tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74615741743826568692012-01-15T12:27:18.198-05:00finding my place through writing and teachingSandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comBlogger1271100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-79977277525095953502012-01-07T09:21:00.005-05:002012-01-07T10:03:42.543-05:00

For several days after my move, I was without Internet access. The amount of writing I got done was akin to my early days at the computer--all my writing/thinking energy was funneled to the page. I began an article assignment, that, were I to have had the Internet, I'd still be contemplating.Now, I'm hooked-up (so to speak.) And so...when I sat down to write about the grief my move has unleashed

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-81548315543284236352011-12-28T12:29:00.006-05:002011-12-28T19:07:03.710-05:00

In Tim O'Brien's "How to Tell a True War Story," he writes: A true war story is never moral...If at the end of a war story you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small bit of rectitude has been salvaged...then you have been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie. I feel the truth of those words in my bones. I remember back in 1995, when survivors and their children began writing

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-39879074818197640222011-12-24T10:35:00.005-05:002011-12-24T18:41:53.607-05:00

Last night I took my first Yoga class in four months. Assorted injuries forced me to trade in my Yoga mat for the physical therapist's couch. It was so good to be back, physically and mentally.That's not to infer I let go of all my moving disappointment. In fact, I carried it all the way to the Chelsea studio, imagined the dirt road I should have been trekking to get to class, not the cement

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-65301453354849933742011-12-23T10:39:00.011-05:002011-12-24T10:35:10.661-05:00

Every semester one of my English classes reads the story "The Things They Carried" by Tim O'Brien, taken from his book of the same title.There are always students who've read the whole book; shamefully, I try to not let it leak out that I haven't. Till now, that is. As I work my way slowly through O'Brien's gorgeous prose, his story about remembering his stories of Vietnam, puts me in the center

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-57226665610102716592011-12-12T09:41:00.006-05:002011-12-23T12:26:48.191-05:00

In 1994, my parents moved to Florida, after 47 years in Brooklyn. The day they left, their car wouldn't start. My mother saw that as an omen, one that mirrored all her anxieties and doubts. My father waited outside for AAA; my mother called me."Maybe we shouldn't go," she said, her voice thick with fear. "Tell me, sweetheart. What do you think?"I wasn't the best person for my mother to ask, for I

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-47617827423894589172011-12-11T09:00:00.007-05:002011-12-12T17:51:58.860-05:00

One week ago to the minute, I was exactly where I am now (in logistics, that is). I was at my table at Starbucks, hammering out a Sublease Agreement, to take to my meeting with my potential Subleaser(?). The morning was anxious and unsettling. Later that day, the deal fell through. I got a little bit lost.It's Sunday again. I'm on solid ground, back at Starbucks, drinking my cafe au' lait,

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-38105342466148905192011-12-11T04:01:00.006-05:002011-12-11T08:58:00.568-05:00

While looking for a place to live, I often thought of how lucky I was when I had my Brooklyn co-op. Owning my own home was a luxury I never took for granted; although I did, at times, feel burdened by it. I wanted to explore! But I was tethered to an agreement (with no sublease rights).At least that's what I thought. In looking back at these few months in which I had ample opportunity to go

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-89661971711761760892011-12-07T06:39:00.005-05:002011-12-07T19:36:49.189-05:00

My ghosts come out when I least expect them. When I'm settled in my choices, convinced of their rightness, I awake from a restless night and find I'm wrong about everything.Trust your gut, people say. Trust your instincts. It seems at times my gut and my instincts are two separate entities, wrestling out something or other. (I just wish they'd let me get some sleep.)I dream of moving across the

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-42411108518833144442011-12-06T17:47:00.012-05:002011-12-11T04:01:44.985-05:00

I keep wanting to comment on my search for my new home. But, each day brings new feelings, push pulls, and a queasy feeling in my gut.Two weeks ago I found a sublet in Nyack on craigslist. Emails went back and forth between myself and the homeowner--there were a few phone calls. There was a quick walk thru the house--owner not present, then, a face to face.What there wasn't, was a credential or

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-51041864962402429892011-11-14T06:00:00.012-05:002011-11-16T07:49:33.111-05:00

Many years ago I saw the documentary Punch Me in the Stomach by Deb Filler. In this film, which Filler wrote and starred in, she presents her father's story of being rounded up and taken to Auschwitz. In a scene I can never forget, Filler (as her father), tells how he and the other Jews were given their uniforms then told to lie down; the cots were set up in fours--two pushed together sideways,

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-64738115880065360132011-11-07T06:14:00.005-05:002011-11-07T09:09:43.511-05:00

January 1 is my must-move-by deadline. For most of my hunt for an apartment, I've cast my gaze away from Manhattan. A good part of that choice is practicality. Rentals have gone crazy. But if the price of an apartment weren't an issue, I think I'd have made the same choices.There's something fresh and wonderful about starting anew. The field of possibility feels eternal and electric. But once I

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-61454687400869735392011-11-04T18:05:00.002-04:002011-11-07T08:53:33.334-05:00

I'm sitting at Starbucks in Nyack, looking out on the quiet streetscape, the occasional passing cars. It's quiet in here and a bit eerie in its quiet.This is the antithesis of the bursting crowd I turned from two weeks ago, at SB in Columbus Circle. Ah...but that's why I'm here. To get away, to find a place that's serene and lovely. Here I sit, between the two worlds of what I want and what I

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-53647409673374588932011-10-28T08:06:00.003-04:002011-10-28T08:36:37.095-04:00

A good friend has suggested I find an apartment in Brooklyn. In spite of my numerous protests, "I can't move back to Brooklyn," he doesn't get it. After all, the borough (that was once a city of its own), is tres-cool, more Manhattan than Manhattan. But, he's from suburban New Jersey; what does he know about being a street kid from the boroughs?I think you have to have left a Brooklyn childhood

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-81666150914158619852011-10-26T07:38:00.006-04:002011-10-26T07:54:34.082-04:00

I'm still looking for a place to live. By "place" I don't mean apartment, but rather the answer to the question I've asked for years: Where do I fit? For 27 years I was settled in Brooklyn Heights--a lovely and wonderful neighborhood--but often I felt the pull of other scenery, other ways to live. Staying still brings a comfort I'm not aware of until I try leaving. Then...well, all my wires go a

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-70436951996551480052011-10-16T05:59:00.003-04:002011-10-16T06:09:52.805-04:00

Awoke this a.m. at 5:00, anxious and a bit disconcerted about my day's plan. I'm off to Philly (8:00 a.m. bus) to check out apartments. After a night's sleep, all I can say is, What was this home girl thinking?I love concocting plans about where I'll live--how I'll commute to my New York work life--then whisk myself away to a place that's quieter where 400 square feet is affordable. But, in the

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-56952797996662641862011-10-14T04:06:00.004-04:002011-10-14T08:40:59.503-04:00

Awake at 4:00 a.m. I always become an insomniac at the end of a great romance. What's different about this break-up, is that I'm already thinking of jumping into a new relationship.My eight-year affair with Manhattan is coming to a close. I'm relieved, nervous, excited, and likely a whole lot of other feelings that will rear their head as the time draws near to lock my door behind me. I haven't

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-40590510269904804232011-10-08T08:54:00.004-04:002011-10-08T09:20:29.074-04:00

Today I have a date with my mother. I'll meet her in the pews at the synagogue where I'll say Yisskur. My grief will meet me too, for it arises during prayer as if it's our first time together.As awful as grief is, there's something so alive and free about crying fresh, hard tears. I remember when my father passed away, my friend Marlene told me, "Enjoy your grief." I understood immediately, one

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-21477776603002589912011-09-24T09:01:00.006-04:002011-09-24T09:29:54.337-04:00

It seems I live in an eternal state of wanting to move. In fact, the title of my essay collection, could aptly be the title of my life. I've done a good job of convincing myself that I haven't yet found my place--the real one--my destined spot on earth.This morning, while walking to Starbucks, contemplating whether I should live on the beach, these words flew into my brain: It's not so much where

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-40479809706945622972011-09-14T08:22:00.001-04:002011-09-14T08:22:46.408-04:00

In the newsroom, when an article is completed, journalists use the term, "put the story to bed." That phrase comes to me now, as I try putting my own story to bed. I completed my essay, "The Ambivalent Memoirist." I must have revised twenty times, a process at times, torturous and other times, exhilirating. To be that into a project is a return to my very early feelings about writing. But the

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-9397820734845522722011-09-02T17:28:00.005-04:002011-09-02T18:06:02.714-04:00

I've been trying to write an essay about the many memoirs I began, during a period of about ten years, but didn't finish. The essay (as the memoirs) is hard to write, especially as I try to throw out a net and capture the one reason--the very one thing--that held me back. Memoir is tricky business, most obviously for the self-scrutiny and revelations about other people. All of us live our lives

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-48315813878248628282011-08-29T15:46:00.014-04:002011-09-08T04:20:25.708-04:00

The new cast of Dancing with the Stars has been chosen, and I'm not among them. I'm disappointed--even though there's no reason I'd be on the DWTS' radar. I'm a dancer, mostly in my mind and living room. But, if I were chosen--I'd love the weeks of hard-core dance training and the feeling that comes with it--being totally, fantastically, alive.Dancing appears to be Reality TV at its finest.

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-46190124625479780462011-08-21T06:42:00.004-04:002011-08-21T13:06:39.309-04:00

During the stop and start of revision, I always forget that this is part of the process, rather than a reason to give up. Usually, a five-page essay goes through at least ten revisions, numerous readings (silent ones, that is) at Starbucks, back again to the computer, and the enormous amount of printer paper? I should buy it at Costco. I'm working on a piece tentatively title "The Ambivalent

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-60697954765369365972011-08-19T06:25:00.006-04:002011-08-19T11:55:19.684-04:00

The last days of summer flirt with me; every morning I awake to the most unwelcome question, "what will I do with my remaining time off?" That this questioning comes from within myself, makes it only worse. Why isn't it ok (I ask of myself) to do nothing? I've always had trouble with the concept of doing nothing--taking walks, having a day at the beach, browsing bookstores, and reading trashy

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-3134461914418771222011-08-03T07:16:00.008-04:002011-08-03T15:04:10.523-04:00

In my English class, I'm always challenged by the last part of our syllabus, writing in the discipline of Public Policy. Having a friend who teaches this subject at Columbia has helped me; she suggests "hot topics" and directs me to Internet sites with policy issues. This gets me through, but has never hit home; when I teach this, it's never felt like my lesson.This summer, maybe because my

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-40200158507903542652011-07-14T10:28:00.007-04:002011-08-07T16:48:00.837-04:00

My Eng class just finished reading Tim O'Brien's "The Thing's They Carried." The protagonist, Jimmy Cross, carries a pebble, given to him by a woman he is infatuated with. For Cross, who is in Vietnam, the pebble symbolizes home, Martha, all things pure and light. In contrast, he also carries a stone in his belly--the weight of his guilt when a soldier under his leadership, is shot.This story

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-20672565928108711062011-07-10T08:55:00.008-04:002011-07-10T16:07:29.024-04:00

I mixed things up this summer by joining the Y. Zumba now competes with Yoga for my time. The vigorous, lively dance workout stirs fantasies of long ago, when I wanted to be a jazz dancer. In the gym, amidst a tangle of hips, arms and legs, I catch a spot of myself in the mirror and imagine I'm in Fame.The New York Times had an article on Zumba on Friday. I wasn't surprised to note that yoga

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-44306446503296053792011-06-30T19:41:00.007-04:002011-07-10T16:00:17.000-04:00

I performed major surgery today on the memoir (which is no longer a memoir, but then again...). I removed what feels like the book's heart; it's a section about my maternal grandparents who came to the U. S. in 1908 from Czechoslovakia and returned in 1915, unknowingly, to face what would come to Eastern European Jews. The theme that runs through my brain now is: so near and yet so far--in many

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-21647048253146588402011-06-29T20:34:00.005-04:002011-06-30T19:40:09.423-04:00

I just sent an email to someone who many years ago was instrumental in setting my career in motion. In my email was a link to an amazing review I have today, and, as self-promotion shy as I am, well....too bad.Here it is: http://headbutler.com/ Jesse Kornbluth now joins the list of some very lovely people moving me along a path, I reluctantly tread.The "many years ago" person set me up when I was

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-51471938638033082902011-06-18T05:56:00.009-04:002011-06-18T10:49:53.040-04:00

While flipping around the television stations I came upon a show called "Shark Tank." Five self-made millionaires decide whether to invest in inventions of real people who display their wares and ask for cash.On the surface, this seems like entertainment that would never capture me. I cringe when people are publicly rejected or shamed. But these millionaires--at least three of them--are pretty

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-51259310968426174852011-06-11T15:30:00.009-04:002011-06-15T20:42:28.460-04:00

I've been thinking a lot about the Beatles' song "Blackbird." All day Thursday I sang to myself Blackbird singing in the dead of night. Round and round the words went.Early that evening I had dinner with a friend of my brother's, I'd met once, twenty years before. We connected immediately. A need to feel my brother's presence was our powerful tie. J told me about pranks he and my brother pulled,

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-29155381911206321122011-06-02T07:59:00.006-04:002011-06-07T08:20:34.164-04:00

This is the time of year when I cast out my imaginary net and consider new careers. The number of plagiarized end term papers handed in astounded and depressed me. We had talked about plagiarism all semester--and to drive home the point--students uploaded their work through a software program that detects it.And yet, there it was: phrases lifted from wikipedia, answers.com (I never understand how

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-89365518470628223202011-05-19T04:43:00.011-04:002011-05-22T08:58:23.334-04:00

I went back to Kripalu last weekend. I wanted to soak up that wonderful health I had come home with a few weeks before. On the bus ride to Lenox, I sat in front of a woman talking on her cell phone. She was planning a trip to Greece and lots of countries in between. She referred, quite often, to the "outer edges" of the trip. "I'll book the outer edges," she said, "and we'll do the rest later."I

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-84904273252551807472011-05-02T06:13:00.021-04:002011-05-03T05:58:59.896-04:00

I went to a Kirtan Saturday night--an evening of spiritual chanting--to see (and chant with) Krishna Das. The candlelit room, filled with people of all ages seated on the floor and chairs and standing, spiraled me back in time to the days of Woodstock and the event I almost attended.It was 1969; at 18, I was all set to go--awaited my pick-up at 2:00 a.m. Then my brother telephoned from the NY

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-23883834844316831502011-04-17T05:59:00.020-04:002011-04-17T10:46:25.143-04:00

Just when I swore off writing and put the memoir on a closet shelf, I reached out for advice on how to fix it. I'm amazed that the memoir genre is hotter than ever. I want to be part of this wave of books landing daily on tables at B&N (and certainly while there still is a B&N). But I remain ambivalent about the stories told and the ones worth reading. I read a few chapters of an acclaimed memoir

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-83844762011511670212011-04-16T03:35:00.010-04:002011-04-16T07:43:23.904-04:00

Sometime in the 1990's I read that groups were gathering at Auschwitz to practice Yoga. I wasn't happy. My mother and her three sisters had been interred there for nine months; my father and his siblings at other camps. For me, Auschwitz was to be remembered for exactly what it was--not used to push any ideals, even great ones. Today I have a better understanding of Yoga. I'm learning about "

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-37001333131530052892011-04-04T05:59:00.017-04:002011-04-08T07:32:54.603-04:00

In the mid 1980s I went to Kripalu, a yoga education center, which was then an Ashram. I wasn't particularly interested in Yoga or Eastern religions. A friend who lived in the area (and as it turned out, knew little about Kripalu), thought I'd like it and so I went for a weekend. My time there was deeply unsettling. What was so disturbing were the austerity and the silence. I slept in a dorm, a

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-71191412818152803632011-03-26T08:18:00.005-04:002011-03-26T08:38:52.791-04:00

Last night I told my friend Carol that writing is no longer my passion. I've felt this way for several months, long enough to make me feel, perhaps I should just close up the store, find another business.In a way I already have, as teaching can easily overtake my life. But expecting to feel passionate about something I've been doing a long time may be unrealistic. It also may be harmful.Several

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-76471085813077861932011-03-20T11:28:00.011-04:002011-03-26T08:00:07.069-04:00

A New York Times op-ed by Bob Herbert, "College the Easy Way," has been occupying my classes. Herbert maintains that students would rather party than study, and college administrators give them the ok, by having low expectaions.Many of my students agree. Those who do work hard resent those who don't, yet come away with the same grades. I tell the hard workers, "Your A means so much more--it's the

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-51055448997418052872011-03-19T14:33:00.005-04:002011-03-26T08:14:56.358-04:00

By the time I'd left Brooklyn in 2003, I'd walked the Brooklyn Bridge over 2,000 times (a modest calculation). I loved that walk, which was different each time, except for the energy that infused me. That was a constant. Going toward Manhattan made me come alive. Often I felt I could just keep walking--through City Hall, then Chinatown, Soho, the Village and all the way up and through the tip of

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-67797862119004217392011-03-03T16:21:00.007-05:002011-03-03T17:27:32.163-05:00

Teaching can be so disheartening. In one-to-one conferences today about papers, a student questioned my accuracy about punctuation--not a bad thing to do, except his higher source was the squiggly line on MS Word. We bantered for at least five minutes. Feeding the squiggle--(herein known as the MS Monster)--a punctuation--comma, semicolon, colon (doesn't seem to matter)--makes the Monster go away

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-81449042283230026622011-02-22T06:17:00.008-05:002011-02-22T16:37:41.535-05:00

Each Composition professor brings his or her own strengths to the classroom. This is what I tell my students when one or two (or God help me...more) say, "That's not how I learned it last semester." I don't want to criticize another teacher, nor do I want to reveal the gaps in my English education. But, with a degree in writing--not a PhD in English--grammar is not my favorite subject to teach. (

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-87603609472279003472011-02-13T06:55:00.008-05:002011-02-13T15:37:52.700-05:00

A close friend is moving to Tbilisi, Georgia. Just like that, she got a job, packed up herself and her child and is on the way to A New Life. I so envy her; until two weeks ago, the only Georgia I knew of was home to Atlanta. Then I did a Google search. The ancient city with its mountain views made my heart sing.Today, I am bereft. I'm losing a friend--and her gorgeous daughter--although she

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-47270010970769909412011-02-05T07:06:00.006-05:002011-02-07T08:54:59.863-05:00

Two of my English classes are reading John Updike's short story "A & P." This story about Sammy, a young man who impulsively quits his job as a cashier, separates my classes into two sanctions. There are those who go with the interpretation that Sammy was courageous for quitting a job he hated, even though he didn't have another waiting. And then there are just as many who see Sammy as a fool.The

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-5153420191123551862011-01-29T08:35:00.006-05:002011-01-31T14:16:41.392-05:00

While trying to meditate this a.m., so many thoughts collided. When thoughts merely pass through my mind, sitting still is comfortable. Mindfulness meditation, which is what I'm striving for, doesn't ask me to not think (as if...). But when my preoccupations hang mid-air (mid-brain?)-- frozen--sitting is excruciating.This a.m. I was reminded why I took to writing in a somewhat addictive way;

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-39716916824399257032011-01-26T09:45:00.020-05:002011-01-31T14:17:54.260-05:00

I was watching Good Morning America this morning, as I do each day upon arising. I'm struck by how these a.m. shows have so little substance. I don't know if I've changed or these programs have progressively dumbed down. Or, perhaps it's merely the word "tweet" saturating the media. What kind of a word is "tweet" for grownups?What would my parents have made of our modern world of silly words? I

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-2944169403500636172011-01-19T09:21:00.006-05:002011-01-23T09:53:43.579-05:00

Sometimes I do writing assignments along with my class. And sometimes I make the mistake of telling them I'll do one, when I'm not at all up to the task.So, there I was--publicly humiliated (slight hyperbole)--when I was asked to produce my rough draft and didn't have one. That night I forced myself to put fingers to keyboard and write. The assignment was "write about an event from your childhood

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-57246153064465348762010-12-29T08:22:00.006-05:002010-12-29T09:58:15.381-05:00

During the late 1990's I became disenchanted with the exercise classes I had once loved. The reason? Props.The freedom of moving to music was lost via the introduction of belts, weights, slides, steps, poles, beach balls. I stopped taking classes; for a long time I was adrift, exercise-wise. I waited for classes to return to the way I liked them. I waited a long time.When I first started

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-74659342050049427142010-12-28T08:34:00.003-05:002010-12-28T09:00:09.411-05:00

I'm on vacation. This is a good time for me to have some fun and too, to make some sense of all the writing projects, weighing down the shelves in my closet.And so, with so much recent work, why not resurrect my dead novel, decreed as such seven years ago? In retrospect I see the error of my way. But, last Sunday, as I read through the book, I wasn't at all aware of the distraction I was kicking

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-2034976271751466342010-12-21T11:18:00.005-05:002010-12-23T10:24:43.107-05:00

A few months ago a writer acquaintance questioned my desire to blog. "Why write for free?" he asked. That was easy to answer, as I blog mostly for my own writing needs. Then he asked something like, "Why do you think people care what you think?" This question too was easy to field. "Well, my friends care," I said, "and my students enjoy it...they've said so!"The "do people care" issue hasn't come

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-88323624524770230572010-12-15T12:20:00.009-05:002011-01-23T09:59:43.861-05:00

The end of semester is a time to re-evaluate not just my Syllabus but my command of the English language. In spite of describing plagiarism, warning how easy it is to spot, the repercussions, students will explain how their copy-and-paste off the Internet, doesn't count as plagiarism.Cases in point: An entire plot summary of a movie (one full page), taken from Amazon.com, explained as a way to

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-34752761652580055432010-11-25T06:17:00.005-05:002010-12-28T07:18:50.687-05:00

After listening to MLK's "I Had A Dream Speech," my class talked about change--nothing big--just the state of our country and racisim. Most students agreed that we'd made progress, but we have a long way to go. They pointed to the economy, education, housing.One student summed up the cause of our country's problems: old people. Twenty eyes then turned to me; so, yes, no question there, I am one

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-88772559128656912162010-11-14T04:47:00.009-05:002010-12-28T07:20:02.046-05:00

I'm reading a lot these days. I've gone from Hosseini's The Kite Runner (fourth read for class), to his A Thousand Splendid Suns (one of the best books I've ever read), to The Kabul Beauty School, a memoir by Deborah Rodriquez. I've been enjoying this last one about an American woman who was part of a beauty school venture in Afghanistan. I've been imagining myself going off to a country in need,

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-9780545033992136172010-11-09T11:54:00.003-05:002010-11-09T12:03:36.081-05:00

There's a certain beauty to the act of revision. These past months since my brother died, I've been unable to start anything new. Novel ideas fly through my brain, but all the stories are too close to home. But, I've found comfort in the return to work left undone, needing a twist here, a turn there. The infamous MFA thesis has gotten a good going through. It's as though I held up the unbound

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-42447973234533374462010-11-04T13:39:00.010-04:002010-11-07T07:31:50.677-05:00

In a class last Tuesday, one out of 11 students did the homework assignment. No one looked embarrassed or upset at being caught. In the same class a student handed in the wrong assignmnent, claiming he didn't remember what he was supposed to do. The assignment had been demonstrated on a screen, step-by-step-by-step. It's also posted to an on-line school system students have easy access to. I

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-85929592419235557672010-10-31T12:47:00.004-04:002010-11-01T06:04:18.474-04:00

Sometimes it's hard to get myself to do the things that make me feel good. I love (loved?) blogging. But, each time I think of logging on to this site, I'm underwhelmed with ideas of what to write about.I know the story is in my fingers. I know the discipline is crucial to my writing life--and yet. So easy, to resist. So, here I sit--idea-less--but at least I showed up at the desk.Details swirl

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-91208137058576436732010-10-21T07:43:00.003-04:002010-10-21T07:54:34.266-04:00

There was a time when I thought of my writing life as my savior. Whenever a difficult feeling arose in me, I took to the keyboard, got it all out. Writing helped me tame my experiences, and to a degree, free myself.Today, it's all about my teaching life. It's complete present moment. Since my brother's passing, teaching is the one activity I can't zone out during. And, in the planning and grading

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-4616535541612957472010-10-08T11:22:00.005-04:002010-10-21T07:43:02.444-04:00

About five students stood outside the classroom the other day, each staring into a flat, 4x2 device, coddled in the palm of their hand.At the start of class I asked, "How many of you have made friends with other students here?" They looked at one another, smiled--in a kind of embarrassed way--and said, not many. I told them how when I went to college--pre (very) technology days, I had to find

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-14063158513016540412010-10-03T18:43:00.005-04:002010-10-03T20:19:58.160-04:00

Since my brother died a few weeks ago, my writing life seems all over the place--not in a literal sense--for I've written very little. But, in my mind, the places I can take my stories have expanded greatly. The question is, do I want to visit these stories?The question seems rhetorical, since I'm already there, grieving, obsessing, fuming, depending on the day. I've been left with a hefty bill--

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-14922889301147436582010-09-28T07:28:00.004-04:002010-09-28T07:53:06.039-04:00

Many years ago I asked my father how he went on after the Holocaust. He had lost four brothers and his parents in the war; my father said to me, "What else could I do?" He said it as though it were so simple, so obvious.His words are now seared inside me, as I face every day with my grief for my brother. But, unlike my father, I realize there is something else I can do besides rise from bed, say

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-15039215458874283922010-09-19T11:12:00.004-04:002010-09-19T19:23:03.422-04:00

When my brother and I were little we often rummaged through the drawer in my parents' bedroom that held important papers. Two of those papers were our birth certificates which we loved to read again and again. We never questioned the truth of our lineage. We were simply astounded--as children are--by the way life comes to be, the way we came to be, that we existed, we were one another's and our

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-2299100091536072492010-09-17T09:35:00.005-04:002011-01-28T10:07:14.009-05:00

Grades are due today at one school I teach at. I immensely dislike this day -- well--not all of it; the sun warms my back through the screen at Starbucks, and a 50s soundtrack livens me, pulls me from the past two weeks of grief.But, back to grades. What I dislike is the inevitable backlash of a student or three who contests their B or C or D. It reminds me of an uncomfortable truth about college

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-54767819115150635072010-09-12T08:21:00.006-04:002010-09-13T06:56:04.744-04:00

I had a writing friend a long time ago who said that writers are whores. She meant we take whatever is happening in the lives of others--and spin it for a paycheck. I took her words personally; at the time I often wrote about being the daughter of survivors and many of my essays were published. I remember putting my fingers to my cheek, as if to comfort the place I'd been slapped.There are so

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-21410754457507317832010-09-10T09:45:00.008-04:002010-09-10T19:32:49.296-04:00

I've managed to pull off a rare feat; 4 of my English classes are reading the same work. Normally at this point in the semester, we read James Baldwin's "Sonny's Blues." The story of two brothers distanced by their life choices is always a tough one for me to get through. It unfailingly reminds me of myself and my brother and our painful separation.Last week I gave myself a break. I pulled the

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-72593338975278518322010-09-09T01:54:00.006-04:002010-09-10T19:34:44.554-04:00

Perhaps I can fulfill my dream to write a full-length book when my heart wakens me with its rampant beating, it's inability to lie still in sleep. It is my brother I rattle around inside for. It is the knowledge of his passing, the awful, most ungodly way he left this earth, alone.Do I write of this here, on my blog which is not meant for the expression of my nighttime emotions, but for

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-1290061928224943902010-09-07T06:51:00.008-04:002010-09-08T15:19:55.596-04:00

A memorial candle burns atop my kitchen counter; it is the last flame of life that is my brother. I remember my mother, so many years ago, praying over the Sabbath candles--benching lecht--her palms over her eyes, her body weaving, and the indecipherable sounds that leaked from her lips.This morning, I put my palms over my eyes, lean forward and back, pray into the fire for my brother. I tell

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-33494259645410979662010-09-06T08:21:00.010-04:002010-09-13T11:25:57.713-04:00

I am in a 6:00 a.m. mood. The lovely, daunting early morning hour. But, alas it is 8:22, the day brightens and fully awakes with customers in and out of Starbucks (where it seems I am sitting shiva).In my brother's passing, I am not free of a family history that I've yearned for release from. Instead, I am a prisoner of the book of life.They say alcoholism is a disease, and I have tried to

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-83929662595905982002010-09-03T13:18:00.014-04:002010-09-11T20:15:47.415-04:00

A few weeks ago I responded to a "call for papers" for an Anthology. The editor was looking for submissions by people who'd grown up with alcoholic parents. I responded immediately although my parents weren't alcoholics.I write about my brother often, but never for publication. There's a sibling line in my heart and mind, one I haven't permitted myself to cross, when it comes to making family

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-55803827064175024852010-08-27T11:53:00.003-04:002010-08-31T09:03:56.839-04:00

Today is my official back to work day. I'm blogging, because as usual, I've arrived way early. I have an ideal schedule, at least in adjunct-ville: two sections of the same class.Yesterday, in preparation my anxieties were running wild. They weren't about teaching, but all that surrounds my teaching life. Will I feel successful in my writing life in the future? Is memoir version #4 finally going

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-74570866034766873202010-08-20T08:36:00.003-04:002010-08-26T13:46:23.761-04:00

My fall semester starts up next week, and I'm looking forward to it. This summer of teaching part-time wasn't as productive as I'd hoped. The more I have to do, the better able I am to squeeze in the "not-have-to's." My memoir still sits, critiqued and very scribbled on (as in...very). The enormous task of taking apart the manuscript and restructuring sent me to smaller, manageable work. And I

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-52739271425724674362010-08-13T10:05:00.005-04:002010-08-13T18:18:49.176-04:00

My P&W essay is fini and submitted. It felt so good to tick one thing off my to-do writing list. Especially when I cursed at that list, vowed to never write one again.This morning I gathered the pages of a fiction something or other I began a year ago. After reading and plotting, my attention drifted to emails I had to write, what I'll eat for lunch, laundry, and the question of late that I

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-23399046000829566702010-08-06T21:20:00.006-04:002010-08-07T08:37:29.520-04:00

I read an interesting blog post by novelist Kamy Wicoff on shewrites.com. She discusses the difference between blogging and writing--a subject I often ponder here. I like the way she lays out how writing--as opposed to blogging--requires time, nurturance, lots of thought and did I say, time? I'm living in this distinction these days, working hard on the essay I'd like to submit to Poets & Writers

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-2238752326411580232010-07-31T10:10:00.003-04:002010-07-31T10:42:22.849-04:00

Last night I began reading The Book of Lights by Chaim Potok. This story of a Rabbinical student enthralled by the Kaballah, took me to my father's bedside. I imagined him, just over a year ago when he'd had his stroke. I sat beside him (in this imagining) reading aloud. How he loves the immersion in the Orthodox world these pages create! And how clean and loved I feel, bringing this joy to him;

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-13956243908742457132010-07-29T12:01:00.011-04:002010-07-31T11:39:02.348-04:00

Committing to a writing project this summer has been tough. Maybe it's the heat (doubtful...)I'm all over the place with unfinished or soon-to-be started stuff--waiting (and waiting) for inspiration.Often when I'm in this place of stuck-ness (previously referred to as Resistance), I turn to other creative loves. Making bows, hats, knitting. I want to be productive as well as funnel my energies.

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-3779835590269865052010-07-23T09:30:00.003-04:002010-07-23T10:10:36.324-04:00

I wanted to start a blog long before doing so. One worry that stopped me was that I'd freeze up, be unable to write "live." An anonymous blog was my test run. That proved successful, and so I went for it; my name, my commitment, my fans (well, a few students promise they read me). All was well for near a year. And then it happened--deep freeze.For the past two weeks I've attempted to get a

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-3450124911415054182010-07-10T12:24:00.004-04:002010-07-10T14:46:45.705-04:00

I left town for a few days, minus my laptop. I didn't miss it until uneasy moments of feeling displaced swept over me. Normally at such times, I'd set out for a cafe, set up a little office and remember who I am. And so I had to face the challenge of remembering me, away from my comfort zone, the easy access the computer affords me to curl inside myself and tune out real life.Just before leaving

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-70250407113644244442010-06-30T05:59:00.007-04:002010-07-31T11:49:07.045-04:00

According to the TV News magazines, the ex-Michael Douglas' are at war. Diandra wants (they say) a lot of Michael's money. He doesn't want to give it to her. The reason; something to do with entitlement to money earned, post-divorce.This little sound-byte, which I heard in the a.m., stayed with me all day. The ex-Michael Douglas' son Cameron is in jail for the next five years. Both parents were

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-63006696331761393762010-06-29T15:27:00.003-04:002010-06-29T16:23:04.924-04:00

"Discovering the Virtues of a Wandering Mind" by John Tierney in today's Times talks about the positive side of zoning out. It's also wreaking havoc with my present-moment practice. If a "wandering mind" (which I think of as something I suffer from) is a good way to cultivate ideas, then is being in the present moment overrated? Even a luxury?I wandered all over today. I'm not sure if it was

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-38396485690408714392010-06-23T09:31:00.005-04:002010-06-23T17:26:00.099-04:00

Blogging is my form of Facebook. The public-ness of Facebook makes me squeamish, yet here I am, most likely, being more open than the social network would require.A big difference is that in blogging there's only a one-way reaching out. Am I fearful no one will go in search of me? It's likely. For one, my names, both first and last, are not the names I had the first 35 years of my life. Marriage

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-9838174034530128262010-06-20T06:18:00.005-04:002010-06-20T09:57:26.739-04:00

This has been my week of sleeping badly in anticipation of today, Father's Day. Last year on this day, my father had a stroke. On July 3, he passed away. I'm glad this year has ended, that the awful phone call and all that came after are behind me. And yet, those days in the hospital with my father were precious. I relive them sometimes, imagine myself there, machines beeping around us, nurses,

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-25196498997584243402010-06-19T06:11:00.009-04:002011-01-28T06:26:26.925-05:00

Last Thursday one of my classes watched the movie, Whale Rider. It's one of my favorite movies to show students. This story of people in present-day New Zealand living according to their Hawaiian ancestral traditions, displays courage, family relationships, and what happens when we resist change that's in the natural order of life.At the end of class, a student who has rarely spoken to me,

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-4353960112685026902010-06-17T08:37:00.006-04:002011-01-28T06:27:14.165-05:00

This morning, I walked toward school thinking about the concept of "the present moment." Which means, I wasn't actually in the present moment. I was having an imaginary conversation with an important person in my life, explaining how Yoga's ultimate destination goes beyond therapy. At least to me, therapy's goal is to learn to cope well. What I gather from the texts I'm reading (currently

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-34300991670655464832010-06-11T13:22:00.008-04:002011-01-28T06:27:14.172-05:00

Yesterday I had a wonderful teaching moment. My class was discussing Poe's The Tell Tale Heart, a story about a madman plotting to murder someone whose "vulture eye" drove him crazy. A student who was visibly repulsed asked, "Why would someone write this? What is the point?"I was about to launch into a dialogue about symbolism, when an idea intercepted. "Let's write our own horror story," I said,

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-46262300249490744202010-06-07T08:27:00.005-04:002010-06-07T09:09:35.214-04:00

I was undoubtedly a more prolific writer in pre-internet days. This morning, I awoke to turn on the computer, check emails--personal and business--went outside for a walk, returned--more email, then on to reading blog posts on Poetica's site. While I could easily have skipped the emails, especially at 6:30 a.m., Poetica's blog is a must.The writing is so sharp, honest, gorgeous, that today I will

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-11869615630835799342010-06-05T18:04:00.006-04:002010-06-05T18:53:22.837-04:00

In a conversation with another writer the other day, I said, "Good writing is all about revision." Words to live by--in fact, words I will be living by in the next months to bring Halfway Home to the next level.After having put the manuscript away for awhile, I noted today during a quick read it's not as ready as I thought. To some degree readiness is a matter of moving chapters around and making

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-22357983100844457582010-06-01T07:23:00.007-04:002011-01-28T06:27:14.175-05:00

I'm going to do something I tell my students to never do, open my entry with someone else's words. But for the day after Memorial Day, I can't help sharing this gem from 60 Minutes commentator, Andy Rooney."I wish we could dedicate Memorial Day, not to the memory of those who have died at war, but to the idea of saving the lives of the young people who are going to die in the future if we don’t

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-89693459775281362022010-05-29T22:07:00.005-04:002010-05-29T22:54:24.432-04:00

Toying with fiction today and having fun. I broke a cardinal rule (I don't know whose exactly) to not show work too soon, and emailed a few pages to two friends.In the sixth grade, I along with a few other girls in my class began our own version of a trashy, women's magazine (circa 1962). We wrote a continuing story by passing it around from girl to girl. I think there were pregnancies, wild

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-30227183912452293972010-05-22T06:49:00.013-04:002010-05-28T15:59:02.061-04:00

I'm going to slightly distort a quote I heard in last night's yoga class, which was something like "Form is of the spirit, product of the ego."After moving my left leg back to a place of comfort, yet still correctly aligned, I reflected on how stunningly that relates to writing. Right now my completed manuscript rests on my coffee table, binder-clipped, and with two friends who are my best

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-70870723347192622662010-05-19T12:20:00.010-04:002010-05-22T07:17:38.009-04:00

Today on Good Morning America, there was an interview with Sherri Davis, a teacher who beat up a young student. A video of Davis played (it was filmed on a student's phone), showing her punching and kicking a boy of about ten. George Stephanopoulis' first question to Davis was a sympathetic, "It must break your hurt to see that."I was taken aback at the question's assumption that Davis was

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-51899369604740193532010-05-13T20:46:00.009-04:002011-01-28T06:28:27.739-05:00

I'm rummaging through my entries here and am struck by how serious this blog reads. In my effort to have a blog of substance, I've forgotten lightness is pretty substantial, too.In my teaching, I'm drawn to literature that is complicated, with characters who have messy, conflicted lives. Some of my students are groaning about being on the receiving end of this. In one of my classes, we're reading

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-61539487370540935432010-05-08T05:02:00.012-04:002010-05-18T19:52:55.308-04:00

I'm reading an article in Yoga Journal about how meditating can restructure the brain. My understanding is that, simply put--we become what we focus on.Although this seems obvious, the idea strikes me as profound. Particularly so because as an essayist/memoirist, I spend a lot of time rummaging through the past. This thinking/writing about the past has often been a way to heal old hurts, bring

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-44346014093206084742010-04-29T06:26:00.013-04:002011-01-28T06:27:51.070-05:00

I'm wondering how I can apply my newly found "non-doing" philosophy to my teaching life. Right after the official last day-to-withdraw from class without penalty, absent students appeared. They went beyond the allotted number of absences and were behind in the work--yet came to class, excuses and promises in hand, tears ready to spill.The non-doing seems easy. According to the syllabus

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-66955571332033855512010-04-24T08:03:00.009-04:002010-04-28T12:08:38.749-04:00

Last night I returned to my old yoga studio. I was profoundly aware of how rooted I felt. I was really there, back home. Yet, how easily I lost that sensation (and my lessons from Jon Kabat-Zinn's book, on the practice of non-doing. )During class, I did poses that put pressure on the weak spots in my body. While doing them, I knew proving I could do them, meant I was no longer practicing yoga.

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-74548138950298091162010-04-21T14:55:00.006-04:002010-04-24T08:02:46.089-04:00

The longer I take between blog entries, the harder it becomes to pull myself back here--even though here is a place I love spending time.I've been reading the book, Wherever You Go There You Are by Jon Kabat-Zinn. In spite of the corniness of the title, it jumped out at me a few times when I saw it on a bookshelf. I finally bought it and am reading it slowly, digesting each page which holds a

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-3912366596279403982010-04-11T07:23:00.009-04:002010-04-23T06:10:45.492-04:00

There's a scene in Rescue that I was uncomfortable with, although I liked its energy and mood. Because Rescue is a chapbook--relatively short at 50pages, the scene--in which my mother is revealed in a negative light--didn't have any context supporting it.And so, I left the manuscript which needed a good edit by me, on the side saving it for my return from Italy (I love saying that). That felt

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-8896702332268678242010-04-04T07:34:00.010-04:002010-04-06T18:55:58.293-04:00

I was thinking this morning about the Associated Writing Program conference this week in Denver. I'm far away, standing beneath an umbrella and gazing at an ancient, massive structure, otherwise known as the Pantheon. I won^t be in Denver--for one, well...I'm in Rome! And for the other, school starts back up tomorrow. Which means, it is shortly Ariverdeci to Roma.Mostly what I was thinking this

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-36123951614174244812010-03-26T07:43:00.005-04:002010-03-26T08:01:30.886-04:00

I often write here about the joys of blogging--one of them being how the discipline forces me to dig beyond thoughts clammoring to spill recklessly across the page. My blogging life asks of me that I stick close to topic (sort of), which is the intersection of writing, teaching and finding my way home. This is a great exercise because in real life, I'm not controlled in what I say, and

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-24721379451349622982010-03-20T09:10:00.007-04:002010-03-21T15:08:30.598-04:00

Often I approach my blog as if I'm entering a temple. I love the slowness that takes me over, the allowances I give my mind to think carefully, ploddingly, in a somewhat filtering way.A student read a blog entry here recently and remarked about something I'd written, regarding censorship. In the moment, I wasn't able to explain how not writing everything I'm thinking is an important discipline. I

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-74566979983780754732010-03-20T08:35:00.005-04:002011-01-28T10:26:08.956-05:00

One of my students told me yesterday that he's being deployed and another that he's joining the military. In those moments I saw those young men whose expressions usually seem to say, "I'd rather be anywhere but in your class," as boys I wanted to protect. I also saw how easy it is to misinterprret my students' nuances and expressions. In one-to-one conferences, they're vulnerable, concerned

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-24768210217377974312010-03-13T16:20:00.005-05:002010-03-21T15:07:53.304-04:00

I've taken to Googling myself. In one sense, this and blogging seem like the epitome of narcissism (and maybe is). But I think the reason I do it is the exact opposite. The Googling part is to verify my existence in the world beyond the boundaries of myself.I'm so easily lost in thought, ruminating over this or that for hours, things I should have or could have done. In all that time added up I

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7461574174382656869.post-76069147734440393522010-03-10T14:52:00.004-05:002010-03-10T19:29:13.719-05:00

I've been feeling like my students the past few days. Each time I sit to post an entry, I can't think of what to say. Instead of letting my fingers take over, I nix the idea and pray for inspiration. In other words, wait for tomorrow, and the next tomorrow. Here, I finally sit. Uninspired, tired from reading students' papers, and the stack still waiting makes me downright sleepy.The past two

Sandra Hurtesnoreply@blogger.com