This picture is from an exercise I did in class last night. It’s me if I were a rosebush.
Yeah, really.
After being taken through a brief relaxation exercise, we were told to imagine that “for the next few minutes, you are a rosebush. Are you in bloom? Do you live in a park, a front yard, or do you sprout from a crack in the concrete? What color are your blooms? Do you have roots?” Apparently this is used a lot with children, especially adolescent girls.
I do hope I wasn’t the only one in my class who had to bite her lip hard enough to draw blood upon hearing that I was a rosebush. I hardly think giggling about it would have endeared me to my professor.
Am I the only one, or is that the last thing you think of when you’re trying to relax?
The Young Man has decided that grad school is far more entertaining (if not considerably more weird) than eighth grade, and that for him to do Algebra and Science while I’m considering the many meanings that simple nuance adds to the phrase “Son of a Bitch” is just not fair.
I can’t say I blame him at this point…especially since I told him that after that exercise we were told to imagine we were a cookie.
I’d take him to class with me, but who knows what they’ll have him doing—baying a the moon, dancing ‘round the room and clucking like a chicken, imagining he’s a dandelion or a wad of chewed gum or a copy machine?
At least there will be 15 adults in the room with him all doing the same thing. Perhaps that’s the most scary thought of all…
Yeah, really.
After being taken through a brief relaxation exercise, we were told to imagine that “for the next few minutes, you are a rosebush. Are you in bloom? Do you live in a park, a front yard, or do you sprout from a crack in the concrete? What color are your blooms? Do you have roots?” Apparently this is used a lot with children, especially adolescent girls.
I do hope I wasn’t the only one in my class who had to bite her lip hard enough to draw blood upon hearing that I was a rosebush. I hardly think giggling about it would have endeared me to my professor.
Am I the only one, or is that the last thing you think of when you’re trying to relax?
The Young Man has decided that grad school is far more entertaining (if not considerably more weird) than eighth grade, and that for him to do Algebra and Science while I’m considering the many meanings that simple nuance adds to the phrase “Son of a Bitch” is just not fair.
I can’t say I blame him at this point…especially since I told him that after that exercise we were told to imagine we were a cookie.
I’d take him to class with me, but who knows what they’ll have him doing—baying a the moon, dancing ‘round the room and clucking like a chicken, imagining he’s a dandelion or a wad of chewed gum or a copy machine?
At least there will be 15 adults in the room with him all doing the same thing. Perhaps that’s the most scary thought of all…
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