Author: Sharron Burnett

Travel Trinkets

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

travel-ornaments-set-of-3-c

I pick up souvenirs whenever I travel. They are generally small things that remind me of the places I have been. Often they are rocks, shells, leaves, pinecones. I like to decorate my home with framed prints of locales I have seen so that I might be reminded of the joy of my vacations for years to come. I have a thing for books that fill the shelves of my bookcases with colorful and informational volumes about the sights that I have been fortunate enough to have seen. When I find special pottery or glass I am almost always tempted to purchase a piece to join the collections that grace my rooms. I almost never buy kitsch unless it somehow seems to signify a very special moment from my trip, like the gigantic chigger from Arkansas that made me laugh instead of cry when I became infected with bites from those pesky insects, Mostly, though, I’m inclined to bring back Christmas ornaments from each of the sites that I have visited. I have so many now that I copied my daughter and purchased a special travel tree to exhibit my finds each December.

It’s amazing how my collection of ornaments from around the world has grown. Their eclectic nature makes for a whimsical display that includes everything from bears to fine crystal. I have a stained glass reproduction of the rose window from Westminster Abbey and a yellow cab from New York City. One of my loveliest items is a set of old fashioned handmade straw snowflakes from Salzburg, Austria. They add a wonderful finishing touch to the design of the tree. I have glass pinecones, gold dipped aspen leaves, and a number of replicas of Spanish missions. There is a ceramic reproduction of Cafe du Monde and another of a little grocery store in Maine where I ate the best lobster sandwich I have ever had. Perhaps one of my favorites is a set of Revolutionary War soldiers from Boston.

I try to find a representative ornament from each place that I go. Then when I set up my Christmas decorations each year I relive the joy of visiting each place. The little trinkets that I hang on the branches never fail to bring back a flood of wonderful memories. Vacations are wonderful for the way that they seem to soothe any anxieties that I might have and they allow me to set aside my type A driven personality in favor of living totally in the moment. They are a panacea that I don’t take for granted because I know all too well how privileged I am to be able to spend money on trips to wonderful places rather than having only enough to live from day to day.

The vast majority of people in the history of the world have not had the luxury of travel for the sake of enjoyment. My grandparents went from one place to another in search of work. Their parents essentially were born, lived and died in the same place without ever leaving. Such is true of most of the world’s people even today. Those of us who ride down highways in our comfortable cars or fly through the skies to distant lands are fortunate indeed. The frivolousness of vacationing was once only the domain of the wealthy few. Today those of us in the middle class enjoy it in ways that our ancestors would never have known.

I appreciate the freedom that allows me to go see the wonders of the world and those in my backyard as well. My father had been determined to see as much as possible in his lifetime and he was on his way to becoming acquainted with most of the United States when his life was cut short. I imagine that he would have ultimately seen it all and added to his journeys with trips across the ocean. Back before he died I already knew that my family was somewhat unusual in the grandeur of our trips. I got to see Disneyland in the first year it opened and I remember sitting with my father on the shores of Lake Michigan in Chicago while he fished when I was only six.

After my father died our only family trips were to visit my grandparents in Arkansas. We would arise before dawn so that my mother could drive as far as possible before it grew dark. We only stopped for gasoline and to spend one night in a motel before reaching my grandparents’ farm. Only one other time did we take a vacation to San Antonio and Austin. It was a grand adventure that included visits to the Alamo and the state capitol. I vividly recall how fun it was to splurge by going to see The Sound of Music in a lovely indoor theater unlike our usual viewings at the drive in on nights when an entire car of people got in for a greatly reduced price.

Now I am planning a possible jaunt to Colorado in the spring and a gala trip to Scotland at the beginning of summer. I’m still in awe of the good luck that has allowed me to do such things. The worrywart in me sometimes thinks that the time may one day come when it may no longer be possible to go on such extravagant excursions. The world may change in ways that preclude a continuation of the way we have grown accustomed to doing things. My own health may fail as I continue to age in ways that make it difficult for me to travel too far away from home. It’s important that I do my best to see as much as I may for now and while I’m wherever the winds take me I’ll surely be adding to my collection of Christmas ornaments. 

There is little that I would rather do these days than go to new places and revisit my favorite old ones. I never take my good fortune for granted. I have seen gloriously wondrous things that only a few ever get to glimpse. My souvenirs are like a tangible record of my memories. They are wonderful beyond words,

Lean On Me

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

friend comfort

We’ve all had those moments when everything changed in a flash, those traumatic times when it doesn’t seem possible to ever feel happy and optimistic again. Such events fashion us into new people, sometimes more courageous and determined and sometimes defeated and cynical. Always we feel the wound on our hearts that ultimately becomes a scar reminding us of our vulnerability as humans and of the vagaries of living.

While virtually everyone is able to describe such an event, some seem to have a Midas touch that keeps harm away from them for most of their lives and others appear to be chosen as the continual targets of tragedy. Coping with our fates whether they be few or seemingly never ending is always a struggle and while some may appear to be better at enduring the horrific, everyone is hurt by them in ways that burrow deeply into their hearts. We should never judge or underestimate the impact of bad news on anyone.

My own defining moment was of course the death of my father. I was young, only eight, and shy to boot. I tried to be brave for my mother so I went deeply inside my own psyche and rarely spoke of how devastated I felt. I pretended to be little more than a child who was ignorant of such things but my unspoken anxieties would haunt me for decades. We often forget that children have emotions as powerful as adults, sometimes more so. Ultimately my own story helped me to be intensely understanding of the problems that my students faced. I knew how greatly they were affected by the most intense moments of their lives because I had walked in their shoes.

I will always remember those battle scared children who had developed reputations as troublemakers when in fact they were driven by fear and anger over what they had experienced. There was the little tyke who had been set on fire by his mother when he was three, the teen who had watched his father murder his mother, the adolescent who felt unwanted because he was passed from one adult to another throughout his childhood. I grieved for them but also shared my own story with them and began a healing conversation that helped them to understand that they need not be defined by the tragedies that had so engulfed them.

As grew older I began to identify more and more with my mother. I realized the fear and the loneliness that she must have endured after my father’s death. She was brave to the point of stifling the deep feelings that swirled in her head. She set them all aside to care for us, but they were still there and would come back to haunt her again and again. People in her generation rarely spoke of their challenges. They had been taught to be like soldiers guarding their words lest they appear somehow broken. Being that way took its toll on my mother in the most horrific ways. I only wish that she had been able to talk with someone honestly about the trauma that never quite went away. Now I know and understand how important it is to allow anyone who has endured a shocking event to let their thoughts out knowing that they will be safe and without judgement.

Each of us should learn how to become a compassionate place of refuge. It is not an easy thing. It means setting aside our own concerns, avoiding platitudes, suspending judgement, just permitting someone who is hurting to describe the contents of his/her heart. Knowing that it is okay to voice even the most terrible of thoughts is a beginning in the process of healing.

All too often we humans tend to tell people how they should feel about certain things. We fear displays of emotional weakness because so often they get very close to touching the most fragile parts of our souls. We prefer to see someone smile through their troubles because it makes us feel better when we should be more concerned with how they are dealing with the reality of what has happened to them.

If we are very lucky we each find a person or persons to whom we might reveal our innermost thoughts without hesitation. Such beautiful souls allow us to express ourselves honestly. They gently drain the poison from our hearts. Perhaps we should each strive to be that kind of individual for someone, a haven of understanding and compassion. We call such people our brothers, sisters, best friends, partners. They know us as well as we know ourselves and love us “warts and all.”

Someone that you know is suffering right now. Reach out to them. Be the person on whom they can lean. Allow them to be however they need to be in the moment.

Finding Joy In Work

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

Apple.Teacher.Classroom.Evolve

When I was a little girl I kept my toys sorted in cardboard boxes that I found at the grocery store. One carton held board games, another had all of my dolls and their clothing and a third container was filled with items for playing school. I generally had a difficult time recruiting volunteers to pretend that they were in my classroom because nobody wanted to do extra work during time away from the real thing and I was notoriously strict as an erstwhile educator.

I used some of my father’s books for my lessons and meticulously created practice examples and comprehensive tests. I graded everything in red ink of course and gave each of my somewhat unwilling students report cards at the end of each session. Needless to say I always had to search for new victims each time that I decided to open my classroom but I had enough sway over my brothers that they grudgingly went along with my role playing. I suppose that it was almost a certainty that I would one day be a teacher, but in truth I fought against that idea until I was in my early thirties.

I am a woman from the pioneering era of equality for women. The trend for my peers was to eschew the customary female occupations for positions in traditionally male roles. I was encouraged to become a lawyer, a doctor, an engineer, an accountant, anything but a teacher. The word on the street was that those who were unable to do anything else became teachers and I was a bit too proud to channel my intellect into a job that was rapidly losing its luster. I changed my major so many times that I finally took a sabbatical so that I might clear my head and contemplate what I really wanted to do with my life, not what everyone was telling me to do.

No matter how much I meditated on my ultimate role in society I kept circling back to the idea of teaching. Ultimately I became determined to follow my heart and I returned to college to finish my degree. The second time around I encountered the most incredible professors who encouraged me to use my talents in what they deemed to be one of the noblest of professions. I channeled all of my enthusiasm into learning about the science of teaching. I soon realized that there was way more to the profession than just bending students to my will. I became an eager advocate for the profession that would become an integral part of my life.

My first job was literally a Godsend. There happened to be a glut of teachers in the Houston area due to an economic downturn in the oil business and my fellow graduates and I were having a difficult time finding open positions anywhere. I submitted applications all over town and finally got a call from a private Catholic school only minutes away from my home. Surprisingly I landed a job teaching mathematics to sixth, seventh and eighth graders, something that I had never intended to do. I had to create lesson plans for six completely different classes as well as sponsor the school newspaper and head a committee taxed with purchasing computers for the campus.

I don’t think that I have ever worked as hard as I did during that first year but I enjoyed every minute of the experience. My students were delightful and I found out that I was fairly good at my chosen occupation. I was surrounded by other teachers from whom I learned how to improve my craft and the atmosphere at the school was one of kindness and optimism. I was certain after my maiden voyage as a teacher that I had found the perfect fit for my interests and my talents.

My determination to be an educator was solidified by that initial foray, but I wanted to have experiences in different settings so that I might define both my strengths and my weaknesses. Before long I set my eye on working with economically disadvantaged students in elementary school. There I had to plan for lessons in every single subject including art. It was an incredible challenge because my students were often riddled with home problems which often showed themselves in bad behaviors at school. It was time consuming to prepare for each day of school and I was challenged by both classroom management issues and methods for conveying knowledge of every conceivable kind. Each day I was responsible for twenty seven little souls who ranged from brilliant to learning disabled, well behaved to difficult. With the help of an amazing principal I learned much and became more confident than ever that I had made the right choice in deciding to be a teacher.

The rest is history as they say. I returned to an upscale private school for a time and then agreed to work in a public school filled with gang members. By then I understood that kids are kids and they all struggle to get past the angst of adolescence and teen years. My specialty became understanding where they were and starting from that reality to encourage them to move forward. I found myself loving every single one of my pupils and every challenge that I encountered with them.

I ended my career as a Dean of Faculty. By then I was working with the teachers, understanding the problems that they faced and doing my best to encourage and help them the way others had done for me. I never regretted a single day that I spent in the teaching profession. I felt that I had found my true purpose in life and I still get great joy from helping young people to learn. Our society may not have much regard for the teaching professions, which is unfortunate, but I learned that only those who can, teach. It takes dedication, long hours of hard work, physical and mental stamina, and a true heart. I’m glad I followed mine and found so much joy as a teacher.

Color Me A Rainbow

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

colour

January has been a strange month from its start, punctuated by glorious blue skies on some days and dreary gray horizons on others. Instead of leaping into a state of promise it has struggled to decide exactly how to introduce the new year, the coming decade. It has been much like a rollercoaster ride both so frightening and exhilarating that it prompts me to close my eyes so that all imagery and colors turn black. Hints of better times to come are already popping out in the pinks and reds and yellows of the roses in my backyard that are still a bit wary of celebrating too soon lest the weather change for the worst. It’s a quiet and pensive time after all of the excitement of the holiday season with it’s bold colors festooning the world. We prefer calm at this time of year and yet the world does not always cooperate in its relentless drive forward into events that demand our attention even when we simply want to look away.

I feel like January, a mixture of so many colors and emotions that I cannot quickly define how I am feeling on any given day. I’m like a Jackson Pollock canvas filled with a strange combination of dribbles of this and that and the other. One day I’m celebrating my life and my blessings and the next I’m filled with a sense of anxiety and doom. I don’t quite know how to respond to the world around me, what to embrace and what to ignore. I am both energized and exhausted at the same time. I seek calm but so often find a general anxiety around me, causing me to wonder if I should be worried too. I prefer to wear red but find myself more often choosing blue to keep myself and those around me feeling more serene. I think of how wonderful it might be to just hibernate until the spring inside the soothing rooms of my home with its colors that always seem to soothe the savage beasts that stalk from outside my front door.

I am weary of all things political and the relentless grip that they have on the world and yet they seem to be everywhere, almost impossible to ignore. The news fails to bring us uplifting stories, focusing mostly instead on all things horrific, choosing sides instead of remaining steadfastly fair in shades of gray. I can no longer safely turn on my radio or television without being barraged by opinions and propaganda. Red and blue have become code for how one believes rather than simple choices of what makes one happy. At any given moment someone is ranting about something in an endless campaign for our support. I try to ignore and just go about my life but it becomes increasingly more difficult to do so and I worry that my sense of control over my own destiny is being stolen by others who only seek power for themselves. I don’t want to be manipulated anymore by folks donned in the colors of my country’s flag who don’t appear to understand me in any way.

I’m ready for the hopeful greening of springtime. I long to see the yellow butterflies in my backyard and the brilliant red blooms of the amaryllis bulbs. I want to open my windows to blue skies and walk through my neighborhood with the warmth of the sun kissing my skin. I dream of working in my yard with my hands buried in the rich brown and black of my soil. I look forward to escaping from the constant drone of ugliness and divisiveness that has overtaken the airwaves of communication.

For now I bury myself in my books that teach me new ideas and assure me that my mind is still clever. I keep things as quiet as possible and surround myself with people that I love and trust. The colors of my soul run peacefully together with happy thoughts of the past, present and future. I gaze at the brilliant colors of a painting from my mother and smile at the thought of her love that seems to protect me even though she is gone. I do my best to ignore the inconsequential while staying abreast of what truly matters. I calm myself with the lovely brown liquid of tea in my cup and memories of purple mountains that sing the glory of God.

February is just around the corner and with it comes a riot of red and pink signifying warmth, caring, love. I’ll scatter those colors throughout my home to remind myself of what really matters even as winter makes its last efforts to stunt the growth of nature for a bit longer. I’ll endure whatever bleakness comes in the sky for I know that brighter days of orange and yellow are sure to come on the horizon very soon. Nature has a way of reminding us to keep our hope and optimism alive, bringing colors that brighten our spirits and help us to continue on this journey known as life.

Today my colors may be dreary but tomorrow I can put a rosy hue on my cheeks and wear my purple blouse with a brightness that takes on the world. We go up and we go down. It is the way things work. Just as the seasons change so do we and sometimes we even find a rainbow after a storm. 

Repurposing the Old

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

Decorate-with-used-furniture

When I first left my childhood home and began to live on my own I furnished my apartment with a hodgepodge of items donated by friends and family. The only brand new never before used item in the place was an inexpensive sofa that I found at a store called Fed Mart. I was all in for repurposing long before it was woke to take care of the environment by reusing things that once belonged to someone else rather than throwing them away. In that regard I was pretty typical of most young adults just starting a life of their own.

I pretty much kept most of the items that filled my first apartment and just repainted or reupholstered them over time to make them appear to be more stylish. The Fed Mart couch fell apart rather quickly and I replaced it with an old sofa that belonged to my mother-in-law which looked a bit like a bench on a bus until I found a more modern fabric for it and then covered its sins with throw pillows. That thing was so indestructible that I used it until my eldest daughter was in high school when I finally broke down and purchased a nice leather sofa in what seemed like an extravagant moment.

As I began a family I used other hand me downs to furnish the rooms of bigger apartments and then a bigger house, shifting things from one purpose to another. Everything had a story for either me or my husband. They had once been in our childhood bedrooms or from the furnishings of our grandparents or mothers. I became attached to them and always reluctant to just let them go. I found ways to use them in different ways. A table became a desk, a dresser served as a console in the hallway. I boasted that my decorating style was eclectic but in truth it was dependent on whatever someone was giving away.

After more than thirty five years of married life we finally replaced the double bed that had once belonged to my in-laws when our increasing girth made it more and more uncomfortable to share the tiny space. We invested in a queen size bedroom suite with matching dressers and chests and side tables and sent our decades old items to the rooms of grandchildren where they found new life once again.

Not long after that purchase my father-in-law remarried and began to give away his own furnishings to make way for those belonging to his new wife. At that point we “inherited” a lovely secretary that once belonged to my husband’s grandmother along with some end tables that had graced her living room. We also brought home an oak dining table and an antique glass cabinet that had been his aunt’s. Once again we moved things around to accommodate the new items that were replacing older used things and surrendered what would no longer fit to our daughters.

Our home was beginning to look more polished. It seemed to have a coherent decorating scheme that spoke of our time together and our heritage from the past. Best of all we were not filling a junkyard with unwanted items. We were finding ways to use what was already part of the earth as were our girls who were now married with families of their own and homes making use of so many pieces that we had handed down to them just as others had done for us.

Not long after we moved to our present house one of my dearest friends died. She had purchased a beautiful Amish crafted dining set in celebration of her remission from cancer. Sadly her illness returned and doctors were unable to halt its progression. The table and its lovely chairs became rather useless for her widowed husband who mostly dined out each day, so he decided to sell it and I found myself feeling compelled to rescue it in memory of my friend.

I had been with her when she so carefully chose the style and the wood for it. I thought of that table as being a kind of link with her that I could not allow to go to some random person. I convinced my husband that we needed to purchase the lovely set, and so with a bit of rearranging of our old things we proudly placed it in our breakfast room where it has been the center of family dinners and celebrations just as my friend had intended it to be. I think of her each time I prepare it for a meal. I know she would be happy that it is bringing the kind of joy that she insisted on bringing into her famous “rainbow days.”

I hear that young people don’t seem to want old things anymore. They would rather purchase new modern furnishings that are lighter and brighter than the kind of old used pieces that I have in my home. I find it somewhat ironic that they are also the ones who worry about consumerism and our overuse of the earth’s resources while also insisting that they don’t want to have to repurpose what already exists like I have tried to do.

I feel as though I have not only done a bit to save our planet but I have also rescued parts of the past, stories from my heritage that I pass down to my daughters and grandchildren. We all grew up believing that we should never waste and that honoring the past can be a good thing. We are not averse to making do with things that have already been used. They have character and meaning that are wonderful. Combining them with modern, trendy colors and fabrics brings them to life and keeps our landfills less cluttered. Besides it’s rather fun to challenge ourselves to find ways of reusing them that are lovely and fill a home with warmth. Something old is a kind of treasure not to be tossed away lightly. Perhaps we all need to make more effort to use what we already have.