In my early teaching years I began teaching reading strategies. I had some colorful small posters that I drew up and taped around the room. I began bringing these reading strategies back, but this year, I am doing it more purposefully... and having the most fun with it.
I have taken most (all) of my ideas from the Internet and I created Powerpoints where I copy and pasted lots of pictures and guides, then I created some posters and had them printed out at the local kirtasiye or stationary store. They are full color A3 posters (because that's how we measure paper here - it's the next size bigger than an 8x11" paper) for one lire (about 50 cents). I picked them up today and a pack of crayons for the kids. (On the other hand, supplies like crayons are not cheap - almost $7).
It was a rainy afternoon, so I thought this would keep the kids busy when I got home. Oh, and it did. They colored for about one minute, then had fun throwing the crayons around and we've already lost two colors and broken the dark green. Tomris just liked picking them all up and walking around with them, occasionally putting them in her mouth. Teoman scribbled some, experimenting with dropping them down different crevices, and got mad when I tried to put them back in the container. Tomris spent another five minutes taking the crayons out of the box and putting them back in the box.
That's how coloring with toddlers goes I guess.
Tomris was so happy to see me, and demanded to be picked up, and then demanded "milk, milka, milka..." with a smile and giggle. Teoman was in an odd mood. Maybe he was missing his Baba. I called Tolga so the kids could talk to him. Tolga always brings them home a small gift and random or specialty things he picks up from the different cities he visits. "This town is known for it's cheese" or "This town is known for it's canes" or "This town is known for its garlic." Things I never appreciated before Tolga, and now I do...because in Turkey, these specialty items seem more authentic. There aren't big factories necessarily, but hard working people whose meager sustenance is founded on these items.
Teoman was asking Tolga for a school bus. On our way back form Kusadasi, he had seen one at a store and didn't want it - but I think he made the connection when he saw it in his book, and he asked his Baba for it. And then he asked for it again. And again. And again. Each time Tolga said okay. But for some reason, Teoman kept asking for it. I had to put a stop to the telephone conversation, and Teoman threw a fit. Crying, saying he wanted to ask Baba for a school bus. I explained he already asked one hundred thousand times, and each time Baba said yes. And Teoman still cried with big tears.
I hugged him and asked if he missed his Baba. He did, and snuggled in my arms. This is the kind of stuff that breaks Tolga's heart. But I tried to assure Teoman that I missed Baba too and he would be home soon, and in the mean time we would do lots of fun things together - go to the park, go to his friends, go on the bus, play with his amca (uncle) and abla (our nanny). And, when Baba came home we'd do more fun things.
It's a bit unnerving when you're children just want something so simple as you, home. It makes me start to question - how important is work anyway? Do we really need money? I'm sure all parents go through these feelings, but it sure doesn't make it any easier. I put him in my bed this night and he laid next to me, twirling my ring in his fingers. He kept his other hand behind his head and his eyes open, thinking...just like his Baba. I said, "What are you thinking about?"
"Cars." He answered.
And while he lay, I lay thinking about freedom and inhibitions. Creativity is freeing. It is a part of who we are, and when we are allowed to create - we are free to be who we are. I don't feel bad that it isn't perfect - because my creation was a process and I'm not afraid of it being judged - I'm just enjoying creating. Other things procure this feeling in me too. Dance. I am not a dancer. I'm a horrible dancer. My parts don't move in rhythm or in sync. Or they move in too much synchronization... like a broken robot. But when I see dancers move, I know it's a part of me too. The athleticism, grace, and expression move my soul. I think we were all made to dance. Music too - radio music rarely moves me, but playing in an orchestra, or the guitar or the piano. I'm not so great, but I play and I feel like I have become bigger. Drawing (or coloring) - I don't draw much, but it's calming to create.
That said, I've never been impacted by Art. As in Van Gough and Monet or the Mona Lisa. I've been to many famous churches and seen the sistine chapel, and it really did nothing for me. When I walked into these churches - I always found myself touching the pillars and smelling the years in the slightly damp insides. Some are disgusted by the perversion of the church and the waste and gaud of these buildings, but I'm moved by these attempts all over the world to find God.
And these things make me think of heaven. I am sure this is why I feel these things are a part of me - because I believe they are a part of our human nature, and they are all part of one purpose to give glory to God. And through these arts, I can see what freedom and joy these kinds of worship bring. We aren't looking at ourselves, or being judged, or inhibited by our fears or physical limitations. We just are. What a pleasure to think about.
But my reality is filled with inhibitions. Over and over again, I'm given the chance to participate and my arms glued to my sides by my inhibitions. I don't know what it takes to get over these. (A lot of alcohol?) But I do know it's a sickness, or maybe stain of sin that imprisons me at times to ridiculous fears. I remember, particularly, on several occasions playing my violin - at weddings, in a jazz band, part of a worship team - where I was told to be free, to improvise. My hands shook, my shoulders cringed at wrong notes and whistles from the hairs of the bow nicking the other strings. Ugh! How can something so horrible sounding be freedom? And then I remember Barry Gret - a worship leader in my old church. He had a horrible voice. When he sang high, I was ducking low. But he did it with a big smile and a happy heart - and I admired his inhibition.
My Turkish cousin died last night. I think he is the first person that I've known personally who I can't say whether he is going to heaven. I feel so many inhibitions about sharing my beliefs with others, but I am reminded and heartbroken that I haven't given my all for the sake of eternity.
Here I am in a culture, with different beliefs. A family that believes in God, but not necessarily Islam, but practice the rituals of Islam because this is their heritage. It is condescending of me to come in and say "Jesus is the way" in the face of everything they know. Because, for even one person to accept this, means they are also accepting the idea that their family and ancestors and nation may not be in heaven. I cannot bare the thought of my cousin going to hell. I mean, he wasn't that bad of a person... would I be saying that their idea of heaven, and all those they have lost, is wrong?
And I know this comes back to my inhibitions too. Heaven, hell, and all the confusing ideas in-between are not the issue - because when anyone hears Truth, it rings in their soul. I remember my Turkish family, asking Tolga about his experiences in America and Tolga sharing how my father had prayed and fasted about our marriage - and how his heart, moved my Turkish family. I have had experiences where I've heard people question Islam and talk about God - and I haven't joined these conversation, feeling frozen with my fear of...fear of...being different? Being challenged?
I don't know, but it is my prayers these days for my Turkish family. That we would be kept safe, and strong, and that we'd all have a relationship with Jesus.
And the jargon of Christianity, is a whole other tag on topics I want to explore to make things more accessible, more real - for me and the ones I love.
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