Mute

mute: (adjective) refraining from speech or temporarily speechless, not expressed in speech, (noun) a person lacking the faculty of speech, a clamp placed over the bridge of a stringed instrument to deaden the resonance without affecting the vibration of the strings

http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/mute?q=mute
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This week, four of my doodles provide a visual response...

Shift

http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/shift?q=shift

Shift: (verb) move or cause to move from one place to another, especially over a small distance; change the position of one's body, especially because one is nervous or uncomfortable; change the emphasis, direction or focus of; (noun) a slight change in position, direction, or tendency; a key on a typewriter or computer keyboard used to switch between two sets of characters or functions, principally between lower- and upper-case letters; the gear lever or gear-changing mechanism in a vehicle; American Football- a change of position by two or more players before the ball is put into play; each of two or more recurring periods in which different groups of workers do the same jobs in relay

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Two themes surface over and over in the definition of shift: change and the size of that change (small, slight). For all the time I've worked at change--the really deep, impactful, sweeping kind of change that impacts the whole range of an individual's life--I might have served myself more, had I focussed on shift, both the activeness of the verb form and the being-ness of its noun form.

Unlike a keyboard, I don't have a key which regularly enables that shift nor, as in a vehicle, do I have a reliable lever. Are there keys or levers which when turned, depressed, pushed, or pulled advance the whole of me in increments or enable me to advance myself in a flip book of forward movement? Probably. On the flip, there are keys and levers which when turned, depressed, pushed, or pulled stop me--which disable my momentum--which restrain me.

Keys and Levers
cool air in
to warm air out
of bed before
you're up since
seven isn't time
enough to think
on nothing in
particular
circumstances
warm air in
with warm air
out ties
and gags
bags me
a casual
corpse depressed
buttons held
down steady
myself
shiftless 

I can recognize the keys and levers, but they shift...there isn't a safe bet, and I like safe bets.

While I may meditate on any given image for what it is in that moment, in a flip book I am not fascinated by the individual pages-- in an animated movie I'm not drawn to individual drawings. What I am interested in is the story and the story is about the movement, or more specifically, about recognizing the movement. To recognize the movement, you must see a previous state and you must see a present state. To understand the movement, you must see states in-between previous and present. You need to pause long enough to see the individual page, and then the next page, and the next.

In our first class this week, I asked my students to share their name, what they prefer to be called if that is different from their given name, what they are majoring in, and what they hope to do with that major OR why they were drawn to the major in the first place. What happened next left me feeling like a priest at confession or an AA meeting facilitator. "I am ___. You can call me ___. I am majoring in ____. I'm here because I failed the writing proficiency exam ___ times." Better than half the class confessed the number of times they'd failed the test, or that they were taking the course because they didn't want to take the test. I never asked for any kind of confession, and told them, mid-way through the group of 20, that I certainly didn't expect to be told. Clearly, many of these students come to the class feeling less than warm and fuzzy about writing. But they don't know what they've done wrong. The exam is pass/fail and, if they speak the truth, they aren't told why they fail when they do...and so far, I also don't know what errors in proficiency have pushed them towards my classroom. In a survey of what things they want to learn from the course, the majority mentioned grammar (or, as it is on their cards 'grammer'), spelling, and punctuation.  So how are we going to work together to move them to a different place? In increments...with shift...

It is likely that, over the course of a 15-week semester, I will not be able to teach them over all their struggles and challenges with the written word, despite how badly I want to give that to them. I try to focus too big, that is a part of my nature. I want to move them from one place to another, though, because they are uncomfortable. So let's nail down to, too, and two. Let's work on our 'grammer' and spelling. Let's talk about punctuation using the 'Let's eat Grandma" versus "Let's eat, Grandma" example. If they walk away shifted forward, I have made a lasting change and I have helped to fan their flip-book.  They help to shift me.

Compose

Compose: write or create (a work of art, especially music or poetry), phrase(a letter or piece of writing) with great care and thought, form (a whole) by ordering or arranging the parts, especially in an artistic way, (of elements) constitute or make up (a whole, or a specified part of it), calm or settle (oneself or one's features or thoughts), prepare (a text) for printing by manually, mechanically, or electronically setting up the letters and other characters in the order to be printed

(source: http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/compose)

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Creating, ordering, and arranging.

Calming, settling, and preparing.

Not too long ago, I posted a picture of a well-used, under-filled crayon box, the familiar cardboard edges dotted from the ends of the once-sharp crayons, on which the following Arthur Ashe quote was written: "Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can." Composing, be it playing with language or playing with image or playing with tones and rhythm, picks me regularly. On occasion, it is a particular tool-- a particular crayon, if you will--which prompts composition. Most often, though, grabbing the tool I have in the very present moment in which it finds me composes a synchronistic space of effort and effortlessness. My body is, in those moments of composing, calmed and settled. The same hazel eyes that redden from the daily paycheck-job overhead assault of fluorescent lights and flat screen scrolling words and numbers and, unfortunately, more numbers after that, back further into their cavernous sockets, protected. I realize I no longer require blinking, that my breath isn't full of monumental meditative yoga-esque ins and outs but rather, it is backed in further--it is quiet, shallow, sparse. 

I connect and compose when I am my once again small. 

When I am my once again small, I am preparing for another moment, another composition, an opportunity to reorder, rearrange, and redefine.

Welcome to re:Define, a new space for weekly ruminating and story-sharing around a specific word. Each week's entry will begin with a source-credited dictionary definition of a word, as I have this week with the word COMPOSE. But those definitions are just the starting point, and as Ashe reminds us, we should start there and then use what we have. Extend those definitions through your own compositions-- share them-- continue to interact with the comments in our virtual ruminator room. Let the word prompt you in any direction and share them as you wish with only two guidelines. (1) Do no post anything which is pornographic or violent simply for the sake of being pornographic or violent and (2) Respect everyone, their beliefs, and what they've shared.

Now, you beautiful creations, COMPOSE!