A friend said last night that it was natural to fear the unknown. She told me that I shouldn't be in a rush. I should just enjoy each day of this journey. She told me to relax into my freedom. I have the resources, I have the time. I must sit with it and let things unfold.
We talked on the phone. She'd just spent a day of nothing before she went back to work today. She enjoyed it she said. "Unproductive feels good at times," and then she listened to me worry about the thought of being unproductive for the rest of my life.
"You worry too much," she warned.
Duh.
I have a list on my desk of all the things I must do today. They aren't "musts" really as guidelines. These are the activities I can do if I find myself with nothing to do, but perhaps doing nothing is what I am wrestling with the most. I am not good at "nothing."
The days have been hot and humid. Yesterday's 90 degree heat turned us into putty. We laid around and watched terrible television shows, old movies, and slept. Even the dog was too hot to really be an annoyance. There was a whole lot of "nothing" going on as the heat expanded in the house and the breezes died. Yesterday I was good at "nothing," but it was out of necessity and survival, not some Zen-like practice.
Today promises to be cooler, but the nothing I feel like doing results not from an inner journey of awareness, but from an overwhelming feeling of where to begin. My list of things to do is long, but I struggle with where to start. There's pasta sauce to be made for tonight's dinner. Making it in the cool part of the morning feels like a good idea, but so does cleaning the house and weed-eating the yard.
There are job applications to fill out and the dog needs a good brushing. The list for Costco an the grocery store is long, but leaving the dog in a warm house feels as cruel as leaving him in a hot car. I know I will start soon -- one thing on the list, then the next -- but in this space between not doing and doing I can sense a vibration of fear.
I have leapt. I have left my career and now I'm staring at my compass. The needle is spinning slowly. "This is the vacation you wanted," Ann tells me. Yes, but what's after vacation?
She laughs at me. "You move too fast in this heat," she chides. "You need to learn to slow down. Not everything has to be accomplished today. What will be on your list tomorrow? Nothing?"
Nothing. The unknown. Are they one and the same? I'd like to think not, but right now they are folded in on one another so tightly it's difficult to distinguish their separate features. Regardless, I am equally uncomfortable with both.
Ironic. I wanted to do less. I wanted to not work so hard and let my body relax into something peaceful and calm. I wanted time to think. Instead, I could easily work myself into a state of panic and fear. My thinking could be devoured by doubt and insecurity. I could easily let the unknown overtake me and fall into a pit of nothingness.
I won't, but knowing that is cold comfort. It doesn't motivate me to change old habits. It just makes me uncomfortable with the unknown that sits before me.
"You just have to make peace with the unknown," my friend said last night on the phone. "That takes awhile, but you'll get there."
Enough. I shall begin with pasta sauce and while it's simmering, I'll dust the rest of the house, then sweep, then mop. Check marks on a list are always satisfying. I'll think about today's list today and tomorrow's list tomorrow. I'll push nothing into the future where it can sit safely with the unknown...temporarily.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Among the Plebians
What we do defines us. A dentist is defined by her expertise with teeth and gums. A firefighter by his strength and his knowledge of fire. A basketball player by her skills with a ball, a team, and a hoop. And I, as a teacher, have been defined by my years in the classroom creating lesson plans and motivating children to learn.
When I sat down last night at the "meet and greet" hiring event at REI I had that odd feeling of being out of place -- a square teacher in a round business.
As a business, it's universally agreed that REI is progressive. They offer health care to all employees. They build "green" stores. They promote and fund stewardship and education. They encourage their employees to play as much as work. And they pay just enough above the minimum wage to earn themselves a spot on Fortune Magazine's Top 100 Best Places to Work.
But they are a business, not a school, and navigating through the brief and rather uninformative "meet and greet" interview I felt out of my league. A Bachelors Degree, two Masters Degrees, and 22 years of teaching experience and I felt out of my league. Could I cashier? Of course...how difficult could it be? Could I stock shelves? Why not! Could I put clothes on a rack and shoes on display? No problem.
Yet here was one of the "managers" telling me that getting hired at REI is quite difficult and that, in fact, they wouldn't be hiring anyone until mid-August or perhaps September. I should return. I should remind them that I'd already applied and if my application "fit" in with their needs, I would be called back for a full interview.
Okay. I didn't want a job until August and can afford to not get one until September, but what was it about my application that did not stand out above the rest?
"Have you had any experience in sales?" the very young interviewer asked me.
"I have been a teacher for 22 years," I smiled politely, "Every day was a sales job."
"Well," he smirked, "perhaps Customer Relations, but not actual sales."
I found myself saying, "When was the last time you were in the classroom?" I wanted to tag on "young man" but I held my tongue.
He laughed, thankfully, but I'm not certain he understood that I was serious.
I don't want to be a snob. I don't want to be someone who thinks any minimum wage job is beneath me, but yesterday I felt like a commoner in many ways. My qualifications felt bulky and outdated. I felt old in a room of 20-somethings (only one other applicant was close to my age) and I felt as if I needed to grovel to prove my worth.
One young man was a master of the grovel. He arrived early. He provided a resume. He wore a casual suit and a tie. He introduced himself to every REI employee in the room. His "brief" interview was longer than everyone else's. He asked questions and gave long, expansive answers. He carried a briefcase.
In contrast, the young man who sat to my right carried his skateboard into the room. His tennis shoes were worn and tattered. His pants hung low and he wore an old hat slanted on his head. His t-shirt sleeves were too short to cover up his detailed and plentiful tattoos, colorful designs over each bicep.
Where did I fit in?
It's not that I've never had that feeling before. I felt it often during my 22 years of teaching. I was a different teacher in many ways, but my difference helped me carve a niche for myself. I was considered "creative" and an "out-of-the-box" visionary. I earned a reputation for innovative teaching methods and original projects that engaged students and met state standards.
If applying for another teaching position I'd know exactly what to say, what to ask, how to present myself. I'd know the jargon and the key points that needed to be made to get the interviewers attention. But I'm not sure what knowledge I need to display in order to work a cash register or re-rack clothes or lace up shoes on a customer's foot. That's a whole different body of water in which I found myself swimming last night.
I didn't drown. They raced through each of the interviews because they weren't actually hiring. In the world of business, it appears, you just keep showing up and eventually they'll be a spot that might match your qualifications.
I can wait. If anything 22 years of teaching has taught me it's how to be patient. In the meantime, though, I think I'll apply to a few other places --Whole Foods perhaps or maybe even the UW bookstore or Elliott Bay Books -- just to cover all contingencies. Besides it will be good practice -- shoving my square peg into more round holes.
When I sat down last night at the "meet and greet" hiring event at REI I had that odd feeling of being out of place -- a square teacher in a round business.
As a business, it's universally agreed that REI is progressive. They offer health care to all employees. They build "green" stores. They promote and fund stewardship and education. They encourage their employees to play as much as work. And they pay just enough above the minimum wage to earn themselves a spot on Fortune Magazine's Top 100 Best Places to Work.
But they are a business, not a school, and navigating through the brief and rather uninformative "meet and greet" interview I felt out of my league. A Bachelors Degree, two Masters Degrees, and 22 years of teaching experience and I felt out of my league. Could I cashier? Of course...how difficult could it be? Could I stock shelves? Why not! Could I put clothes on a rack and shoes on display? No problem.
Yet here was one of the "managers" telling me that getting hired at REI is quite difficult and that, in fact, they wouldn't be hiring anyone until mid-August or perhaps September. I should return. I should remind them that I'd already applied and if my application "fit" in with their needs, I would be called back for a full interview.
Okay. I didn't want a job until August and can afford to not get one until September, but what was it about my application that did not stand out above the rest?
"Have you had any experience in sales?" the very young interviewer asked me.
"I have been a teacher for 22 years," I smiled politely, "Every day was a sales job."
"Well," he smirked, "perhaps Customer Relations, but not actual sales."
I found myself saying, "When was the last time you were in the classroom?" I wanted to tag on "young man" but I held my tongue.
He laughed, thankfully, but I'm not certain he understood that I was serious.
I don't want to be a snob. I don't want to be someone who thinks any minimum wage job is beneath me, but yesterday I felt like a commoner in many ways. My qualifications felt bulky and outdated. I felt old in a room of 20-somethings (only one other applicant was close to my age) and I felt as if I needed to grovel to prove my worth.
One young man was a master of the grovel. He arrived early. He provided a resume. He wore a casual suit and a tie. He introduced himself to every REI employee in the room. His "brief" interview was longer than everyone else's. He asked questions and gave long, expansive answers. He carried a briefcase.
In contrast, the young man who sat to my right carried his skateboard into the room. His tennis shoes were worn and tattered. His pants hung low and he wore an old hat slanted on his head. His t-shirt sleeves were too short to cover up his detailed and plentiful tattoos, colorful designs over each bicep.
Where did I fit in?
It's not that I've never had that feeling before. I felt it often during my 22 years of teaching. I was a different teacher in many ways, but my difference helped me carve a niche for myself. I was considered "creative" and an "out-of-the-box" visionary. I earned a reputation for innovative teaching methods and original projects that engaged students and met state standards.
If applying for another teaching position I'd know exactly what to say, what to ask, how to present myself. I'd know the jargon and the key points that needed to be made to get the interviewers attention. But I'm not sure what knowledge I need to display in order to work a cash register or re-rack clothes or lace up shoes on a customer's foot. That's a whole different body of water in which I found myself swimming last night.
I didn't drown. They raced through each of the interviews because they weren't actually hiring. In the world of business, it appears, you just keep showing up and eventually they'll be a spot that might match your qualifications.
I can wait. If anything 22 years of teaching has taught me it's how to be patient. In the meantime, though, I think I'll apply to a few other places --Whole Foods perhaps or maybe even the UW bookstore or Elliott Bay Books -- just to cover all contingencies. Besides it will be good practice -- shoving my square peg into more round holes.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Constants
I am taking an online class on Ocean Systems. It makes my head hurt. I am not a scientist. While science fascinates and amazes me, it feels too fixed in many ways. I like to think about loftier ideas. Here is my response to this week's discussion question: Mangrove trees are considered to be one of the few true plants of the ocean. Why?
I’ve been trying to recall constants in my life – things that stay the same and only vary slightly over time. I can’t think of any. The only constant is change. I’m not sure who said that, but it strikes me as profound – until this morning when I read in my assigned reading for my Oceanography class that the chemical make up of the ocean is relatively constant. Relatively in the sense that it does change, but the changes are miniscule. The temperature, for instance, varies only 5-10 degrees in any given spot. So water at the polar icecaps stays the same temperature and though it may vary from the temperature of the tropics, the tropical oceans stay basically the same temperature as well.
So it is with their chemical composition. Of course, that constant seems to be in danger. That’s the great debate. How much are we changing this constant? If you think about it, we are the only species who significantly changes our environment versus adapting to it like most species on the planet. If it’s cold out, we make warm sweaters or better yet, build houses with central heating systems. Those heating systems require intricate networks of energy in order to work, but we’ve mastered that as well. Need heat? Flip a switch, push a button, and the whole system swings into action. While we have some remarkable internal adaptations, we have constructed for ourselves even more extraordinary external adaptations.
Adaptation by other species is much more internal. There aren’t plants, for instance, that in response to the cold build elaborate external structures to protect themselves or their entire “family.” Instead, they internally adapt, they insulate or die back or store their energy in the roots. They figure out ways to survive the cold and then genetically pass that information onto the next generation of plants. If they don’t adapt, they die and like a cleaver to the artery, the ability to pass on that genetic genius dies with it.
But what happens if human external adaptations mess it up for everything else? For instance, what if our adaptation for traveling great distances – cars, planes, space shuttles – depletes the layers of the protective atmosphere or even worse, disturbs the once-believed constant of the oceans?
The mid-west is once again under water. Record flooding of the Mississippi River and its tributaries has buried small towns and large cities built with our external adaptations on the flood plains of the river. But the Mississippi has flooded for thousands of years, long before humans built their homes and farms and factories along its banks. In fact, the Mississippi’s path has been altered by human civilization so it can be argued that the flooding is simply the river’s attempt to run its natural course. It was our ego that thought that somehow we could construct safe-havens from the flooding waters. Through our external adaptations we have altered a relative constant – the flow of the Mississippi – with disastrous results (though mostly disastrous for humans, which in turn, may damage the surrounding ecosystems through human pollution swirling into the flood waters.)
I suppose none of this really has anything to do with the assignment for the week – Mangroves are one of the few true plants that live in the oceans. Why? – but after reading the assigned essays and the related pages in the textbook, I’ve been thinking about the purpose of adaptation and our inability as a species to understand the functions and benefits of it.
Simply stated, mangroves are one of the few true plants that live in the ocean because they have adapted to the conditions of ocean living in a variety of ways. First, they can live in both fresh and saltwater conditions simultaneously and exclusively. Next, they can extract fresh water from the seas and have a variety of ways to dispose of that salt – some filter it through their roots, others excrete it from their leaves, and still others store the salt in their older leaves or bark that sheds with them. Third, they have an elaborate root system that allows the plant to “breathe” during high tides and stabilize the tree in shallow, loose soil. Finally, they have seeds that germinate on the tree allowing them to “drop and grow” at a rapid rate, hardy enough to survive the harsh and fluctuating conditions in which they must thrive.
While I find all of this fascinating, what truly amazes me is how scientists have learned all of this and still humans refuse to live by these elaborate, complex, and multi-layered laws of nature. Instead, we have spent a great deal of time and energy circumventing them, separating ourselves from nature in hopes of mastering it somehow and avoiding its pitfalls. For instance, we spend a great deal of time and energy converting the deserts into a habitat viable for humans. The consequences of this conversion are dramatic and devastating to the environment.
I once taught a college Global Issues course in which I started the class with this assignment: How would your lives change if all that you consumed could only be obtained in a 10 mile radius of where you lived? The next week’s assignment was: How would living in such a way impact the environment – both on land and in the oceans? While many students struggled to wrap their brains around the idea that there would be no shopping malls, no grocery stores, and no cell phones most of them came to the understanding that their lives would be dramatically different and their impact on the earth and oceans significantly less. Most of them also argued that this “modification” to their lives was counter to their nature, counter to human nature that was genetically predisposed to explore, expand, and reproduce in the way that it had and would continue to do. The creation and marketing of bottled water was, in fact, our evolutionary genius at work.
I was pondering all of this while reading about water molecules and ocean salinity and even more so as I read about mangroves and their astonishing adaptations. It seems to me that, as a species we have fooled ourselves into believing one of two things. First, that we are exempt from the laws of nature by our own brilliance and ingenuity and second, that the principle tenets of evolution justify and condone our exemption from the laws of nature.
We have much to learn from the mangrove forests. On a practical level they are one of the many barometers of how detrimental human progress can be. As hurricanes and cyclones threaten coastal towns, as our oceans grow more and more polluted, and as other species that depend upon the sophisticated ecosystems live at the edge of extinction, we find ourselves questioning our destabilizing impact on the environment. On a more theoretical and perhaps more existential level, the destruction of the mangrove forests and the subsequent ripple effect this will have on the earth’s environment as a whole, the mangrove forests offer us countless and pertinent lessons in areas we are just now exploring – sustainability, climate change, and balance.
In the human world there appear to be few if any constants, but if we see ourselves as a part of larger body of life than perhaps we could come to understand the brilliance of evolutionary adaptability as a constant of sorts. Metaphorically, it might not be too late to rise to the evolutionary genius of the mangrove tree with our roots planted firmly and extensively in both the saltwater of the oceans and the freshwater of the earth – living with versus living in contradiction to that which surrounds and sustains us.
I’ve been trying to recall constants in my life – things that stay the same and only vary slightly over time. I can’t think of any. The only constant is change. I’m not sure who said that, but it strikes me as profound – until this morning when I read in my assigned reading for my Oceanography class that the chemical make up of the ocean is relatively constant. Relatively in the sense that it does change, but the changes are miniscule. The temperature, for instance, varies only 5-10 degrees in any given spot. So water at the polar icecaps stays the same temperature and though it may vary from the temperature of the tropics, the tropical oceans stay basically the same temperature as well.
So it is with their chemical composition. Of course, that constant seems to be in danger. That’s the great debate. How much are we changing this constant? If you think about it, we are the only species who significantly changes our environment versus adapting to it like most species on the planet. If it’s cold out, we make warm sweaters or better yet, build houses with central heating systems. Those heating systems require intricate networks of energy in order to work, but we’ve mastered that as well. Need heat? Flip a switch, push a button, and the whole system swings into action. While we have some remarkable internal adaptations, we have constructed for ourselves even more extraordinary external adaptations.
Adaptation by other species is much more internal. There aren’t plants, for instance, that in response to the cold build elaborate external structures to protect themselves or their entire “family.” Instead, they internally adapt, they insulate or die back or store their energy in the roots. They figure out ways to survive the cold and then genetically pass that information onto the next generation of plants. If they don’t adapt, they die and like a cleaver to the artery, the ability to pass on that genetic genius dies with it.
But what happens if human external adaptations mess it up for everything else? For instance, what if our adaptation for traveling great distances – cars, planes, space shuttles – depletes the layers of the protective atmosphere or even worse, disturbs the once-believed constant of the oceans?
The mid-west is once again under water. Record flooding of the Mississippi River and its tributaries has buried small towns and large cities built with our external adaptations on the flood plains of the river. But the Mississippi has flooded for thousands of years, long before humans built their homes and farms and factories along its banks. In fact, the Mississippi’s path has been altered by human civilization so it can be argued that the flooding is simply the river’s attempt to run its natural course. It was our ego that thought that somehow we could construct safe-havens from the flooding waters. Through our external adaptations we have altered a relative constant – the flow of the Mississippi – with disastrous results (though mostly disastrous for humans, which in turn, may damage the surrounding ecosystems through human pollution swirling into the flood waters.)
I suppose none of this really has anything to do with the assignment for the week – Mangroves are one of the few true plants that live in the oceans. Why? – but after reading the assigned essays and the related pages in the textbook, I’ve been thinking about the purpose of adaptation and our inability as a species to understand the functions and benefits of it.
Simply stated, mangroves are one of the few true plants that live in the ocean because they have adapted to the conditions of ocean living in a variety of ways. First, they can live in both fresh and saltwater conditions simultaneously and exclusively. Next, they can extract fresh water from the seas and have a variety of ways to dispose of that salt – some filter it through their roots, others excrete it from their leaves, and still others store the salt in their older leaves or bark that sheds with them. Third, they have an elaborate root system that allows the plant to “breathe” during high tides and stabilize the tree in shallow, loose soil. Finally, they have seeds that germinate on the tree allowing them to “drop and grow” at a rapid rate, hardy enough to survive the harsh and fluctuating conditions in which they must thrive.
While I find all of this fascinating, what truly amazes me is how scientists have learned all of this and still humans refuse to live by these elaborate, complex, and multi-layered laws of nature. Instead, we have spent a great deal of time and energy circumventing them, separating ourselves from nature in hopes of mastering it somehow and avoiding its pitfalls. For instance, we spend a great deal of time and energy converting the deserts into a habitat viable for humans. The consequences of this conversion are dramatic and devastating to the environment.
I once taught a college Global Issues course in which I started the class with this assignment: How would your lives change if all that you consumed could only be obtained in a 10 mile radius of where you lived? The next week’s assignment was: How would living in such a way impact the environment – both on land and in the oceans? While many students struggled to wrap their brains around the idea that there would be no shopping malls, no grocery stores, and no cell phones most of them came to the understanding that their lives would be dramatically different and their impact on the earth and oceans significantly less. Most of them also argued that this “modification” to their lives was counter to their nature, counter to human nature that was genetically predisposed to explore, expand, and reproduce in the way that it had and would continue to do. The creation and marketing of bottled water was, in fact, our evolutionary genius at work.
I was pondering all of this while reading about water molecules and ocean salinity and even more so as I read about mangroves and their astonishing adaptations. It seems to me that, as a species we have fooled ourselves into believing one of two things. First, that we are exempt from the laws of nature by our own brilliance and ingenuity and second, that the principle tenets of evolution justify and condone our exemption from the laws of nature.
We have much to learn from the mangrove forests. On a practical level they are one of the many barometers of how detrimental human progress can be. As hurricanes and cyclones threaten coastal towns, as our oceans grow more and more polluted, and as other species that depend upon the sophisticated ecosystems live at the edge of extinction, we find ourselves questioning our destabilizing impact on the environment. On a more theoretical and perhaps more existential level, the destruction of the mangrove forests and the subsequent ripple effect this will have on the earth’s environment as a whole, the mangrove forests offer us countless and pertinent lessons in areas we are just now exploring – sustainability, climate change, and balance.
In the human world there appear to be few if any constants, but if we see ourselves as a part of larger body of life than perhaps we could come to understand the brilliance of evolutionary adaptability as a constant of sorts. Metaphorically, it might not be too late to rise to the evolutionary genius of the mangrove tree with our roots planted firmly and extensively in both the saltwater of the oceans and the freshwater of the earth – living with versus living in contradiction to that which surrounds and sustains us.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The Shadow of Crows
The fruit of our cherry tree is ripening. It's an old tree, so old that the arborist we hired told us it should be cut down in the next 5 years or it will fall either on our house or our new fence. We hate to see it go. The wide expanse of the branches and the thick, green leaves offer the perfect shade in the heat of summer. It's the biggest tree in our yard and to replace it means we lose that balance it provides by taking up so much space. When we remove the tree, we will be left with a large hole not only in the ground, but in the sky as well.
Of course this morning I was ready to chop it down myself. The fruit the tree produces are cherries we never get to eat. Pie cherries. Ann once tried to make a pie out of them, but struggled gathering enough of them to fill a shallow pie crust. It's not that there aren't enough cherries, it's that everyone else gets access to them first. Squirrels, starlings, and crows bounce on the branches and peck and claw away at the just ripening fruit at all hours of the day. Their favorite feasting time is just as the sun pushes up on the horizon.
This morning, just past 4:30, the crows groaned, moaned, and complained. With my pillow on my head, I can generally sleep through their fruit orgy, but a new problem has surfaced.
Rubin.
During these warmer nights, he often leaves his soft nest on our bed to cool off on the floor, stretching out to his fullest length, his paws slightly crossed both front and back. As the sun rises, the shadow of the cherry tree fills and expands in our blinds creating a tree house effect throughout the room.
And then the crows arrive. Loudly. Their heavy bodies bouncing on the long limbs of the tree. They peck at the cherries and if awake, we can watch the fruit dangle from their beaks and their wings flutter in the morning sun. But the crows aren't normal crow size. They are three times larger. They are in Hitchcock numbers and as broad and black and wide as any bird on any horror movie ever made.
When Rubin, from his cool retreat on the floor opens his morning eyes, he does not see simple crows on a bent branches. He sees the shadow of monsters with weapons of fruit dangling from their beaks.
And he barks. Not a woof, not hint of caution, but a full-on warning and protective bark. If the crows have yet to wake us, Rubin's guardian stance -- back legs outstretched, his head thrown forward -- and his deep and dangerous bark rattle us from our slumber.
At first we laughed. From his perspective the shadow of crows is frightening. He is simply protecting us. If only Tippy Hedrin had such protection. But morning after morning of the early and fierce warning system is getting very old very quickly.
We call Rubin back up on the bed. We turn his body away from the window. We hold his head down and attempt, in our best Dog Whisperer voice, to enforce silence. But we do not have a blindfold and this is exactly what he needs. And earplugs, too. The shadow cast on the blinds enlarges itself on the wall opposite the window. And after repeated mornings of seeing the large, black monsters in the window and on the wall, Rubin quickly associated the sound of the crow with the threat of the shadows. The caw caw caw opens his eyes. The movie of monstrous crows sends him into a full-throttle attack, defending us from certain death.
And we are left to groan and moan and complain.
Of course this morning I was ready to chop it down myself. The fruit the tree produces are cherries we never get to eat. Pie cherries. Ann once tried to make a pie out of them, but struggled gathering enough of them to fill a shallow pie crust. It's not that there aren't enough cherries, it's that everyone else gets access to them first. Squirrels, starlings, and crows bounce on the branches and peck and claw away at the just ripening fruit at all hours of the day. Their favorite feasting time is just as the sun pushes up on the horizon.
This morning, just past 4:30, the crows groaned, moaned, and complained. With my pillow on my head, I can generally sleep through their fruit orgy, but a new problem has surfaced.
Rubin.
During these warmer nights, he often leaves his soft nest on our bed to cool off on the floor, stretching out to his fullest length, his paws slightly crossed both front and back. As the sun rises, the shadow of the cherry tree fills and expands in our blinds creating a tree house effect throughout the room.
And then the crows arrive. Loudly. Their heavy bodies bouncing on the long limbs of the tree. They peck at the cherries and if awake, we can watch the fruit dangle from their beaks and their wings flutter in the morning sun. But the crows aren't normal crow size. They are three times larger. They are in Hitchcock numbers and as broad and black and wide as any bird on any horror movie ever made.
When Rubin, from his cool retreat on the floor opens his morning eyes, he does not see simple crows on a bent branches. He sees the shadow of monsters with weapons of fruit dangling from their beaks.
And he barks. Not a woof, not hint of caution, but a full-on warning and protective bark. If the crows have yet to wake us, Rubin's guardian stance -- back legs outstretched, his head thrown forward -- and his deep and dangerous bark rattle us from our slumber.
At first we laughed. From his perspective the shadow of crows is frightening. He is simply protecting us. If only Tippy Hedrin had such protection. But morning after morning of the early and fierce warning system is getting very old very quickly.
We call Rubin back up on the bed. We turn his body away from the window. We hold his head down and attempt, in our best Dog Whisperer voice, to enforce silence. But we do not have a blindfold and this is exactly what he needs. And earplugs, too. The shadow cast on the blinds enlarges itself on the wall opposite the window. And after repeated mornings of seeing the large, black monsters in the window and on the wall, Rubin quickly associated the sound of the crow with the threat of the shadows. The caw caw caw opens his eyes. The movie of monstrous crows sends him into a full-throttle attack, defending us from certain death.
And we are left to groan and moan and complain.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Purging
My system is in flux. I have a cold that has moved from a very sore throat to stuffed and clogged sinuses. I can't believe how much comes out when I blow my nose. Too much information? Yes, well, aside from the gross factor, the body is pretty phenomenal.
I figure I'm just purging, getting rid of 22 years of teaching. Last night, in a drugged stupor of NightQuil and cough syrup, I dreamt about stacks of papers I needed to grade. I thought all this school stuff would be gone, but it's still rattling around in my head. My only hope is that I can blow it out with the accumulating snot over the next few days.
Meanwhile, Lucy the Boston/Rat Terrier mix arrived -- a buzz of activity -- having only settled down once when we went to bed last night. Then she burrowed her way under our legs and arms and behind our butts trying to find the warmest nook or cranny for her rest. She and Rubin have been spinning like dervishes through the house, around the yard playing keep away and tug-o-war. Ann is off cleaning up her classroom after finishing up with her school obligations yesterday.
And I am left blowing my nose.
My teaching partner (I guess she's a former teaching partner now) called this morning and said, "Remember how you always taught the girls that a good novel or film always ended the way it started? Well, I guess you're ending your career the way you started."
So true. My first year of teaching was one cold after another. It makes sense that I'd mark this transition with a whopper!
Okay, off to go lie on the couch, blow my nose, watch bad TV and work on getting well. This weekend is jam-packed with the big 80th birthday celebration for my parents. Yikes. I've got to be on my toes for this one (as opposed to being on my nose!).
I figure I'm just purging, getting rid of 22 years of teaching. Last night, in a drugged stupor of NightQuil and cough syrup, I dreamt about stacks of papers I needed to grade. I thought all this school stuff would be gone, but it's still rattling around in my head. My only hope is that I can blow it out with the accumulating snot over the next few days.
Meanwhile, Lucy the Boston/Rat Terrier mix arrived -- a buzz of activity -- having only settled down once when we went to bed last night. Then she burrowed her way under our legs and arms and behind our butts trying to find the warmest nook or cranny for her rest. She and Rubin have been spinning like dervishes through the house, around the yard playing keep away and tug-o-war. Ann is off cleaning up her classroom after finishing up with her school obligations yesterday.
And I am left blowing my nose.
My teaching partner (I guess she's a former teaching partner now) called this morning and said, "Remember how you always taught the girls that a good novel or film always ended the way it started? Well, I guess you're ending your career the way you started."
So true. My first year of teaching was one cold after another. It makes sense that I'd mark this transition with a whopper!
Okay, off to go lie on the couch, blow my nose, watch bad TV and work on getting well. This weekend is jam-packed with the big 80th birthday celebration for my parents. Yikes. I've got to be on my toes for this one (as opposed to being on my nose!).
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Moments of Clarity
Despite my cold, I'm having moments of clarity. Not today, but yesterday. Today I am in a fog and waiting to take a nap. I must wait because I agreed to watch a friend's dog (Lucy) overnight and a friend of the owner is supposed to drop her off soon. "Between 9 and 10," the owner said, but now it's almost 10 and no Lucy.
This has happened before with Lucy. I do not blame Lucy. She's just a dog unaccustomed to watches and time commitments, though Rubin knows when it's time for a walk or a romp with Monty and is the first to let us know. And it's not that I blame a specific person. Rather, I blame a generation.
Lucy's owner is a 20-something, almost a 30-something. She is responsible and wonderfully creative. She is kind and thoughtful and as genuine as they come. But she grew up in the time of computers and video gamess and like most of her generation, operates on a different sphere. She is busy, a bit scattered, and always moving -- working, running, on the phone (usually a cell phone), driving to and fro, moving through the world like a steel ball in an overactive pinball machine.
It's not astonishing then that her dog is much the same way.
And her friends, too.
The last time Lucy was to be picked up, another of the "friends" was to pick her up at noon. At 4:30 that afternoon I got a call, asking if it was okay to come by with Lucy. I had a 5 o' clock appointment and feeling a tad hurried and a bit miffed, I anxiously squealed, YES into the phone. And then, when they arrived, the "friend" wanted to chit-chat. "I'm sorry," I said, "but I need to go since I have an appointment at 5."
I apologized! I apologized!
Later, when the whole situation was explained, Lucy's mom apologized and so did the "friend." But in the moment, no one took the time to offering any apologies except for me, the one who was inconvenienced.
In this time of cell phones and digital communications, unclear communications was blamed.
That may be the case, but I think it's a generational sense of time. Time is bigger, somehow, then it is for my generation. It's more flexible. It's multi-dimensional. Being "late" is accepted. Talking on one's cell phone in the middle of another conversation is accepted. No one has obligations or commitments at specific times. Instead they have obligations and commitments all the time, so much so that the concept of "late" no longer exists.
There's plenty to do to augment what we once called "waiting." I could get on my cell phone (though I don't have one) and get some business done. I could email (or blog, as the case may be), surfing the net, or connect to a broader world in some electronic way. I could keep firmly grounded in one place and still be a million other places all at once.
Today I have a phone call I need to make, but I can't make the phone call until Lucy arrives as the "friend" isn't exactly sure how to find my house and may need to call for further directions. Therefore, the phone must stay free. My phone call is to help me fix a computer issue for a class I'm taking on Oceanography. To complete an assignment I must have a certain "plug-in" and despite my best efforts, I can't seem to get it to work. So I must call the tech-help at the University where I'm taking the on-line course. It's not a 1-800 number, so in addition to paying for the class, I must now problem solve on my dime.
The goal for today was to get that computer issue resolved so I could finish the assignment by Friday, when it is due in an electronic drop-box. There are, apparently, time restrictions in some areas of technology.
So, I wait for Lucy to arrive so my day will feel as if it can move forward. For now, it's stuck and I am left to ponder my moments of clarity.
This is what I'm clear about:
I am no longer a teacher. I do not have a job. At the end of June I will not have health insurance, but I do have the completed COBRA papers that need to be taken back to work in order to activate the coverage (can't do that, though, as I'm waiting for LUCY!).
I've organized the dog apprenticeship to begin in August for 3 days a week. I've filled out my REI application and will attend a "hiring event" tonight and hopefully that will start in August as well. Last night at dinner, I met a friend of a friend who works for a local magazine who, as it so happens, is soliciting for articles. I proposed an idea and she encouraged me to send it in. Just like that.
This is what I'm unclear about:
My cold is moving like plate tectonics (the topic of this week's oceanographic studies) and the aches and pains are erupting despite the DayQuil. I want to nap. I want to curl up on the couch with my book, my blanket, and doze. I know when I do, Lucy will arrive and she, like her mother, is not a calm or relaxed dog. She will wish to play and so we will go for a walk -- up to school to drop off the COBRA papers and then home again.
But I can do none of it until Lucy arrives.
Of this I am clear.
And just now the doorbell rings. Rubin is excited as I, but it turns out only to be Jehovah's soliciting my time. Which time shall I offer them? Those in which I am clear or those in which I am unclear?
"I'm sorry, I'm not interested," I smile at the lovely woman at the door.
I apologize again. This is my time and I apologize for it.
Still no Lucy.
Time stands still.
This has happened before with Lucy. I do not blame Lucy. She's just a dog unaccustomed to watches and time commitments, though Rubin knows when it's time for a walk or a romp with Monty and is the first to let us know. And it's not that I blame a specific person. Rather, I blame a generation.
Lucy's owner is a 20-something, almost a 30-something. She is responsible and wonderfully creative. She is kind and thoughtful and as genuine as they come. But she grew up in the time of computers and video gamess and like most of her generation, operates on a different sphere. She is busy, a bit scattered, and always moving -- working, running, on the phone (usually a cell phone), driving to and fro, moving through the world like a steel ball in an overactive pinball machine.
It's not astonishing then that her dog is much the same way.
And her friends, too.
The last time Lucy was to be picked up, another of the "friends" was to pick her up at noon. At 4:30 that afternoon I got a call, asking if it was okay to come by with Lucy. I had a 5 o' clock appointment and feeling a tad hurried and a bit miffed, I anxiously squealed, YES into the phone. And then, when they arrived, the "friend" wanted to chit-chat. "I'm sorry," I said, "but I need to go since I have an appointment at 5."
I apologized! I apologized!
Later, when the whole situation was explained, Lucy's mom apologized and so did the "friend." But in the moment, no one took the time to offering any apologies except for me, the one who was inconvenienced.
In this time of cell phones and digital communications, unclear communications was blamed.
That may be the case, but I think it's a generational sense of time. Time is bigger, somehow, then it is for my generation. It's more flexible. It's multi-dimensional. Being "late" is accepted. Talking on one's cell phone in the middle of another conversation is accepted. No one has obligations or commitments at specific times. Instead they have obligations and commitments all the time, so much so that the concept of "late" no longer exists.
There's plenty to do to augment what we once called "waiting." I could get on my cell phone (though I don't have one) and get some business done. I could email (or blog, as the case may be), surfing the net, or connect to a broader world in some electronic way. I could keep firmly grounded in one place and still be a million other places all at once.
Today I have a phone call I need to make, but I can't make the phone call until Lucy arrives as the "friend" isn't exactly sure how to find my house and may need to call for further directions. Therefore, the phone must stay free. My phone call is to help me fix a computer issue for a class I'm taking on Oceanography. To complete an assignment I must have a certain "plug-in" and despite my best efforts, I can't seem to get it to work. So I must call the tech-help at the University where I'm taking the on-line course. It's not a 1-800 number, so in addition to paying for the class, I must now problem solve on my dime.
The goal for today was to get that computer issue resolved so I could finish the assignment by Friday, when it is due in an electronic drop-box. There are, apparently, time restrictions in some areas of technology.
So, I wait for Lucy to arrive so my day will feel as if it can move forward. For now, it's stuck and I am left to ponder my moments of clarity.
This is what I'm clear about:
I am no longer a teacher. I do not have a job. At the end of June I will not have health insurance, but I do have the completed COBRA papers that need to be taken back to work in order to activate the coverage (can't do that, though, as I'm waiting for LUCY!).
I've organized the dog apprenticeship to begin in August for 3 days a week. I've filled out my REI application and will attend a "hiring event" tonight and hopefully that will start in August as well. Last night at dinner, I met a friend of a friend who works for a local magazine who, as it so happens, is soliciting for articles. I proposed an idea and she encouraged me to send it in. Just like that.
This is what I'm unclear about:
My cold is moving like plate tectonics (the topic of this week's oceanographic studies) and the aches and pains are erupting despite the DayQuil. I want to nap. I want to curl up on the couch with my book, my blanket, and doze. I know when I do, Lucy will arrive and she, like her mother, is not a calm or relaxed dog. She will wish to play and so we will go for a walk -- up to school to drop off the COBRA papers and then home again.
But I can do none of it until Lucy arrives.
Of this I am clear.
And just now the doorbell rings. Rubin is excited as I, but it turns out only to be Jehovah's soliciting my time. Which time shall I offer them? Those in which I am clear or those in which I am unclear?
"I'm sorry, I'm not interested," I smile at the lovely woman at the door.
I apologize again. This is my time and I apologize for it.
Still no Lucy.
Time stands still.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Just Like the Old Days
My first year of teaching was the worst year of teaching in my entire career. Aside from the devil-children I had for students, I knew nothing about how to manage large groups of people let alone large groups of 13 year olds. I knew nothing about American History, my assigned position, and I knew nothing about living in a small town, which is where I landed my first job.
In my first year of teaching I developed an ulcer, lost a ton of weight (something I could use now, but not then), and contracted every virus that came through my classroom. I walked through the year with a sore throat, runny nose, and upset stomach. During vacation breaks I got sicker spending whole weeks in bed trying to gear up for my return to the classroom where I was destined to catch another virus.
My immune system took a beating that first year, but by my fifth year, I wore that system like an armor and rarely got sick. Not that I never got sick, but I dodged many a virus over the years and aside from one mild cold a year, I rarely got sick over vacations, something for which I was very thankful.
I shouldn't have been surprised when, this morning, I woke with a sore throat, scratchy eyes, and that achy feeling that something yucky was building inside of me. After 22 years of teaching, I shouldn't have been surprised at all that some cold or flu is developing to wallop me just like the old days, the beginning days of my teaching.
It doesn't help that the warm 70s of yesterday have given way to a cool breeze, misty showers, and cold temperatures. Between the developing cold and the caca weather, I'm feeling a tad bit unmotivated. And I had big plans for today.
First, I was going to pull out the elbow grease and clean the house in a way it hasn't been cleaned in a long, long time. Next, I'm taking a course to earn credits to maintain my teaching certification (just in case I go back) and there are mountains of pages to read about plate tectonics, marine sediments, deep-sea vents, and planktonic life forms. Rubin goes to the groomer today and he needs a long walk to calm his energy. And there's the job application for REI that needs to be completed.
But right now I just want to crawl back into bed and sleep away the crud coursing through my veins.
A doctor friend of mine said that when you're sick, the best thing to do is to just move slowly through the day. Drink lots of fluids and know that "this too shall pass." She said, "Nothing you do is going to make the yuckies go away any faster, so you just have to ride it out and not let it floor you."
Besides. It's only fitting that after 22 years of hard work, I'm letting down in typical fashion. Like a punctuation mark at the end of a career this cold marks the final "letting go." Hell, I should just sit on the couch and enjoy it!
In my first year of teaching I developed an ulcer, lost a ton of weight (something I could use now, but not then), and contracted every virus that came through my classroom. I walked through the year with a sore throat, runny nose, and upset stomach. During vacation breaks I got sicker spending whole weeks in bed trying to gear up for my return to the classroom where I was destined to catch another virus.
My immune system took a beating that first year, but by my fifth year, I wore that system like an armor and rarely got sick. Not that I never got sick, but I dodged many a virus over the years and aside from one mild cold a year, I rarely got sick over vacations, something for which I was very thankful.
I shouldn't have been surprised when, this morning, I woke with a sore throat, scratchy eyes, and that achy feeling that something yucky was building inside of me. After 22 years of teaching, I shouldn't have been surprised at all that some cold or flu is developing to wallop me just like the old days, the beginning days of my teaching.
It doesn't help that the warm 70s of yesterday have given way to a cool breeze, misty showers, and cold temperatures. Between the developing cold and the caca weather, I'm feeling a tad bit unmotivated. And I had big plans for today.
First, I was going to pull out the elbow grease and clean the house in a way it hasn't been cleaned in a long, long time. Next, I'm taking a course to earn credits to maintain my teaching certification (just in case I go back) and there are mountains of pages to read about plate tectonics, marine sediments, deep-sea vents, and planktonic life forms. Rubin goes to the groomer today and he needs a long walk to calm his energy. And there's the job application for REI that needs to be completed.
But right now I just want to crawl back into bed and sleep away the crud coursing through my veins.
A doctor friend of mine said that when you're sick, the best thing to do is to just move slowly through the day. Drink lots of fluids and know that "this too shall pass." She said, "Nothing you do is going to make the yuckies go away any faster, so you just have to ride it out and not let it floor you."
Besides. It's only fitting that after 22 years of hard work, I'm letting down in typical fashion. Like a punctuation mark at the end of a career this cold marks the final "letting go." Hell, I should just sit on the couch and enjoy it!
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Sunday Morning
We ate breakfast on the deck this morning. Most people in America wouldn't have liked the 58 degree temperature, but the sun was out and we couldn't resist. It's been so cold that I have yet to put away my down vest or wool sweaters.
Today there is the promise of 70 degrees. Again, not the scorching temperatures of the Southwest or the muggy suffocation of the Northeast, but 70 degrees is warm around these parts and far better than the 40 degrees of last weekend.
Yesterday was warmer too. Once the sun made its appearance in the afternoon, it was warm enough to walk by the lake in shorts and a t-shirt. Rubin got so warm he dove into the lake the second I took off his leash. He swam for his toy again and again and came home looking like a Rastafarian poodle.
We went to dinner last night with Jeanne and Lisa to celebrate the shift away from my 22 years of teaching. I have yet to figure out what to call this transition -- retirement? -- and as I explained to everyone at dinner, I'm not sure it's quite hit me yet. I hear myself using the wrong language for it with all my sentences still in the present tense -- in my classroom we...or...my students are happy because... I speak as if I still am a teacher and as Ann told me last night, "You are and that will never really change."
Occasionally, I feel both the relief of letting go and the panic. Friday night I woke at 2 in the morning and thought I was having a heart attack only to realize I was in a slight panic attack. I practiced my breathing exercises and tried to figure out why I was panicking. I have enough money to live for a year without finding work if I so choose. I have the whole summer ahead of me and lots of opportunities for pursuing the things I love -- dogs, writing, exercise.
I haven't yet found an answer to the panic, but I think some of it has to do with my definition of myself. For 22 years I have answered that question -- "What work do you do?" -- with four simple words -- "I am a teacher" -- and then stood back to watch the reaction. From "Good for you" to "That's a job I could never do" I had an identity, a box around my life that gave me some kind of purchase in the world.
I'm not sure how I'll answer now. I'm kind of found of saying, "I'm a retired teacher" but Ann says that I'm not really retired as I'll still be working in some capacity. Lisa told me to try on "I'm a former teacher" but even that feels too undefined. I'm too uncertain to say, "I'm a writer" for many, many reasons, but chief among them is that I have yet to earn any money from my writing. And I'm certainly not yet a dog trainer.
I'm sort of partial to "I'm a student" though technically not true, in some ways it fits more aptly. I will soon learn to be a dog trainer, I will soon spend time writing (always a learning process) and like all poor students, I will hopefully have a part-time job to pay for some of my living expenses.
Aside from naming myself, I find that I am still uncertain about time and what to do with it. True, it's only the first weekend of my shift and tomorrow I must wrap things up at school so I'm not technically done, but the idea of having time that is not filled with papers to grade or lessons to plan feels...well, not overwhelming, but clumsy. I bump into myself trying to figure out how to maneuver through the hours of each day.
The other day, when I was still a "teacher" I had to take the bus downtown (to attend the court proceedings for Jeanne and Lisa's formal adoption of their two daughters). On the bus, I realized my mind was free of schedules and lists and all the thousands of little details that have consumed my life as a teacher for the past 22 years. It was only a moment of realization and then the flood of minutia overwhelmed my brain, but in that moment I thought, I like this. I like this feeling a lot.
We're about to head out the door to take Rubin for his morning walk. The sun is out, the temperature is warming up and it's Sunday...a day of relaxation and transitions.
I could get used to this.
Today there is the promise of 70 degrees. Again, not the scorching temperatures of the Southwest or the muggy suffocation of the Northeast, but 70 degrees is warm around these parts and far better than the 40 degrees of last weekend.
Yesterday was warmer too. Once the sun made its appearance in the afternoon, it was warm enough to walk by the lake in shorts and a t-shirt. Rubin got so warm he dove into the lake the second I took off his leash. He swam for his toy again and again and came home looking like a Rastafarian poodle.
We went to dinner last night with Jeanne and Lisa to celebrate the shift away from my 22 years of teaching. I have yet to figure out what to call this transition -- retirement? -- and as I explained to everyone at dinner, I'm not sure it's quite hit me yet. I hear myself using the wrong language for it with all my sentences still in the present tense -- in my classroom we...or...my students are happy because... I speak as if I still am a teacher and as Ann told me last night, "You are and that will never really change."
Occasionally, I feel both the relief of letting go and the panic. Friday night I woke at 2 in the morning and thought I was having a heart attack only to realize I was in a slight panic attack. I practiced my breathing exercises and tried to figure out why I was panicking. I have enough money to live for a year without finding work if I so choose. I have the whole summer ahead of me and lots of opportunities for pursuing the things I love -- dogs, writing, exercise.
I haven't yet found an answer to the panic, but I think some of it has to do with my definition of myself. For 22 years I have answered that question -- "What work do you do?" -- with four simple words -- "I am a teacher" -- and then stood back to watch the reaction. From "Good for you" to "That's a job I could never do" I had an identity, a box around my life that gave me some kind of purchase in the world.
I'm not sure how I'll answer now. I'm kind of found of saying, "I'm a retired teacher" but Ann says that I'm not really retired as I'll still be working in some capacity. Lisa told me to try on "I'm a former teacher" but even that feels too undefined. I'm too uncertain to say, "I'm a writer" for many, many reasons, but chief among them is that I have yet to earn any money from my writing. And I'm certainly not yet a dog trainer.
I'm sort of partial to "I'm a student" though technically not true, in some ways it fits more aptly. I will soon learn to be a dog trainer, I will soon spend time writing (always a learning process) and like all poor students, I will hopefully have a part-time job to pay for some of my living expenses.
Aside from naming myself, I find that I am still uncertain about time and what to do with it. True, it's only the first weekend of my shift and tomorrow I must wrap things up at school so I'm not technically done, but the idea of having time that is not filled with papers to grade or lessons to plan feels...well, not overwhelming, but clumsy. I bump into myself trying to figure out how to maneuver through the hours of each day.
The other day, when I was still a "teacher" I had to take the bus downtown (to attend the court proceedings for Jeanne and Lisa's formal adoption of their two daughters). On the bus, I realized my mind was free of schedules and lists and all the thousands of little details that have consumed my life as a teacher for the past 22 years. It was only a moment of realization and then the flood of minutia overwhelmed my brain, but in that moment I thought, I like this. I like this feeling a lot.
We're about to head out the door to take Rubin for his morning walk. The sun is out, the temperature is warming up and it's Sunday...a day of relaxation and transitions.
I could get used to this.
Sunday, June 08, 2008
The Weight of Report Cards
I just finished my last full report card. I have small paragraphs to write, but the big chunk of the work is done. Forever. Once I turn them in on Monday, once I correct the edits someone else makes on them I am done with report cards for the rest of my life.
Each report card weighs at least a pound. Not in actuality, but in the number of calories I consumed writing them. Yesterday I ate two cupcakes, a cup of hot chocolate, and a bowl of tortilla chips. That was a short day of writing. Today I ate more voraciously -- 2 cupcakes, though I'm contemplating a third, a huge bowl of homemade buttered popcorn, three tamales, two Riesen candies, and an orange. The orange doesn't really count as it was the healthiest thing I've eaten in the past two days except for the salad I just had for dinner.
When anxious, I eat. Good thing I don't smoke or drink. Instead, I snack my way through the endeavor, bouncing my knee up and down the entire time. Too bad the bouncing knee can't counter the intake of calories. It seems silly now, after the fact. I'm not sure why report cards make me so obsessively hungry or why they feel like an enormous mountain to climb before I start writing them, but there you have it. One pound per report card.
These aren't normal report cards either. In public school, the report cards went from laborious events to computer codes that I punched in under a half hour. Code #3 = Student is a pleasure to have in class. Code #36 -- Student is missing too much work to adequately reflect progress. Code #57 -- Student's behavior impeded academic progress.
Now report cards are a minimum of two-pages, single spaced, typed narratives, a flood of platitudes and criticism all couched in coded words, not coded numbers. By the time I'm done, I am out of words and a pile of cupcake wrappers and dirty dishes spreads out before me.
There are two good things about finishing these report cards. First, as previously stated, they are the last I will ever have to write, but more importantly, I won't be there in the fall to hear any criticism from the parents this year. They can't email me and complain about my wording or my critique or ask for clarification. They can't call me up and give me an earful. They just have to swallow the words and spit them out at someone else at school. I won't be there. Oh, I might be there out of curiosity, but I won't be there officially and that is the sweetest feeling of all.
Meanwhile, my summer of exercise and eating better sits before me. That's the commitment of course. That's been the commitment every summer since I started teaching 22 years ago -- I will exercise more, eat better and less, and take time to really be good to myself. Some summers I was quite successful at it, but the summers of late have not been so accomplished. I've put on extra pounds and always the bulk of them at the end of the year while I'm pounding out report cards.
A month or so ago, while searching for some photos for my mother, I found all my report cards she'd saved and sent to me. I read them with trepidation. I was not that second grader anymore. I was not that fifth grader nor even tenth grader. Even my college grades did not reflect all I'd learned in life, yet here I was today, grinding away at finding just the right words to properly assess the selective mute in my class, the squirrel with a severe case of ADHD and the angry girl who is venturing back to public school where she's going to get devoured in seconds flat.
I want to think my words matter, but looking back on my report cards it wasn't the words that matter at all. It was my relationships -- with friends, with teachers, with fellow students. I've known that about my teaching. I've known that the "A" grade, the well-crafted platitudes and concerns didn't matter in the least. What mattered was mattering in and of itself. The kid needed to matter to me and frankly, not all of them did. I tried. I tried to keep my opinions about them to myself and treat them all like they were special and unique, but there were some who made teaching beyond difficult.
I won't name them. I won't even describe them, but I have a full head of gray hair to attest to my animosity and aversion to some of them.
I tried. God knows I tried and I know despite my rancor they went on with their lives -- some of them more successfully than others. I was blip on their screen. That's how I thought of myself. Hold in my irritations and I'll just be a blip on their life's screen.
I know I was more of blip on the screen for most of them, but I'm not going to kid myself -- I was not more than that for some of them.
And so I move through the next five days, anxious and a tad bit hungry. There's fresh strawberry rhubarb crisp cooling on the stove. With a bit of vanilla ice cream I'm certain it can pull me through the next week. One more pound of coping. One more pound and then I'm done with the weight of report cards.
Each report card weighs at least a pound. Not in actuality, but in the number of calories I consumed writing them. Yesterday I ate two cupcakes, a cup of hot chocolate, and a bowl of tortilla chips. That was a short day of writing. Today I ate more voraciously -- 2 cupcakes, though I'm contemplating a third, a huge bowl of homemade buttered popcorn, three tamales, two Riesen candies, and an orange. The orange doesn't really count as it was the healthiest thing I've eaten in the past two days except for the salad I just had for dinner.
When anxious, I eat. Good thing I don't smoke or drink. Instead, I snack my way through the endeavor, bouncing my knee up and down the entire time. Too bad the bouncing knee can't counter the intake of calories. It seems silly now, after the fact. I'm not sure why report cards make me so obsessively hungry or why they feel like an enormous mountain to climb before I start writing them, but there you have it. One pound per report card.
These aren't normal report cards either. In public school, the report cards went from laborious events to computer codes that I punched in under a half hour. Code #3 = Student is a pleasure to have in class. Code #36 -- Student is missing too much work to adequately reflect progress. Code #57 -- Student's behavior impeded academic progress.
Now report cards are a minimum of two-pages, single spaced, typed narratives, a flood of platitudes and criticism all couched in coded words, not coded numbers. By the time I'm done, I am out of words and a pile of cupcake wrappers and dirty dishes spreads out before me.
There are two good things about finishing these report cards. First, as previously stated, they are the last I will ever have to write, but more importantly, I won't be there in the fall to hear any criticism from the parents this year. They can't email me and complain about my wording or my critique or ask for clarification. They can't call me up and give me an earful. They just have to swallow the words and spit them out at someone else at school. I won't be there. Oh, I might be there out of curiosity, but I won't be there officially and that is the sweetest feeling of all.
Meanwhile, my summer of exercise and eating better sits before me. That's the commitment of course. That's been the commitment every summer since I started teaching 22 years ago -- I will exercise more, eat better and less, and take time to really be good to myself. Some summers I was quite successful at it, but the summers of late have not been so accomplished. I've put on extra pounds and always the bulk of them at the end of the year while I'm pounding out report cards.
A month or so ago, while searching for some photos for my mother, I found all my report cards she'd saved and sent to me. I read them with trepidation. I was not that second grader anymore. I was not that fifth grader nor even tenth grader. Even my college grades did not reflect all I'd learned in life, yet here I was today, grinding away at finding just the right words to properly assess the selective mute in my class, the squirrel with a severe case of ADHD and the angry girl who is venturing back to public school where she's going to get devoured in seconds flat.
I want to think my words matter, but looking back on my report cards it wasn't the words that matter at all. It was my relationships -- with friends, with teachers, with fellow students. I've known that about my teaching. I've known that the "A" grade, the well-crafted platitudes and concerns didn't matter in the least. What mattered was mattering in and of itself. The kid needed to matter to me and frankly, not all of them did. I tried. I tried to keep my opinions about them to myself and treat them all like they were special and unique, but there were some who made teaching beyond difficult.
I won't name them. I won't even describe them, but I have a full head of gray hair to attest to my animosity and aversion to some of them.
I tried. God knows I tried and I know despite my rancor they went on with their lives -- some of them more successfully than others. I was blip on their screen. That's how I thought of myself. Hold in my irritations and I'll just be a blip on their life's screen.
I know I was more of blip on the screen for most of them, but I'm not going to kid myself -- I was not more than that for some of them.
And so I move through the next five days, anxious and a tad bit hungry. There's fresh strawberry rhubarb crisp cooling on the stove. With a bit of vanilla ice cream I'm certain it can pull me through the next week. One more pound of coping. One more pound and then I'm done with the weight of report cards.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Smell Fake
Ann got up early to watch the women's French Open Final. Ann never gets up early unless she has an appointment, but tennis for Ann is an appointment. "The French Open feels like summer," she said to me from her bundled position on the couch. I'm not sure if it's because Ann's mother is French that she feels this marks summer or the city of Paris in the background of the wide shots makes it feel like summer, but it sure as hell doesn't feel like summer to me.
I'm cold. Yesterday morning when I walked the dog in yet another rainstorm I was so cold I shivered. I wore my down vest all through work on Friday and still didn't feel adequately warm. When I took the dog out for a walk this morning, I was pleasantly surprised that the rain had stopped, but the sky was still ominously gray and the wind offered up yet another kind of chill -- the wet-air, damp kind of chill of October.
Summer has gotten lost, I thought to myself as Rubin nudged me toward the park, it's stuck on the other side of the world without a compass.
When we got to the park, the plan was to walk our usual loop through then up and over the big hill, but romping on the wide open field was Ginger, a German short-haired pointer and an enormous boxer we'd never meant before. Ginger is talkative and playful and despite her 9 years of age, she loves to chase Rubin. I was uncertain about the boxer, but as he approached I heard his owner yell out, "Ya'll just relax, Jimmy!"
Jimmy was huge. Jimmy was thick. Jimmy was so thick and huge he looked more like a cow than a dog, but Jimmy was also a pushover -- very relaxed and very gentle. Rubin was in heaven especially when I released him from his leash. Rubin chased the ball, Ginger chased Rubin, and Jimmy galloped around the field like an elephant.
Jimmy's owner just arrived from Texas -- Dallas to be exact and in the span of 30 minutes, Ginger's owner and I heard her story. Married now divorced, she had no idea she'd live in Seattle. "Honey, I am from the deep south and this here ain't no place I thought I'd be livin'." She sold her house in Dallas and bought a condo up here in the Northwest..."on that hill where all those cute gay boys live."
Her husband was a lying, cheating pig and she knew she needed a change, a "big, fat change" and when she read about Seattle on the internet, it looked like just the place. When I heard her say "big, fat change" I thought she was referring to the purchase of her dog, but what she meant, after further interrogation by Ginger's owner (one of the cute gay boys who live on the hill) was "something green and clean and fresh."
"Too bad the weather's been so lousy," I offered.
"Honey," she oozed, "I'll take this any day over 110 degrees in January."
"How'd you end up at this park," Ginger's owner asked. "It's quite a journey from Capitol Hill."
"Oh, I've been driving myself all over this city checking out every green park I can find. This is by far the best yet and there ain't nobody ever here."
"Not a lot of people venture to the Central District," I confirmed.
"Why's that?" she squealed. "I don't see nothin' wrong with it?"
"It's kind of a high crime area," offered Ginger's owner. "It's kind of gentrifying, but it's slow going and not many people think to come here for a park."
"Shoot, they're fools then, ain't they." We laughed. I've lived in many places all over the city and there are few parks I like more than this one and one even farther south.
"So, you like it here in Seattle?" I asked.
"Hell yes," she answered without hesitation.
"A lot of people who come here from other parts of the country find Seattlites to be cold and unwelcoming," I said.
"You know what I think, honey?" The dogs did a fly by through our knees and back around the soccer goal at our end of the field and then sped off after each other smiling. "I think ya'll can smell fake a mile a way. Lots of phony people smell like fake. Ya'll's real, is what ya is and ain't a lot of folk who can take real. I can take. I can take it real good."
A silence followed. We didn't look at each other, we just watched the dogs frolic and play.
"And it's so much cheaper to live here," she added.
"You think so?" Ginger's owner asked.
"Hell yes! I walked into my new condo and asked the Realtor where the air conditioner was. He said there wasn't any and all I thought was 'thank god, that'll save me $400!"
I had to walk home then. After the French Open Ann did have her first massage appointment scheduled to help heal her torn rotator cuff. She's hesitant to drive so it's up to me to taxi her around for the weekend. I walked Jimmy and his owner to their car and then headed home. The rain started. Not a heavy rain, but a misty spray and I thought that living in Seattle was a lot like living in the Arctic. The Inuit have many words for snow. We have many names for rain.
To the west, a sucker hole of blue winked at me and I saw summer waving. She's still off in the distance, but even in the misty wetness I could smell her and she smelled real -- green, clean, and fresh.
Hell yes this rain is good for something, I thought. We can smell fake a mile away.
I'm cold. Yesterday morning when I walked the dog in yet another rainstorm I was so cold I shivered. I wore my down vest all through work on Friday and still didn't feel adequately warm. When I took the dog out for a walk this morning, I was pleasantly surprised that the rain had stopped, but the sky was still ominously gray and the wind offered up yet another kind of chill -- the wet-air, damp kind of chill of October.
Summer has gotten lost, I thought to myself as Rubin nudged me toward the park, it's stuck on the other side of the world without a compass.
When we got to the park, the plan was to walk our usual loop through then up and over the big hill, but romping on the wide open field was Ginger, a German short-haired pointer and an enormous boxer we'd never meant before. Ginger is talkative and playful and despite her 9 years of age, she loves to chase Rubin. I was uncertain about the boxer, but as he approached I heard his owner yell out, "Ya'll just relax, Jimmy!"
Jimmy was huge. Jimmy was thick. Jimmy was so thick and huge he looked more like a cow than a dog, but Jimmy was also a pushover -- very relaxed and very gentle. Rubin was in heaven especially when I released him from his leash. Rubin chased the ball, Ginger chased Rubin, and Jimmy galloped around the field like an elephant.
Jimmy's owner just arrived from Texas -- Dallas to be exact and in the span of 30 minutes, Ginger's owner and I heard her story. Married now divorced, she had no idea she'd live in Seattle. "Honey, I am from the deep south and this here ain't no place I thought I'd be livin'." She sold her house in Dallas and bought a condo up here in the Northwest..."on that hill where all those cute gay boys live."
Her husband was a lying, cheating pig and she knew she needed a change, a "big, fat change" and when she read about Seattle on the internet, it looked like just the place. When I heard her say "big, fat change" I thought she was referring to the purchase of her dog, but what she meant, after further interrogation by Ginger's owner (one of the cute gay boys who live on the hill) was "something green and clean and fresh."
"Too bad the weather's been so lousy," I offered.
"Honey," she oozed, "I'll take this any day over 110 degrees in January."
"How'd you end up at this park," Ginger's owner asked. "It's quite a journey from Capitol Hill."
"Oh, I've been driving myself all over this city checking out every green park I can find. This is by far the best yet and there ain't nobody ever here."
"Not a lot of people venture to the Central District," I confirmed.
"Why's that?" she squealed. "I don't see nothin' wrong with it?"
"It's kind of a high crime area," offered Ginger's owner. "It's kind of gentrifying, but it's slow going and not many people think to come here for a park."
"Shoot, they're fools then, ain't they." We laughed. I've lived in many places all over the city and there are few parks I like more than this one and one even farther south.
"So, you like it here in Seattle?" I asked.
"Hell yes," she answered without hesitation.
"A lot of people who come here from other parts of the country find Seattlites to be cold and unwelcoming," I said.
"You know what I think, honey?" The dogs did a fly by through our knees and back around the soccer goal at our end of the field and then sped off after each other smiling. "I think ya'll can smell fake a mile a way. Lots of phony people smell like fake. Ya'll's real, is what ya is and ain't a lot of folk who can take real. I can take. I can take it real good."
A silence followed. We didn't look at each other, we just watched the dogs frolic and play.
"And it's so much cheaper to live here," she added.
"You think so?" Ginger's owner asked.
"Hell yes! I walked into my new condo and asked the Realtor where the air conditioner was. He said there wasn't any and all I thought was 'thank god, that'll save me $400!"
I had to walk home then. After the French Open Ann did have her first massage appointment scheduled to help heal her torn rotator cuff. She's hesitant to drive so it's up to me to taxi her around for the weekend. I walked Jimmy and his owner to their car and then headed home. The rain started. Not a heavy rain, but a misty spray and I thought that living in Seattle was a lot like living in the Arctic. The Inuit have many words for snow. We have many names for rain.
To the west, a sucker hole of blue winked at me and I saw summer waving. She's still off in the distance, but even in the misty wetness I could smell her and she smelled real -- green, clean, and fresh.
Hell yes this rain is good for something, I thought. We can smell fake a mile away.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Bruiser Goes to Vagas
This is not artwork. This is not a tattoo. This is not an exotic animal. This is Ann's arm.She woke this morning to find this blossom bursting in full color. Unexpected. Holy shit!
You can imagine.
It wasn't there yesterday, but it's certainly there today.
She has now earned the nickname "Bruiser," an apt description of her folly ofthe week. From Vagal response to syncope (fancy word for fainting) and now to this -- Contusions in Bloom...is the name of the latest masterpiece.
She asks, "Is this where you grabbed me when I passed out?"
No dear. No no no.
Diagnosis? Most likely a torn rotator cuff.
Ya think?
Who knows what tomorrow holds for her!
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
What happens in Vagas?
When Ann and I first moved in together, she got very ill. Queasy, in a lot of pain, and unable to move. (No, it wasn't because I moved in!) At the time we thought she'd injured her back so we made an appointment to see the doctor the next day. During the night, she got up to go to the bathroom and the next thing I knew she was passed out on the bathroom floor. After a long and bizarre visit to the ER, she was diagnosed with shingles and the passing out was her vagal or vagas response to pain.
A one time deal? Not quite.
Yesterday, I left work early to pick Ann up from her school because she'd somehow injured her shoulder. We went straight to the doctor who diagnosed a "rotator cuff" injury, the severity of which cannot be determined quite yet. I brought her back home, laid her on the couch with an ice pack and liquids, and then took Rubin to his dog obedience class. When I got home, Ann was already in bed, but awake enough to tell me her shoulder pain was excruciating and that she had the chills.
She slept well, but this morning woke a bit groggy, sat down for her coffee and then announced she felt queasy. I should have seen it coming, but not until she started shaking, not until her eyes rolled back and fully dilated, not until she went rigid did I realize what was happening.
"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," was my response and then I placed my hand behind her neck and lowered her to the floor where she lay unconscious. Rubin barked at me. When I ran to get the phone, Rubin chased after me and barked frantically some more. I called 911, told them our address and explained that "my partner was having a seizure." In the middle of the call, Ann regained consciousness and Rubin licked her face.
The EMT's and firefighters arrived within minutes and Rubin barked protectively while they asked us questions.
"Are you on any medications?"
"Has this ever happened before?"
"Do you know where you are?"
"Are you still nauseated?"
By the time they left, she was fully conscious and ready to pile into our car for a POV trip -- EMT terminology for Privately Owned Vehicle. At the ER, they ran tests, but as far as they are concerned, Ann is as fit as a fiddle. The only caution is her very low blood pressure, which gives her little room for error, as they said. This means that when her blood pressure drops in response to pain (which apparently everyone's does) her body goes into this "need to be horizontal" to stabilize her blood pressure.
Jesus...why can't she just say "ouch?" Why must she pass out in a mock seizure?
Has this happened before the ER doctor asked? Why I guess it has back when Ann had that painful bout with shingles.
"I guess I have a low tolerance for pain," Ann said sheepishly from her ER bed.
"No shit," was my only response.
The doctor laughed.
Ann's resting comfortably upstairs, pissed as hell that she must limit her activity this summer as she heals her shoulder, but thankful she did not have a seizure as I had feared.
"Kind of let down, isn't it? 'I fainted' just doesn't seem as dramatic as 'I had a seizure.'"
But maybe it's a good thing because now she's taking this shoulder injury a bit more seriously than she was yesterday.
I even surprised myself knowing exactly what to do by laying her down, moving furniture away and calling 911.
"How did you lift me?" Ann asked.
"I haven't a clue. I can't even remember the weight of you. I just knew I had to cradle your neck and head and not twist your shoulder. Before I knew it, you were on the kitchen floor and I had the phone in my hand."
Ann used to lord over me her incredibly "healthy" blood pressure numbers since my blood pressure is "under watch." No more lording now, but lots of great puns..."what happens in vagas, stays in vagas!"
A one time deal? Not quite.
Yesterday, I left work early to pick Ann up from her school because she'd somehow injured her shoulder. We went straight to the doctor who diagnosed a "rotator cuff" injury, the severity of which cannot be determined quite yet. I brought her back home, laid her on the couch with an ice pack and liquids, and then took Rubin to his dog obedience class. When I got home, Ann was already in bed, but awake enough to tell me her shoulder pain was excruciating and that she had the chills.
She slept well, but this morning woke a bit groggy, sat down for her coffee and then announced she felt queasy. I should have seen it coming, but not until she started shaking, not until her eyes rolled back and fully dilated, not until she went rigid did I realize what was happening.
"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," was my response and then I placed my hand behind her neck and lowered her to the floor where she lay unconscious. Rubin barked at me. When I ran to get the phone, Rubin chased after me and barked frantically some more. I called 911, told them our address and explained that "my partner was having a seizure." In the middle of the call, Ann regained consciousness and Rubin licked her face.
The EMT's and firefighters arrived within minutes and Rubin barked protectively while they asked us questions.
"Are you on any medications?"
"Has this ever happened before?"
"Do you know where you are?"
"Are you still nauseated?"
By the time they left, she was fully conscious and ready to pile into our car for a POV trip -- EMT terminology for Privately Owned Vehicle. At the ER, they ran tests, but as far as they are concerned, Ann is as fit as a fiddle. The only caution is her very low blood pressure, which gives her little room for error, as they said. This means that when her blood pressure drops in response to pain (which apparently everyone's does) her body goes into this "need to be horizontal" to stabilize her blood pressure.
Jesus...why can't she just say "ouch?" Why must she pass out in a mock seizure?
Has this happened before the ER doctor asked? Why I guess it has back when Ann had that painful bout with shingles.
"I guess I have a low tolerance for pain," Ann said sheepishly from her ER bed.
"No shit," was my only response.
The doctor laughed.
Ann's resting comfortably upstairs, pissed as hell that she must limit her activity this summer as she heals her shoulder, but thankful she did not have a seizure as I had feared.
"Kind of let down, isn't it? 'I fainted' just doesn't seem as dramatic as 'I had a seizure.'"
But maybe it's a good thing because now she's taking this shoulder injury a bit more seriously than she was yesterday.
I even surprised myself knowing exactly what to do by laying her down, moving furniture away and calling 911.
"How did you lift me?" Ann asked.
"I haven't a clue. I can't even remember the weight of you. I just knew I had to cradle your neck and head and not twist your shoulder. Before I knew it, you were on the kitchen floor and I had the phone in my hand."
Ann used to lord over me her incredibly "healthy" blood pressure numbers since my blood pressure is "under watch." No more lording now, but lots of great puns..."what happens in vagas, stays in vagas!"
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