I don't know much about nirvana. In my mind it's a place of bliss and happiness, where the world runs on greased wheels. I'm sure that's not what it actually is, it's probably more a state of mind, but today I realized how much I've been searching for such a place -- mindless bliss.
I don't know much about Kurt Cobain either...not even sure if I'm spelling his name correctly, but with the first official day of school underway, I came to a realization that drugs didn't kill Cobain, his belief that nirvana existed did.
I've been back at work since August 7, participating in workshops, learning about the brain, and planning with my co-teacher for the upcoming year. All has been going well. I've learned a lot. I was ready for today in every way.
Yesterday, after laying out everything for today, I set off to the gym for a hard workout. I came home, sweaty and relaxed, fixed dinner and sat down to watch some TV before I headed up for a bath in our luxury bath tub (my 5' 9" frame can finally stretch out fully in the bath!) as my final before-school-baptismal. I ran the water, added bubblebath, and then proceeded to get undressed.
As I was about to step into the tub, I noticed the water was brown, the bubbles, too and the first thought in my mind was, "Shit, our pipes are shot."
We've watched others in our neighborhood remodel their houses over the past four years. Within three months after moving back in, their sewage lines burst, too much strain on very old systems (Seattle is notorious for our clay drainage pipes). Ann and I thought we'd avoided it, trusting that our contractor had replaced all the pipes to the street. We called him at 9 last night. He reassured us it wasn't his work, but something wrong on the city's end.
So we called the water district, only no one could tell us exactly which district we were. Luckily, the woman on the other line was quite helpful and told us what to do -- run your water for 20-30 minutes and see if it clears. If not, call back.
We did -- both.
When we called back, she told us to check with the neighbors and see if their water was brown. It was, therefore it wasn't our pipes, it was the water main.
Finally, she told us to call 911 and tell them about our situation. Which we did. They hooked us up with the appropriate water people who explained that a "citizen" had "accessed" a fire hydrant earlier that day, flushing water through pipes that have sat idle since the last time the hydrant was accessed. What we were seeing in our water was grime and god knows what else from that flushing. Running our water for 20-30 minutes wasn't going to help. They had to send out a crew to flush the system.
By this time it's almost 11 and I was still sticky and sweaty from my workout. And I had to get up and teach the next day -- first day of school and all.
"Don't take a shower," the water woman tells me. "It would be like taking a shower in watery dirt."
So I went to bed sticky with dried sweat and set the alarm early so I could go to the gym for a shower before the FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL!
I slept very little and luckily, when I woke, the water was clear, the shower at home was available, and my life went on as planned.
The first day of school went without a hitch. I'm tired, but not from teaching. I'm tired from not sleeping or tossing and turning in my crusty remnants.
What did the brown water teach me? Nothing really expect a lesson I've been on the verge of learning for quite some time: Believing nirvana exists can kill you.
Then this afternoon, as I was walking from school to the gym for another sweaty session I remembered Michael Tolliver, my favorite character from Armisted Maupin's series "Tales of the City". Michael talked about the curse of three -- the belief romantics have that you can have all three -- a nice house, a great lover, and a good job. If you've got two out of three, you're doing well, but once you go for all three, you're doomed.
I actually have all three I realized on my walk. Michael was wrong about the curse. It's not that the three aren't possible; the curse is your belief that if you achieve all three, all will be right in the world. That you, in essence, will have reached nirvana.
But there are wrong things in the world -- personally and globally. From brown water to Karl Rove, from fire hydrants to war in Iraq.
Perhaps nirvana is what F. Scott Fitzgerald described as intelligence..."...the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function. One should, for example, be able to see that things are hopeless and yet be determined to make them otherwise."
I can be at peace with my life and still have water troubles. I can love my house, my job, my partner and still be furious at the government for the layers of lies it's heaved upon the world. My heart can hold both kindness and frustration, patience and anger, and not die under the weight of their opposition.
In fact, in holding both perhaps I have reached a state of nirvana -- equally grounded in hope and hopelessness, never letting either of the extremes kill me.
PS -- I've just reread this post and while it sounds as if I am depressed or sad, I am not. I feel at peace with my life both personally and professionally. As I said to Ann tonight, I like this life...it took me a helluva long time to get here, but I really like it even if the water runs a little brown on occasion.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Lesbian in the closet
If I were not a nice person I would post a picture of Ann painting the guest bedroom closet in her underwear.
Alas, I am a nice person most days and so I will not take the too cute picture of Ann stretched out with the painting roller in her right hand, reaching the tall corners of the rather large closet, her tan underwear, holey and frayed, jiggling as she strokes the paint across the walls.
This is our last big paint job within the house. We still need to paint the fence, but today it was too hot and frankly, we were both taking it slow. Now, as the air cools off and we listen to the WNBA semi-final game between Detroit and Connecticut, Ann paints the closet and I rearrange the hallway closet to hold office supplies instead of everything else we've collected in four years of marriage...
gloves
hats
lightbulbs
bike locks
boxes of nails
boxes of razor blades
snowshoes
elastic exercise bands
an electric air pump
a mangled bike pump
tennis rackets
cannister after cannister of tennis balls
the clock I bought Ann for her birthday a month after we met
a compass
camping matches
bug repellent
an ice scraper
bungee cords
two frisbees
and an umbrella
I'm avoiding the sorting through of such detritus and the game is not going in the direction I'd like (Connecticut is losing).
The cure for procrastination...or perhaps a productive extension of it...blogging.
And still Ann paints away, her bottom smiling at me from the closet.
Alas, I am a nice person most days and so I will not take the too cute picture of Ann stretched out with the painting roller in her right hand, reaching the tall corners of the rather large closet, her tan underwear, holey and frayed, jiggling as she strokes the paint across the walls.
This is our last big paint job within the house. We still need to paint the fence, but today it was too hot and frankly, we were both taking it slow. Now, as the air cools off and we listen to the WNBA semi-final game between Detroit and Connecticut, Ann paints the closet and I rearrange the hallway closet to hold office supplies instead of everything else we've collected in four years of marriage...
gloves
hats
lightbulbs
bike locks
boxes of nails
boxes of razor blades
snowshoes
elastic exercise bands
an electric air pump
a mangled bike pump
tennis rackets
cannister after cannister of tennis balls
the clock I bought Ann for her birthday a month after we met
a compass
camping matches
bug repellent
an ice scraper
bungee cords
two frisbees
and an umbrella
I'm avoiding the sorting through of such detritus and the game is not going in the direction I'd like (Connecticut is losing).
The cure for procrastination...or perhaps a productive extension of it...blogging.
And still Ann paints away, her bottom smiling at me from the closet.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
The Second Buoy
In preparation for the Danskin Triathlon, I've been swimming in Lake Washington. Unlike most competitors, I love swimming in the Lake. I love being surrounded by something larger than myself. I feel like a fish in the ocean, an insect in a rainforest. A speck. Insignificant in a world of significance.
While training, many swimmers practice their open water swim at Seward Park, a beautiful park at the south end (though not the farthest south) of Lake Washington. There's a protected beach just beyond the designated swim area (where technically we're suppose to swim, but no one does) and a buoy about a tenth of a mile past shore.
For the triathlon, the swim distance is half a mile so technically if you want to swim the equivalent distance while training you go out and back to the buoy 4 and a half times. Yes, the half leaves you stranded away from the shore, but swimming back is either a cool down or some people just swim half way out and then come back.
But there is a second buoy farther out in the lake that I have always eyed with envy and doubt. The Ironman triathletes swim out there all the time trailing a bright orange swim buoy behind them and wearing swim caps of new green or yellow. These are elite athletes, dressed in their full body wetsuits (I wear what is called a shorty -- short legs, tank top arms) and their bodies are tall, lean, and sinewed with well-defined, but efficient muscles.
The second buoy is 4/10 of a mile out into the lake and while that may not seem far, swimming is nothing like running or even walking for that matter so it takes quite a bit longer to reach a swimming destination versus a walking destination. Hence, the reason why many competitors hate swimming and particularly hate swimming in a large open body of water.
Tonight I went for the second buoy partly because I was feeling the need to challenge myself (after sitting in meetings for hours these past few days) and partly because, contrary to most days at the lake, there weren't any boats in the inlet where everyone swims. Boaters tend to be idiots never fully comprehending that their large power boats are actually weapons. But that is perhaps a generalization (or not).
I knew I could swim 8/10 of a mile (out to the second buoy and back) because I've done it in training in the pool, but training in a pool is significantly different than training in open water and there was a wee little part of me that wondered if I'd fall into the fear zone once beyond the first buoy.
But I'm a strong swimmer and better still, I'm fairly good at "sighting" a straight line in open water (unlike some competitors who weave their way from one point to another). So I squeezed into my wetsuit, donned my googles, and dove in.
Today was significantly cooler in air temperature than it's been the past few months. A fall chill is in the morning air and even this afternoon there was a stiff breeze from the south. When I plunged in, I could feel the cool water seep into my wetsuit and with the wind behind me, it took a bit of time to warm up.
The first buoy came quickly and as I passed it, I treaded water for a moment to set my sights on the next buoy, which all the sudden looked signficantly farther away than it had from shore. "Of course it is, " I told myself as the first buoy is only 1/4 of the total distance from shore -- I still had 3/4 of my swim left to reach the second buoy.
So I kept swimming.
I wish I could describe how beautiful swimming is even in a not so clean lake (lots of weedy vegetation at times and certainly not the clearest water I've experienced). I like the rhythm of swimming and the constant rush of sounds -- water, breath, strokes -- that add to the rhythm. I like how, when I take a breath, I can see the sun reflect off the water or the houses on the shore fuzzy in the distance. It's meditative and I have to swim with intention or I'll drift off into this nirvana and lose sight of where I'm going curving off track to some point even farther out into the lake.
And every time I looked up to spot that second buoy, I realized how much farther the second buoy is from the first. "Ummm," I thought, "It doesn't appear to be getting any closer."
Many years ago I flew in a small plane from Port Townsend to San Juan Island for a workshop that took place once a month for about 6 months. To get to San Juan Island requires about an hour drive to the ferry, an hour wait for the ferry, and a 45-minute ferry ride to the island. It's long, expensive and a lesson in hurry up and wait. But to fly to San Juan Island takes 15 minutes because unlike the ferry, the journey is a straight shot -- as the crow flies kind of thing.
Sitting in a small Cessna suspended over the watery distance of the Strait of Juan de Fuca is very similar to my experience of swimming to the second buoy. In the plane, I knew we were flying by the roar of the engine, the diligence of the pilot, and well, the height at which we flew, but when I looked down at the water far below me or off into the distance at San Juan Island, it felt as if we were just dangling there not making any forward movement at all.
That's how I felt today. My arms were moving, my legs were kicking, my heart was pumping, and my lungs were breathing, but I felt suspended, trapped in one place in a rather large lake.
I can see why people panic. It's a weird feeling. Really weird. All of the sudden the beautiful water feels more claustrophobic -- you're no longer just "in" it, you're surrounded by it. The only thing keeping you from drowning is you and your ability to just keep moving your arms and legs and trusting that despite all outward appearances, you are getting closer to your destination.
I didn't panic today and I doubt that I ever would because I am confident in my swimming abilities, but still, I understood the possibility of panic and while I had no great epiphany about it all, I now understood why I always looked at the second buoy with such envy and doubt.
Once I got home, though, I did sort of see the metaphor of it all as lately I've been feeling like ... well, like an old fart. I'm starting my 21st year of teaching in September. Our staff is amazingly young and energetic (only one other teacher has more experience than I do) and there are times when I feel stuck between buoys, so to speak. I know I have experience, I know I've done some great things in my career, but there are times when I think that maybe I've lost a bit of my mojo, maybe I've become bitter or cynical about the possibilities.
By possibilities I mean lots of things, but mostly the possibility that we can do all the things, achieve all the goals we set out for ourselves at the beginning of the year. I found myself today thinking, "Yeah, but when September hits, we'll all be so overwhelmed with the day-to-day aspects of teaching and all our brilliant plans and ideas will fall by the wayside."
I don't want to be that kind of teacher -- negative, discouraged -- but I also want to be a realist -- that second buoy is a helluva lot more work and effort than the first. Are we sure we can swim that far? And what if we can't? Will we have the courage and intelligence to turn back?
Perhaps I am the voice of reason with such a young faculty, but even that role scares me a bit as I'm not sure I'm ready for it. I liked being the innovative dreamer, the idealist who worked to achieve amazing things in my classroom, but frankly, I just don't have the energy for it anymore. Okay, I have some energy, but that energy needs to be balanced with the rest of my life, over a long year, with sufficient supplies held in reserve for the tough times of the year -- like September and October, like March (a long month without a break), like April post Spring Break when June still feels so very far away.
Tonight swimming to the second buoy, I felt good about the energy supplies I held in reserve. The trip back from the second buoy (yes, I made it) was more difficult than the trip out there, not because I was tired, but because the wind that had been at my back on the way out was now a not so pretty headwind that made the water choppy and my straight line swimming all the more difficult (I kept veering away from going headlong into the waves, which was the direction I needed to head to make it back to shore).
Still, I'm tired tonight -- my arms are a bit rubbery and my stomach muscles a bit sore -- and I know my weariness is not just from swimming to the second buoy. It's also from swimming into my 21st year of teaching -- the school year is long and once again I must not only swim out, but I must swim back.
While training, many swimmers practice their open water swim at Seward Park, a beautiful park at the south end (though not the farthest south) of Lake Washington. There's a protected beach just beyond the designated swim area (where technically we're suppose to swim, but no one does) and a buoy about a tenth of a mile past shore.
For the triathlon, the swim distance is half a mile so technically if you want to swim the equivalent distance while training you go out and back to the buoy 4 and a half times. Yes, the half leaves you stranded away from the shore, but swimming back is either a cool down or some people just swim half way out and then come back.
But there is a second buoy farther out in the lake that I have always eyed with envy and doubt. The Ironman triathletes swim out there all the time trailing a bright orange swim buoy behind them and wearing swim caps of new green or yellow. These are elite athletes, dressed in their full body wetsuits (I wear what is called a shorty -- short legs, tank top arms) and their bodies are tall, lean, and sinewed with well-defined, but efficient muscles.
The second buoy is 4/10 of a mile out into the lake and while that may not seem far, swimming is nothing like running or even walking for that matter so it takes quite a bit longer to reach a swimming destination versus a walking destination. Hence, the reason why many competitors hate swimming and particularly hate swimming in a large open body of water.
Tonight I went for the second buoy partly because I was feeling the need to challenge myself (after sitting in meetings for hours these past few days) and partly because, contrary to most days at the lake, there weren't any boats in the inlet where everyone swims. Boaters tend to be idiots never fully comprehending that their large power boats are actually weapons. But that is perhaps a generalization (or not).
I knew I could swim 8/10 of a mile (out to the second buoy and back) because I've done it in training in the pool, but training in a pool is significantly different than training in open water and there was a wee little part of me that wondered if I'd fall into the fear zone once beyond the first buoy.
But I'm a strong swimmer and better still, I'm fairly good at "sighting" a straight line in open water (unlike some competitors who weave their way from one point to another). So I squeezed into my wetsuit, donned my googles, and dove in.
Today was significantly cooler in air temperature than it's been the past few months. A fall chill is in the morning air and even this afternoon there was a stiff breeze from the south. When I plunged in, I could feel the cool water seep into my wetsuit and with the wind behind me, it took a bit of time to warm up.
The first buoy came quickly and as I passed it, I treaded water for a moment to set my sights on the next buoy, which all the sudden looked signficantly farther away than it had from shore. "Of course it is, " I told myself as the first buoy is only 1/4 of the total distance from shore -- I still had 3/4 of my swim left to reach the second buoy.
So I kept swimming.
I wish I could describe how beautiful swimming is even in a not so clean lake (lots of weedy vegetation at times and certainly not the clearest water I've experienced). I like the rhythm of swimming and the constant rush of sounds -- water, breath, strokes -- that add to the rhythm. I like how, when I take a breath, I can see the sun reflect off the water or the houses on the shore fuzzy in the distance. It's meditative and I have to swim with intention or I'll drift off into this nirvana and lose sight of where I'm going curving off track to some point even farther out into the lake.
And every time I looked up to spot that second buoy, I realized how much farther the second buoy is from the first. "Ummm," I thought, "It doesn't appear to be getting any closer."
Many years ago I flew in a small plane from Port Townsend to San Juan Island for a workshop that took place once a month for about 6 months. To get to San Juan Island requires about an hour drive to the ferry, an hour wait for the ferry, and a 45-minute ferry ride to the island. It's long, expensive and a lesson in hurry up and wait. But to fly to San Juan Island takes 15 minutes because unlike the ferry, the journey is a straight shot -- as the crow flies kind of thing.
Sitting in a small Cessna suspended over the watery distance of the Strait of Juan de Fuca is very similar to my experience of swimming to the second buoy. In the plane, I knew we were flying by the roar of the engine, the diligence of the pilot, and well, the height at which we flew, but when I looked down at the water far below me or off into the distance at San Juan Island, it felt as if we were just dangling there not making any forward movement at all.
That's how I felt today. My arms were moving, my legs were kicking, my heart was pumping, and my lungs were breathing, but I felt suspended, trapped in one place in a rather large lake.
I can see why people panic. It's a weird feeling. Really weird. All of the sudden the beautiful water feels more claustrophobic -- you're no longer just "in" it, you're surrounded by it. The only thing keeping you from drowning is you and your ability to just keep moving your arms and legs and trusting that despite all outward appearances, you are getting closer to your destination.
I didn't panic today and I doubt that I ever would because I am confident in my swimming abilities, but still, I understood the possibility of panic and while I had no great epiphany about it all, I now understood why I always looked at the second buoy with such envy and doubt.
Once I got home, though, I did sort of see the metaphor of it all as lately I've been feeling like ... well, like an old fart. I'm starting my 21st year of teaching in September. Our staff is amazingly young and energetic (only one other teacher has more experience than I do) and there are times when I feel stuck between buoys, so to speak. I know I have experience, I know I've done some great things in my career, but there are times when I think that maybe I've lost a bit of my mojo, maybe I've become bitter or cynical about the possibilities.
By possibilities I mean lots of things, but mostly the possibility that we can do all the things, achieve all the goals we set out for ourselves at the beginning of the year. I found myself today thinking, "Yeah, but when September hits, we'll all be so overwhelmed with the day-to-day aspects of teaching and all our brilliant plans and ideas will fall by the wayside."
I don't want to be that kind of teacher -- negative, discouraged -- but I also want to be a realist -- that second buoy is a helluva lot more work and effort than the first. Are we sure we can swim that far? And what if we can't? Will we have the courage and intelligence to turn back?
Perhaps I am the voice of reason with such a young faculty, but even that role scares me a bit as I'm not sure I'm ready for it. I liked being the innovative dreamer, the idealist who worked to achieve amazing things in my classroom, but frankly, I just don't have the energy for it anymore. Okay, I have some energy, but that energy needs to be balanced with the rest of my life, over a long year, with sufficient supplies held in reserve for the tough times of the year -- like September and October, like March (a long month without a break), like April post Spring Break when June still feels so very far away.
Tonight swimming to the second buoy, I felt good about the energy supplies I held in reserve. The trip back from the second buoy (yes, I made it) was more difficult than the trip out there, not because I was tired, but because the wind that had been at my back on the way out was now a not so pretty headwind that made the water choppy and my straight line swimming all the more difficult (I kept veering away from going headlong into the waves, which was the direction I needed to head to make it back to shore).
Still, I'm tired tonight -- my arms are a bit rubbery and my stomach muscles a bit sore -- and I know my weariness is not just from swimming to the second buoy. It's also from swimming into my 21st year of teaching -- the school year is long and once again I must not only swim out, but I must swim back.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Lesson One: Rats Dream
I am back in class. We are preparing for the upcoming September. This year, as opposed to the two previous years, class is good, useful: Brain research and how to use it to organize our teaching.
Today I learned that they've studied the dreams of rats. No couches with rats stretched out remembering their mothers. No questions answered with questions. Only MRI's of little rats (or not so little rats) after they've spent a day doing repetitive activities. Their brains (when awake) show rainbow colors in certain areas telling the researchers which parts of their little rat brains are active during the repetitive tasks. Then, while asleep, the rat brains are monitored again and the rainbow of colors are in exactly the same spots as when the rats were awake. They are reliving their day.
Result? We create and store memories/knowledge not only when awake but when asleep. Our dreams are practice for our neurons, firing back and forth to create neural pathways so the next day, when asked to find the food in the maze, we know exactly what to do because we've practiced it again and again in our sleep.
Odd insight: We have mirror neurons. When we see someone doing a task, say mowing the lawn, our brains record (in an MRI) the exact color patterns (active areas) as the person who is actually mowing the lawn. Our brains learn by mirroring the activity visually by observing someone else doing the activity. This, researchers believe, is the reason why pornography is so addictive...when observing pornography, are brains are mirroring the same activities as the person actually IN the pornographic act.
How does this relate to teaching? No pornography, but still, those little ones are watching what we do whether they are aware of it or not, whether we are aware of it or not. Actions speak louder kind of stuff.
It makes me wonder many things, but today I wondered, "Does Bush dream?" and if so, "Do his neurons ever fire?"
While I'd rather be climbing another mountain or kayaking on a serene lake, I'm glad that this year's classes are interesting and useful.
Tonight I shall dream of waterfalls and canoes just to see if I can build memories of places I rather be than places I have to be.
Today I learned that they've studied the dreams of rats. No couches with rats stretched out remembering their mothers. No questions answered with questions. Only MRI's of little rats (or not so little rats) after they've spent a day doing repetitive activities. Their brains (when awake) show rainbow colors in certain areas telling the researchers which parts of their little rat brains are active during the repetitive tasks. Then, while asleep, the rat brains are monitored again and the rainbow of colors are in exactly the same spots as when the rats were awake. They are reliving their day.
Result? We create and store memories/knowledge not only when awake but when asleep. Our dreams are practice for our neurons, firing back and forth to create neural pathways so the next day, when asked to find the food in the maze, we know exactly what to do because we've practiced it again and again in our sleep.
Odd insight: We have mirror neurons. When we see someone doing a task, say mowing the lawn, our brains record (in an MRI) the exact color patterns (active areas) as the person who is actually mowing the lawn. Our brains learn by mirroring the activity visually by observing someone else doing the activity. This, researchers believe, is the reason why pornography is so addictive...when observing pornography, are brains are mirroring the same activities as the person actually IN the pornographic act.
How does this relate to teaching? No pornography, but still, those little ones are watching what we do whether they are aware of it or not, whether we are aware of it or not. Actions speak louder kind of stuff.
It makes me wonder many things, but today I wondered, "Does Bush dream?" and if so, "Do his neurons ever fire?"
While I'd rather be climbing another mountain or kayaking on a serene lake, I'm glad that this year's classes are interesting and useful.
Tonight I shall dream of waterfalls and canoes just to see if I can build memories of places I rather be than places I have to be.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Back in the Saddle
I know this shot doesn't look like I've gone back to work, but I have. We have "classes" during the month of August, so before I put my nose back on the grindstone, Ann and I headed out to the mountains on what we thought would be a 10 mile round-trip hike, only it turned out to be a 16 mile round-trip hike.
It was beautiful, though. Sore as we were the next few days, it was worth it schlepping up to Snoqualmie Lake in the Alpine Lakes area of the Cascades. In fact, when we got to the lake, we met a woman and her partner who were camping at the lake and fishing in the chilly waters for trout. They'd never been fishing before, but lo and behold, 5 minutes after we arrived, the one woman caught a nice rainbow (fitting, isn't it?) trout.
There's something about the mountains that feeds my soul (and this time, fed my soles).
Our next adventure was a little more reserved as we stayed at a cabin (which was really a house) on a lake in Kitsap County (my old stomping grounds) with our good friends, Jeanne and Lisa. We had a relaxing time eating, swimming, kayaking, cycling, eating, playing games, and reading. Oh, and eating. It was a perfect way to send me back to work, though it was hard this morning getting up knowing my time is no longer my own.
Still, I'll hold this image in my mind for as long as I can...well, at least until my students arrive! I call it, "Enjoying the fog, before the fog rolls in."
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