Avoidance Productivity
Well, despite a distinct absence of child development research from my day, I seem to have accomplished a decent amount:
- met with Max and chatted about a workshop/devising process we want to throw together for assessment (and fun) purposes and booked the space for it,
- booked the rest of the hostels for my trip and the train ticket to the airport,
- sent and answered many e-mails I've been meaning to get to (including some related to work placements!),
- did laundry,
- stuck some Carol Ann Duffy poetry on my wall ('cause I now have handy Blu Tack),
- and explored LJ communities and effectively found more resources for distracting myself.
Except that last one isn't really an accomplishment so much as an anti-accomplishment. Ah well.
Tomorrow I'm meeting Max for dinner to flesh out the first workshop format. Other than that the day is going to be devoted to reading about Piaget and cultural human development. Whoo-hoo . . .
No, actually, I'm very interested in this subject. I'm just having a hard time gearing myself up to reenter the essay zone.
On a completely different note, does anyone have a new offer for the quote list?
Rob's post:
Because I was content with these poor fields,
Low, open meads, slender and sluggish streams,
And found a home in haunts which others scorned,
The partial wood-gods overpaid my love,
And granted me the freedom of their state;
And in their secret senate have prevailed
EMERSON'S HOUSE.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Joelle’s response:
Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn.
The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn.
Where is the boy that looks after the sheep?
"He's under the haycock, fast asleep."
Will you wake him? "No, not I;
For if I do, he'll be sure to cry."
~Nursery Rhyme
Kathryn's response:
For a Five-Year-Old
A snail is climbing up the window-sill
Into your room, after a night of rain.
You call me in to see, and I explain
That it would be unkind to leave it there:
It might crawl to the floor; we must take care
That no one squashes it. You understand,
And carry it outside, with careful hand,
To eat a daffodil.
I see, then, that a kind of faith prevails:
Your gentleness is moulded still by words
From me, who have trapped mice and shot wild birds,
From me, who drowned your kittens, who betrayed
Your closest relatives, and who purveyed
The harshest kind of truth to many another.
But that is how things are: I am your mother,
And we are kind to snails.
- Fleur Adcock
- met with Max and chatted about a workshop/devising process we want to throw together for assessment (and fun) purposes and booked the space for it,
- booked the rest of the hostels for my trip and the train ticket to the airport,
- sent and answered many e-mails I've been meaning to get to (including some related to work placements!),
- did laundry,
- stuck some Carol Ann Duffy poetry on my wall ('cause I now have handy Blu Tack),
- and explored LJ communities and effectively found more resources for distracting myself.
Except that last one isn't really an accomplishment so much as an anti-accomplishment. Ah well.
Tomorrow I'm meeting Max for dinner to flesh out the first workshop format. Other than that the day is going to be devoted to reading about Piaget and cultural human development. Whoo-hoo . . .
No, actually, I'm very interested in this subject. I'm just having a hard time gearing myself up to reenter the essay zone.
On a completely different note, does anyone have a new offer for the quote list?
Rob's post:
Because I was content with these poor fields,
Low, open meads, slender and sluggish streams,
And found a home in haunts which others scorned,
The partial wood-gods overpaid my love,
And granted me the freedom of their state;
And in their secret senate have prevailed
EMERSON'S HOUSE.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Joelle’s response:
Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn.
The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn.
Where is the boy that looks after the sheep?
"He's under the haycock, fast asleep."
Will you wake him? "No, not I;
For if I do, he'll be sure to cry."
~Nursery Rhyme
Kathryn's response:
For a Five-Year-Old
A snail is climbing up the window-sill
Into your room, after a night of rain.
You call me in to see, and I explain
That it would be unkind to leave it there:
It might crawl to the floor; we must take care
That no one squashes it. You understand,
And carry it outside, with careful hand,
To eat a daffodil.
I see, then, that a kind of faith prevails:
Your gentleness is moulded still by words
From me, who have trapped mice and shot wild birds,
From me, who drowned your kittens, who betrayed
Your closest relatives, and who purveyed
The harshest kind of truth to many another.
But that is how things are: I am your mother,
And we are kind to snails.
- Fleur Adcock