately that her voice was shaking. She took us beyond the plot of the book to examine different literary elements and how they wove together to create meaning in the text. She was articulate and passionate and so utterly in love with this book.

We spoke about the book, similar novels (I suggested more Hoffman, Marquez and Olbrecht). She could barely stop talking, and I was sad that the bell had to ring, the conversation had to pause. Before she left I asked her permission to share her (can you believe this talent?!) artwork with you – and hopefully Ms. Alice Hoffman!

Please remember that these images are the property of my student. Please contact me at frommidnightoil@gmail.com with any questions.

 

Yael
Yael
the orchard
the orchard
role and symbolism of the doves
role and symbolism of the doves
Aziza
Aziza

She also wrote about the book – check out her book review in Teen Ink here!

 

How are you all ending the school year?

xoxo

Heather