The Walking Compass

Finding my way has been hard this past few months. My allergies have thrown me off course. They are unpredictable and devastating when they hit and I can't seem to find any kind of rhythm in my life -- not at home, not at work, not in my writing.

Tomorrow I go back to my doctor to plan a course of action. I suspect an allergist is in my near future, but until then, I must make it through a record-breaking heat wave and pollen so large and abundant I can watch it float past my window every morning, noon, and night.

I haven't exercised for over a month either. Sweat just irritates the inflammation around my eyes and now that the rash and swelling are tempered, I'm avoiding anything that might make them flare again.

But today, Rubin had his next booster shots and this gave him the freedom to walk around the neighborhood protected from all those puppy viruses. He is a proud walker. He holds his curled tail up high and lifts his feet in a steady prance. Of course the gangsters in their "thumper" cars and the planes flying overhead and, god forbid, the commuting cyclist sent him into a few spins at the end of the leash, but walking today with Rubin was like finding a compass I thought I'd lost.

I once knew an athlete I coached when I was the head coach of the high school track team. His name was Nick and his mother was a woo-woo massage therapist who wore too many crystals and fed Nick, in Nick's humble opinion, too much tofu. But when Nick was a child, his mother taught him how to meditate by walking, to move inward into himself and calm his itchy nerves. Nick was about 5'8" tall...not the height you'd expect of a high hurdler, but that didn't stop him. He made it all the way to the State competition where he landed second place by the slimest of margins. The winner was over 6 feet tall and his long legs pushed him past the finish line by a breath.

I never thought Nick had a chance to even make it to the State competition, but every race he astonished me with his focus and his tenacity. While all the other hurdlers towered over him, Nick would walk back and forth along the track warming up slowly on the balls of his feet, tapping out a meditation his mother taught him when he was just a toddler. From the stands, I'd watch him literally go into a trance. He couldn't hear the crowd, he didn't see his competitors, and he only saw the hurdles in front of him.

I think about that walking meditation from time to time and did again tonight as Rubin and I went out for his finally walk on his first day of official walking life. I need that meditation. It's a compass for me. If it weren't so late tonight and if Rubin could have made the trek, I would have walked for hours watching the full moon rise over the lake. There are 13 days left of school and walking Rubin early in the morning, then again in the afternoon, and then shortly in the evening will be my salvation. Salve-ation...I hope.

Rubin's sleeping now, spread out like furry rug under the computer desk, breathing heavily and peacefully. It's been a big day for both of us. He's found the world and I've found my compass.

Bena-drylled

First...Mom and Dad, don't worry...I'm getting better.

Now, here's what allergy season has done to me...

Believe it or not, this is worlds better than I was last night and early this morning when Ann escorted me to the ER. I couldn't really open my eyes as they were prize-fighter swollen shut. Slits of their former selves.

We went to Cherry Hill Hospital (the old Providence Hospital), avoiding the ever popular big-time ER at Harborview (or as the funny nurse who treated me said, "Harbor-zoo") and I was glad we did. No one was in the ER and they whisked me into the back room to do "triage," which I found particularly funny since 1) I was the only patient and it seemed obvious I would therefore be the first priority and 2) it reminded me of M.A.S.H. and the theme song kept playing through my head..."suicide is painless..."

Cindy was our nurse. A big woman with a very dry sense of humor and a shuffle to her walk. During our time there we found out that she'd previously worked as a parachute jumper for the Coast Guard, a bronco and bull rider in the rodeo, and that she and her "wife" owned 25 acres in Lewis County where they owned numerous animals who all thought they were dogs. Cindy did the bulk of the work on me, though I did see the doctor for about a minute -- he stated the obvious (allergic reaction) and prescribed a list of drugs that Cindy then administered through an IV she "plumbed" into me -- "Im good at this," she reassured me, "I used to be a plumber." And then she laughed, just one single snort and shuffled over to the computer to input my vitals.

Within minutes I could feel the relief, though the back of my throat felt like a wind tunnel filled with dry ice. I coughed and coughed to which Cindy pronounced, "Good! It's working!"

Within 90 minutes I was walking back to the car steadying myself on Ann. They'd pumped me full of steroids and more benadryl even though I'd taken a full dose before I'd arrived at the ER. "Sleep," Cindy ordered. "Lay low for the whole day. You're gonna feel a bit woozy."

I've slept. I ate lunch. I downed some good chocolate followed by some cheap chocolate. I've doused myself in bottle after bottle of water and watched for hairs to grow on my chin. "Does this mean I can compete in the Tour de France?" I asked Cindy as I was leaving.

"You ain't competing in nothing today, my dear!" she quipped back and then shuffled into the next room to triage another patient.

I'm up now, but shakey. I've taken yet another dose of benadryl and am waiting for it to slip me into yet another rubbery sleep. Ann's off to the pharmacy to pick up more steroids and an extra box of benadryl so I don't run out. By tomorrow, I'm hoping, I'll look fairly normal. I had Ann take pictures so I can show my doctor who has yet to see how bad these allergies really get. Then a referral to an allergist who will hopefully nail down exactly what does this to me and prescribe a medication that can subdue the attacks.

Rubin has been a good nurse. He had puppy class this morning with Ann and I was uanble to attend, so when he returned, he laid by the couch where I slept and dreamed his own little puppy dreams.

Meanwhile I'm hoping for rain and a quick recovery though this time I think it might take a bit longer. I'm looking forward to the day when I won't have to curse the warm weather or spend my days shuffling around in a benadryl haze. But for now, it's the couch for me and more water and perhaps some more bad chocolate to pass the time.

Really, mom and dad, I'm okay. And sorry Bookworm and Fossilguy that I didn't make it to your house. We shall come...I promise...with gifts of rhubarb pie and a puppy at our sides to meet you. Besides, I wouldn't want to scare you looking like this, FG!

Mud

When I was about 10 years old, I played on a soccer team. Because it was 1968 and there weren't any soccer teams for girls I played on a soccer team for boys. I was therefore the only girl though our coach was a mother of one of the boys.

Mrs. Clifton was, as her name doesn't quite imply, German. Her son's name was Klaus. That was German. Very German. Mrs. Clifton had reddish, thinning hair and a strong spitty accent and rough skin along her ropey arms. She had grown up in Europe and she knew how to play soccer. She organized our practices like a drill sargeant and at the end of every practice and game, she had a cooler filled with sliced up oranges for us to eat.

She also had a tattooed number on her wrist. I didn't really know what it meant until my mother said Mrs. Clifton had survived the Concentration Camps. Years later, when I spent hours after school on my belly in the school library looking at the books no one bothered to check out, I found a book on the Holocaust and read it quickly, painfully -- looking at the pictures in horror and with a bit of fascination. In that book they showed the same tattoos that Mrs. Clifton had on her wrist. It was difficult to put the pictures in the book together with the picture of Mrs. Clifton in her Addidas sweats and hooded sweatshirt on the soccer field. I think it was my first real understanding of the term "survivor."

I don't remember much about playing soccer though I know none of the boys wanted to guard me, afraid they'd somehow hurt me and so I often scored goals in games uncontested. Mrs. Clifton put me at a wing position because I was tall and fast and could sprint the length of the soccer pitch.

I also remember our first game. It rained the entire time. I was cold and wet and still Mrs. Clifton told us to "RRRuunnn, RRRuunnn, RRRuunn" and "Shooooot!" in her heavy German accent. Running was difficult. Mud came up to my shins and the ball rolled like a weight, heavy with clumps of turf. We slid. Not intentionally like you're supposed to in a soccer game, but by accident. Every time we tried to plant our feet , our heels lost any grip they had and we toppled onto our sides and backs. My uniform was covered in mud and dirt within the first five minutes of the game.

By the end of the match, we were encased in mud, our skin buried deep beneath a thick coat of cracked dirt. My teeth clattered together. I was so cold I couldn't untie my laces. I threw a sweatshirt over my jersey and shook with a chill that didn't go away until I sat in a hot, hot bath at home.

I hadn't thought of Mrs. Clifton for years until today when I watched Rubin play with his new best friend, Sadie, an older Labradoodle. They were soaked and muddy within five minutes of their romp, tossing each other around on the ground much like we did when we played soccer. By the time Sadie left, Rubin was chilled to the bone, shivering in rhythmic pulses. We gave him a warm bath, spraying him gently with water to wash out the mud caked in between every hair on his body. He shook even more and then Ann wrapped him in her sweatshirt and a blanket and rubbed him softly until he fell asleep in a warm wooly heap.

Now he's walking around like a fluffball, his fur soft and flowery scented. I don't think I ever walked around soft and flowery after a soccer game or after any game in my life, but today, watching Rubin romp around the wet backyard, I was flooded with memories of Mrs. Clifton, tattoos, soccer, and mud.

Sadie is on top here (light cream) while Rubin is the muddy darker pup underneath. You can see the curl of his tail to the right and if you look closely, his head is buried into the scruff of Sadie's neck.

Halftime...a forced timeout. Rubin is staring at Sadie who is on her own side of the field...

The Bracelet

A friend gave me a purple rubber bracelet the other day. Like all the other colored bracelets, it's a fundraiser of some sort though I'm not sure of the particulars. I've bought a few of the bands in my past -- orange for a fight against hunger and poverty, pink against breast cancer, and blue for something I can't recall.

What attracted me to the purple band was that it was free (a gift from my friend) and that the purpose was to create a complaint free world. My friend had watched the Oprah show where the creator of the purple bands explained the idea:

Wear the bracelet on one wrist.

When you complain or spread rumors, move the bracelet to the other wrist.

The goal: Try to keep the bracelet on the same wrist for 3 weeks.

Additionally, you can tell someone else wearing the band that they are complaining and should therefore change the band to the other wrist, but then that means you must move your band as well.

I don't complain that much, right? I could do this...no problem.

In any other situation I most likely would not have taken the purple band from my friend, but she wasn't just offering one to me. She was offering one to each one of my students and when they all took one and then looked to me to do the same, I felt a bit obligated.

So now my left wrist dons a purple rubbery band.

But don't think it's been on my left wrist since I received it. I was "gifted" the band on a Friday and over the weekend, I had to move it just once. I can't remember why, but I heard myself complaining about something and decided I needed to move the band if I was really going to commit to its purpose.

Then I went to work on Monday. By Wednesday I couldn't keep track of how many times the band switched wrists. At one point on Wednesday, in the middle of a meeting, I decided that there was no need to move the band -- I'd just toss out the whole day as a wash and start my 3 weeks over again on Thursday. At the same time I realized that I am not a "meeter." Rather, I am a "teacher" and I'd be a much happier person (less of a complainer) if I could just "teach" instead of "meet."

Am I complaining again? Is an excuse a complaint?

That's the other dilemma I'm having. There are complaints that are blaring. I can smell them before they exit my mouth. Therefore, they're easier to swallow and the purple band stays on the wrist.

But there are other "complaints" that I'm not certain really qualify as complaints. In fact, they are hard to distinguish from "truths" or statements of fact. For instance, I heard myself saying, "That's crap!" under my breath in the middle of the meeting I didn't want to be at and frankly, the announcement made to the faculty WAS crap. When the words came out of my mouth, only the teacher next to me heard and she smiled, but I realized I needed to say something because what was being stated was not true. "I have to say," I began, "I don't agree with that statement at all." I then went on to explain my "version" of the truth.

Is that complaining? Should I just have let the moment pass as a different interpretation of events? Or was it the "that's crap!" that made the whole "feeling" a complaint?

And what do you do when someone makes your life more difficult? Case in point: Some super bigwig was scheduled to come to our school. We were "told" to "jump on it" so we did offering up a time and day that Mr. BigWig could meet our students and get a tour of the school. We're not in charge of tours nor do we really have the time to "plan" anything special outside our classroom (because yes, we're supposed to be teaching not kibbitzing with bigwigs).

But the day before Mr. BigWig is set to arrive, we realize NO ONE HAS PLANNED ANYTHING and we are left holding the bag. So we scramble. We set up chairs and projectors and prep the kids and create a dog and pony show to rival the best of them and all the while we're feeling FURIOUS because THIS IS NOT OUR JOB!

Should I bite my tongue on this? My teaching partner (who is also wearing a purple band) went to the "powers that be" to explain what went wrong in this particular situation and then offered up very concrete solutions for the next time it happens. Everyone listened willingly, but no one said, "sorry about the confusion...sorry about the extra burden...oops, we really dropped the ball and it all fell into your laps and we feel really bad about that..." Nope...not a word, just kudos for getting our school yet again in the newspaper and making our kids and our Head of School look amazing (which the kids are, but I'm not so certain anymore about the HOS).

We felt devalued. We felt used. We felt put out and exhausted. We felt left out when all the accolades went to everyone else who should of planned the event, but didn't.

We felt like complaining.

And we did. To each other, to anyone who would listen, and then finally, to those supposedly in charge who had asked us "jump on this" and then never supported the happening of it.

The purple band did not move a wrist...we just let the whole day be a wash.

It's hard, too, when others around you complain. It's so easy to just jump right in or if you don't, to just nod your head and let others release some steam. Still, the temptation to jump in and validate their feelings with your own complaints is overwhelming and often I found myself giving into the urge not only to support the co-complainer, but to receive some support myself.

Yesterday, as the kids were cleaning up the room at the end of the day, I noticed about 6 purple bands left on chairs and tables. "Hey, who do these belong to?" I asked. Some kids claimed them, others told me I could keep them, that they'd given up on the whole no-complaining idea and others gave them to fellow students who collect the colored bands on their wrists.

"This is like dieting," I told my teaching partner. "You feel really committed to it, work hard at it, pay attention to all the details, and then about 5 days into it, you give up...the temptation is too great to eat calories or, in this case, complain."

She laughed.

I don't want to be a complainer. I don't want to be someone who grouses the whole time about details and mishaps, but after attempting to be true to the purpse of the purple wristband, I wonder if maybe I am that person.

But then I wonder if complaining is okay in some forms. Isn't it better, for instance, to not hold it all in? Throughout the week, as I heard the complaining rise up in my head and then worked to not let it out, I found myself rephrasing things. "Maybe if I say it this way," I thought, "it would sound more like constructive criticism than a complaint?" But the lines are blurry there, too, and after awhile, when I heard myself complain once, I just decided to start the whole purple band thing again tomorrow.

I'm still wearing the purple band. I'm not certain why. I think I have hope that I can somehow do this, though I have reduced my goal from 3 weeks to just 2 days in a row, but even that seems like a monumental challenge.

Friends have always told me I'm too hard on myself. Part of me knows this is true. I spend a lot of energy trying to get it "right" and then, when I fall short, bashing myself for not trying hard enough or for giving up.

Maybe this whole purple band is a set up for failure. It's hard to know. It's certainly made me more aware in addition to a bit more frustrated with myself, but maybe, like my weight, I'll somehow learn to accept it -- accept that I don't need to complain all the time or at least, choose my complaints sparingly just as I choose fattening calories sparingly. The trick is, just like with the piece of pie or the buttery cookie, I have to just "do it" and then let it go. Holding onto the guilt of it all just takes too much out of me.

Hey, maybe that's the topic of a new colored band -- The No-Guilt Band!

Relevance

The other day in puppy class the trainer talked about how owners need to be relevant to their dogs, that often, as pet owners, we just think about the dog being relevant to us and assume he (or she) will be as committed to us as we are to them.

Teaching relevance means eye contact in dog language...he must "look" at you before he gets permission to do what it is you are either asking him to do or what he would like to do. For instance, Rubin has learned to sit and wait for his food, but he must also look at me before I will say okay and release him from his patient position. We practice lots of exercises reinforcing this eye contact and slowly, he's catching on.

When Rubin is on a rampage (or what the trainer calls a FRAP -- Frenetic Random Act of Play) he does not look at either one of us at all. He grabs the rug and runs the other way. He chews on the spatula and turns his back to us. He chomps down on the toilet paper roll and then jauntily trots down the hallway with the toilet paper streaming behind him. Meanwhile, we're calling his name, telling him "no", shouting out "leave it, leave it, leave it" to no avail. During a FRAP we are not relevant in the least.

So, he now walks around the house with a leash on so we can make ourselves relevant. He now receives a spray of water to his backside as a random act of god. It's amazing how he reacts especially with the water. He has yet to figure out that it comes from us and he turns in circles trying to figure out what the hell just happened. Then, worried it will happen again, he finds our legs to hide behind and mellows a bit. With the leash, he isn't as responsive , but it's saved a roll of toilet paper time and time again.

Ann and I, both teachers, have talked a lot about relevance and how we see the same issues in our dog as we see in our students -- adults are not relevant in their lives. Yes, there are certainly some families who have established good "eye contact" and the kids respond by always checking in with a parent (or teacher) to see if they can make a desired move. But on the whole, most of the kids we see these days don't check in and in fact, give very little eye contact to any adult.

They have not, we've concluded, learned relevance. They have not grown up understanding that the parent matters or has value. Consequently, the parent has not learned the relevance of the child in their lives and have not passed on the feeling of "mattering" to their kids. It's a horrible cycle of subtle neglect and 90% of the time, it is the root cause of ugly behaviors in our students.

The trainer ended our last session talking about the difference between loving your dog and loving LOVING your dog. She said, "If we love our dogs we teach them so they will be safe and balanced. If we just love loving our dogs, then it's all about us and not about respect or safety or balance."

When she said this Ann and I looked at each other and knew exactly what she meant. We see this a lot with families. I call it the checklist mentality -- to be a successful adult I must have a spouse, a car, a job, a house, a boat, lots of friends, pets, and 2.3 kids. But there is no responsibility attached to the checklist. Nothing on it really matters. What's relevant is getting to the bottom of the checklist and then showing it to everyone else to prove your success. It's just a "To Do" list one must get through and then, once accomplished, they let it all go. There's no need to monitor any of it or pay attention to any of it, or if they do pay attention, often the car and the house and boat get more "love" than the beings.

Relevance. Connection. Mattering. Commitment. Follow through. Responsibility. Love.

Doggie classes have been very enlightening.

Detritus

There's something appealing about a 10 year old saying the word "detritus." I'm not sure what it is, but there's a scientific brutal quality of the word that loses its edge when spoken by an innocent child.

Me: What do barnacles eat?

Student: Plankton and detritus.

Me: What's detritus?

Student: Dead stuff.

There's a lot of dead stuff in my life right now. My allergies have flared again and if I could, I would live my life with my eyes closed or underwater in a slightly cool pool. Work is hectic. No, work is work -- stressful and hurried, emotional and exhausting. And then there's the puppy. Cute, but a lot of energy. He charms me one minute and infuriates me the next.

I think about all of those "dog" books I've read and videos I've watched and all of them offer this advice: Be Consistent.

But the key isn't consistent, it's persistent. For what seems like hours I must be persistent.

"No bite. No bite. Good no bite." "Off. Off. Off. Good off." "No bark. No bark. No bark" followed by a torturous time out on one of his many beds and the painful look of puppy remorse, head cocked, ears up.

It feels much the same for all areas of my life. There is a month left of teaching to go. This class will move on. I'll miss them, but then again I won't. The kids are feverish with spring somehow thinking it isn't spring at all, rather summer and therefore vacation and all bets are off. All rules have been forgotten. All boundaries erased. No limits. "Silence. Silence. Silence. Good silence."

My co-workers are as exhausted as I am and everyone is holding on by a thin tendon of tension. "No meeting. No meeting. No meeting."

I need a time out.

I find myself complaining and this is not something I really want to do. I want to be positive and hopeful...to see the blue skies as something other than a trigger for pollen irritation. I want to see the nagging behaviors of my students as signs of growth and rapture. I want to see all the efforts throughout the year paying off. I want to be focused on end-of-the year meetings not feeling as if a sharp stick in the eye would be more fun.

I want the puppy to stop biting on all the things he shouldn't...like my hands or my ankles.

My life is a pile of "I wants." Fat, juicy, drippy I wants. Needy, whiny, and nasty I wants. Dreamy, slippery, and skinny I wants. Hurtful, demanding, impatient I wants. I wants that taste bitter and sour. I wants that make my glands in the back of my throat puff up and choke me with saliva.

Detritus "I wants" on which I can only feed.

And now the puppy has just curled up under my feet, content. This is what I want...a place to curl up and rest.

Soon.

Dervish

Going to the doctor is quite an experience. My doctor is in her mid-to-late 50s, she's tall, with flowing gray hair and always smells of some kind of herb or incense. She is a "traditional" MD, but she is also a naturopath and whenever I see her, she asks if I want a "traditional" approach or an "alternative" approach.

Today's visit was for my physical where she spends an hour with me not just examining my body (inside and out), but actually talking with me about "life issues" as she likes to call them.

Today's discussion centered around dervishes -- dancers who spin as a way to live their faith. From what I know, and from her informative explanation, dervish dancers always turn to the heart (or the left) and raise one arm up to welcome in the heavens and lower one arm
to connect to the earth. They spin, always turning their bodies to the left, but also the whole group of dancers circles to the left, and when they are "in balance" they close their eyes as they are "centered" between heaven and earth.

I am not a woo-woo person, but there's something about sitting in a traditional doctor's office -- blood pressure cuff, biohazardous garbage can, cotton swabs, and scale -- talking about dervish dancers with a woman I consider to be an earth goddess that makes me feel healthy and alive.

Dr: There's something so powerful, isn't there, about the pull of our lives outward and the pull of our lives inward. It's in that tension that, if we can find our balance, we live full lives.

It's amazing how she makes me believe this stuff. Certainly now, at this time of year when everything is whirling and swirling in the most unbalanced way. May is hell month -- so much to do and the kids feeling summer is here with every sunny day that pokes through the clouds. And on top of it all, we're raising a puppy who is cute, but demanding, sweet, but devilish, eager to learn and extremely impatient.

So, when the doctor took my blood pressure, I expected the usual 136/84 result. Instead, it was 108/64. I don't think it's been that low since I was 12.

Dr: You're doing really well maintaining your blood pressure, yes?

Me: I really haven't been doing anything expect these breathing exercises where I try to take 6 breaths in a minute.

Dr: That's not just an exercise. That's be proven scientifically to lower your blood pressure and help your circulation system. It's that simple.

Me: Like turning to your left with your eyes closed.

Dr: Yes, like turning to your left with your eyes closed.

Dear Oprah

I must admit, I watch your show sometimes though usually I'm at the gym and while I can't hear what's being said, if I squint hard enough I can read the closed caption and catch the drift of the topic. I'll also admit that sometimes, I'm impressed.

And sometimes, I'm not.

Recently, while sweating it out on the treadmill, I watched your show on how we could all live a greener life. The new green phenomena fascinates me and while I'm glad that Americans are finally talking about the crisis of resources and detrimental impacts, I am skeptical that people will actually change.

Take you, for instance. You were excited about the compact fluorescent bulbs, but were adamant that you could not shorten your hot shower. The message of the show, of course, was the message of all American endeavors -- we have choices. We get to choose what we do, when we do it, and how much of it we do. No one's going to tell us what we can and cannot do. This is, what we affectionately call, our right and our freedom as Americans.

Throughout the show your guests kept stressing that there were "little" changes we could make, like changing just two of our lightbulbs or buying green products, and that none of us really had to make dramatic changes in our lives that might affect our current lifestyles. By this time, I was cranking up the speed on the treadmill attempting to curb my burning frustration that 1) while small changes might be a good beginning, in order for the world (and specifically Americans) to reverse our negative impact on the enviroment, enormous changes in behavior and attitude need to take place and 2) my inability to run on hard pavement because of a damaged back forced me to run on an electric powered treadmill while I watched one television in a bank of televisions lined up along the gym wall.

But what really got me running was the irony of you, the great Oprah Winfrey, wealthiest woman in the world, unwilling to make changes because you cannot give up certain pleasures. Case in point: Long, hot showers.

I could spend pages of time lambasting the number of homes you own, the amount of excess you laud upon yourself (and your guest), and the overabundance of consumerism you pursue and promote, but your unwillingness to reduce your hot water usage by 5 or 10 minutes really gauled me.

We have many valuable resources that allow us to live the way we do in America, but for me, water is one of the most valuable. It provides food. It provides habitat. It provides life, in every way we might think of it, on this planet. And water is in danger. Serious danger. It's demise is evident all over the world. Look at Israel. Look at Sudan. Look even to your beloved South Africa.

With each stride on the treadmill I could hear myself shouting -- what if change in your water consumption kept a pod of whales alive? What if change in your water consumption saved a rainforest? Saved salmon? What if it helped stop the genocide in Sudan? What if, dear Oprah, a shorter shower allowed the families of your precious South African students to walk one less mile with large water pitchers on their head in search of this valuable resource?

I admire you, Oprah, I really do. You've raised important questions. You've got us thinking. That you were willing to produce a show on green choices when your life is an example of "moderate" excess is brave and honest and necessary. But come on. Five minutes less in a shower? Ten minutes less? Are you really going to suffer irreparable damage?

Sometimes you really impress me. Sometimes you don't. I must admit it's rare both happen in the same show at the same time. Change isn't easy. I know that. I struggle with it every day. But change, if we really are concerned about the health of this planet and our exsistence on it, must not only be meaningful, it must be significant. Change must hurt. I don't like it and I'm certain most Americans don't either, but they may be more willing to make those difficult changes if people like you commit to those changes as well.

Come on, Oprah, just five minutes. You can do it. You just need to make the choice.

Inside Outside

I dreamt of E. the other night, last year's student who is now struggling with cancer. She was at our house, standing in the kitchen all bent over from the toll her chemo is taking on her body, her bald head exposed and slightly fuzzy. Her hands were on her hips in that typical E. way and she was asking me a question.

E: Do you ever feel confused about your insides and your outsides?

Me: What do you mean?

E: Do your insides ever feel different than your outsides?

Me: I don't understand what you're asking me?

E: Sometimes what's on the inside of me feels so different from the outside of me and people only see the outside of me.

At this point in the dream, I'm only looking at her outside. I see a tired girl. I see an exhausted girl. I see a girl who struggles walking a straight line because her knees all bend at the wrong places. She slides her left foot. She shuffles. I see a girl with big eyes and dark circles around them. I see a girl whose skin is the color of cheap vanilla ice milk -- sallow and grey. I see a girl who has always hunched her shoulders and held her chin to the sky at a 35 degree angle. I see a girl who looks to the ceiling when she's thinking and who interrupts when she doesn't want to hear what's being said. I see a girl who feels angry and giddy, rebellious and contemplative, confused and stubborn.

But perhaps this is the inside. I don't see the line dividing the two.

Me: I'm sorry, I don't see it.

E: (Ignoring my ignorance) I like my insides. I'm at peace with my insides, but people don't see them. They only see my outsides and I don't like them at all. How do I get them to see my insides only?

At this point I wake up from the dream. I lie in bed and watch the windy morning clouds zoom across an indecisive sky. My therapist once told me that I am everything in my dream. I'm the kitchen. I'm the questions. I'm me. And I'm E.

But what I can't figure out is, am I the inside or am I the outside?

As the day wore on, I lost the fogging battle of the dream. I tried to recall it later, to pull up the deeper meaning, but it was gone. At lunch time I saw E., quiet in a corner reading a book. Not eating. Not interacting. Not throwing her arms around me when I walk into the room.

I talk to her teachers as we sit and eat lunch surrounded by the students.

Me: What's with E?

Teacher One: Bad day.

Me: Is she feeling okay? Did she have chemo this morning?

Teacher Two: No chemo, but she's reverting back to the nasty, angry, stubborn E before her illness.

Teacher One: Yeah, she's not doing her work, she's snapping at everyone, even her good friends, and she seems extremely tired.

Me: How are things at home?

Teacher Two: Not good. Her mom's sort of removed herself from the whole illness thing. Working long hours, not spending much time with E, really struggling with the cancer.

At the end of lunch I squat down next to E.

Me: How ya doin?

E: Fine.

Me: Really because to me you look kind of pissed off and tired.

E: Nope, I'm good.

I know by her short answers that she's not telling me the truth.

Me: Are you getting enough sleep?

E: Yep.

Me: Are you eating well?

E: Yep.

Me: Everything okay at home?

E: Jeez, why all the questions?

Me: Well, you didn't give me hug like you usually do, you're not talking to your friends, you've not looked up from your book once, and I have yet to hear you state your opinion. These are not normal E. behaviors.

I'm expecting a bit of a smile. I get nothing.

E: I'm fine.

She goes back to reading her book.

Me: Well, if you need to talk, you know where to find me.

She continues reading and only slightly gives a nod of her head.

Insides. Outsides.

Inside out.

Outsides in. For awhile, outsides will stay in, seated right next to the insides.

Kissing

I read in the paper today that administrators at a local area high school used footage from a security camera to "catch" two girls kissing. They showed the video to the parents of one of the girls because they had expressed "concern" about their daughter and wanted the school officials to keep them "appraised" of their daughter's behavior.

Yikes.

I thought we were beyond this. I thought, even though people were bigots that they'd learned to keep their mouths shut. I thought they'd found out that homophobia was out of style.

Guess not.

"Catching" "concerns" requires stealth. One must be kept "appraised" of such horrors as kissing and it's not an easy task. One must employ covert operations to carry on this important infraction. An infraction far more important than any local, national, or world event apparently. More serious than car bombings in Iraq, this kissing. More serious than presidential lies. More important than girlfriends of World Bank leaders getting huge salaries and prestigious jobs. More important than assistants to the Secretary of State who hire prositutes to "massage" them.

Yes, two girls kissing is significantly more important than most things I can think of.

Let us install security cameras at every high school in America. Perhaps we'll even catch boys kissing and wouldn't that be a travisty. We should all be appraised of that most certainly.