Katie Leggitt

I wound up in a loft-shop in the Mile End Friday night surrounded by half a dozen jamming musicians and guitar parts.  In Daddy Mojo's shop, a guy whose signature is making really cool cigar box guitars.  Although I didn't get to hear how one of them sounds, I'm pretty sure most of the guitars and a bass were made there.  I'll admit I felt slightly inadequate at first, what with my absolute inability to play a single instrument, but eventually I warmed up to the high hat on a drum set.  I just had to google the correct name for what I otherwise would refer to as cymbals, just so you know where I'm coming from. I dream of songs almost nightly.  I dream that I can sing and hear the most beautiful lyrics and sounds I could imagine, but they disappear the second I open my eyes in the morning.  Sometimes I feel crippled by this, because I've always loved music so much but just can't make it happen.  I have rhythm, and that's a start and hanging around my mu

I addressed a group of 11 year olds today and asked them what's new.  Immediately students began talking about the bombing in Boston, and to be honest I'd hoped they'd bring it up.  When terrible things like this happen, when it's so hard for us as adults to wrap our minds around it all, imagine what kids must be feeling. Our TV channels or websites that we follow are constantly updating us on news around the world, and I know I'm usually glued to the screen when a crisis like this occurs. I caught a video post by Amy Poeler who spoke on her webcam about being careful of our hearts and what kind of images we expose ourselves to.  I stumbled onto a picture of a Boston victim with his legs blown off and blood and tendons spilling everywhere and I will never be able to wipe that from my mind.  I've seen pictures of dead bodies and decapitations and lots of other horrible things, not because I'm seeking it out but because it's so easy to come across. So

I watched a student of mine solve a Rubik's cube in a minute this afternoon. I've been working on a mural since December, and though it's April and we've only just primed the walls, it's become about so much more than just a couple of gallons of paint. Behind the rollers, behind the brushes, behind the trays and eggshell finish, are people with beautiful minds.  Teenagers that have worked together for months planning and thinking, philosophizing and conjuring ideas, images and insights.  We've sat around in my office for hours, grouping and regrouping, trying to create a wall that represents the great school community that we are a part of.  I've sat and listened, in awe, of the wisdom they have and of the offers they've made, whether through spontaneous suggestion, jokes or thoughtfully written journals. I can't believe anyone could every doubt them.  I can't believe that anyone would ever try to tell them they're wrong or make them fe

I always think I know I'm right, but sometimes I'm wrong. It's been a period of self-reflection, hence the lack of frequent posts, but a whole new part of me is being addressed that's been ignored... probably forever. I write that with a smile on my face because I think it's funny to realize how imperfect I am.  And it's really funny when I get caught. I've been caught a few times these past couple of weeks and I'm beginning to notice some habits of mine that are creeping out, but not getting far, thanks to some honest people in my life. The coffee pot was on when I got to the theatre at 9 am this morning.  I noticed the occasional ticking sound all afternoon and it was still on and a quarter full at 5 pm.  I tried to look away.  I tried to believe it wasn't my responsibility to turn it off, but I couldn't ignore the IMMINENT DANGER OF A ROASTED COFFEE POT.  I know.  Dramatic right?  So I turned it off, but I cringed, because it was a bat