So here I am, the sun's up and waiting to turn it on strong, in the meantime, the glow is fiery orange. Once it begins to burn, as it will, I will have to pull the curtain across its fire. It's already looking like its holding its breath and working up the fire. Do they too have bad mornings, I wonder?

Ha, there, I can see from the corner of my eye, its hotting up.

I will now go down and make tea. And then I will ''get ready'' and go to class. Is one ever really ready for students, I wonder? But it's the most fantastic feeling in the world, to stand before a class and receive return messages for what you say to them. I get a great high. Nothing I can think of, not even writing gives that kind of shot in the spirit.

And in every class there some kids who are special, whose mere presence is enough to give the entire class a warm expectancy. And then there are the other kind of special kids, who colleagues have warned you about already, the rough waves, the unpredictable swirls in which you can feel like there's nothing to hold onto.

I believe that the act of making meaning with words is a magical transformative process, and only the really unimaginative child will not, by the end of some learning adventures, not be touched by that magic to want to participate. I can see it in my class. And it makes me high. Hmm, everybody must get stoned, right?

Off to daily routine this morning. And then I have some knots to iron out. I take on this day with the feeling that I can.