Sean Markey |

The Discovery Gateway Children’s Museum is a really cool place for 3-12 yr. olds to explore science and other very cool subjects. There are news cameras and green screen there for kids to try their hand at being the weather man/woman, a miniature wind-tunnel to test your paper airplane design, and even a retired medical helicopter for kids to explore.

That’s the organization I work for, but I don’t actually work AT the museum.

The Utah legislature funds a program at the museum that takes science, specifically chemistry, to 5th graders around the state. The program is called reaction time, and it focuses on the difference between physical changes (ice to water), and chemical reactions (say… cabbage juice mixed with lime juice). The program that I (and four other instructors) teach is directly in line with, and compliments, the Utah state core curriculum for 5th grade science. The goal of this particular program is, essentially, to bring really cool science to 5th graders around the state, and to help them succeed on the science portion of the yearly standardized test.

I usually travel to two different schools a day, bringing with me a car full of chemicals and test-tubes. At the school, I do a 50 minute presentation filled with cool experiments that illustrate key concepts. I then do a 30 minute hands on session with each class (usually there are 3-5 classes at each school) where the students get to work with six different substances (cabbage juice, fertilizer, milk, vinegar, road salt, and baking soda), mixing the chemicals together and observing the different reactions.

That’s pretty much it. Then I clean up, load up the car, and hurry off to the next school. It’s a pretty awesome gig, and I feel lucky to have it.

This week I am traveling for work, taking my chemistry kit far from Salt Lake (am currently 3 hours south in Richfield, Utah).

So that’s the job, and now it’s time to go get breakfast before I teach today’s group.

Oh yeah, did I mention I get to wear a tie-dye lab coat?

Last night was my final portfolio presentation at Westminster College.  I had to take all my teaching artifacts from the last four years or so, and craft them into a 20 minute presentation to show that I’ve met the TEAC (Teacher Education Accreditation Council) standards.  It went really well, and then we got to eat churros.  There was a bit more to it than that, but I prefer that summary. 

So today I have an interview with the Salt Lake school district, and next week interviews with the districts outside of Salt Lake.  While it’s not the best economic conditions to graduate it (when I started going to college to become a teacher, there was a desperate shortage.  There’s still a desperate shortage, just no money to hire anyone).

Since I have to wait until May to actually graduate and do all those fun things, I’d just like to take this time and space to thank a few people:

my AWESOME WIFE, Beth, for helping me get through the last couple years, for her support, and for showing me what being organized actually looks like (it DOES exist!!).  Thanks to Mom and Dad for the support (and, like, everything else), and thanks to Ms. Bigler who was the best mentor and extremely supportive, and to the Westminster teachers, who knew when to nurture, and when to kick me right in the *%&.  Oh, and Charity, the “secretary” at WM, who is actually a friend, and who helped me keep track of all the deadlines and bureaucratic stuff.

It takes a village!

There’s something mighty alluring about a beginning.  Imagine that new relationship feel, where everything is bright and every touch is stolen from a different future which DOESN’T ACTUALLY EXIST yet, and never did, until you decided to reach out to that other person, (both metaphorically and LITERALLY).  That’s a powerful moment, and an obvious example of a beginning.  There are smaller, less dramatic examples.  When you wake up in the morning, you are faced with a beginning.  Is the day going to be awesome?  Or did  you wake up to find that the animal you were curled up with is actual facing the wrong way? (If you know what I mean).  And if it doesn’t start awesome, you can decide that you are going to be AWESOME anyway, and maybe you will be and maybe you won’t, but the focus here is on TRYING.

I think it’s an important as a writer to recognize the wonder of beginnings, and to realize that the

beginning is basically a set of choices.  You want this, so you do that.  Or, THIS happened, so you react by DOING SOMETHING.

Sometimes beginnings are good, such as staring down a blank word document and saying “Story, you are going to be SO magnificent when I’m through with you,” because you have THE IDEA, the beginning of an adventure.  The potential is staggering.  Or if you are a musician, you play a chord here, a rhythm there, and know that somewhere within the noise and the silence is your song, waiting to be made.

When I first hear a new song by a band I love, it is like an event.  What is this song about?  What is it saying to me?  What undiscovered place will it take me to? As a writer (and a musician, I guess), this is a very important experience, a treasure.  A beginning.

Beginnings aren’t always good.  The beginning of the end can be all panic and chaos, and sometimes you don’t know what you were going through until much later.

Beginnings can be scary, such as comparing the couple-hundred-words-long beginning of your novel to all the blank pages, waiting just beyond the margins, ready for the opportunity to rush in and crush your enthusiasm.  I’m currently dealing with a scary beginning at college.  This has two faces.  1) The Beginning of the End, in which I must finish college and step out into the real world and be responsible and mature, I mean, Good Grief!  I am going to be in charge of a whole classroom of children, and responsible for teaching them.  2) Beginnings are Overwhelming, in which I must take a blank calendar for August and September, and fill it with lessons and activities.

When faced with the task of creating the curriculum from scratch, I can’t help but see the similarity of starting a new novel.  There is a charged excitement, yes, but also a sort of crippling indecision.  What do I do first?  What if I do it wrong?  Like writing a novel, like the characters in your stories, the first step is making a choice.  Even a small choice, as a small step, will take you somewhere.

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