There were clouds today. Big black ones hanging over the city, threatening rain though never delivering until this evening. And even now, it's a sputter of a rain coating the streets one more time with a damp blackness.
I rode my bike today. I didn't want to, but I knew it would make me feel better. Only it didn't. It made me tired.
The first day back after vacation is always like a sledgehammer rattling me out of my quiet vacation stupor. The questions. Oh god, the questions.
I do an activity with my students a the beginning of the year. I hand them each a tennis ball and then I tell them that I'm going to stand at the front of the room with a bucket. On the count of three, they need to "toss" their tennis ball into the bucket. 1-2-3 and the balls come whipping at me. The kids who don't like me much throw them with vigor and malice and the others, who may or may not like me, cringe as they give an underhanded attempt at getting the ball into the bucket.
I then ask the kids if that strategy worked...how many balls did I get in my bucket? I've never had more than 4 balls caught in a class ranging from 25-35 students. The kids brainstorm ways they could be more successful until everyone agrees that they should all toss the balls one at a time. Then I ask, "What if you didn't toss them? What if you walked up here and put the ball into the bucket?"
"That wouldn't be any fun!" they all scream at me.
They're right...for them it's not as fun. But for me, it's not only more fun, but I'm more successful at catching each and every ball in the room.
This, I tell, is an analogy. The bucket is ME and the balls are their questions. "If 30 of you lob your questions at me or demand my attention all at the same time, I'll never be able to "catch" them. I won't feel very successful and you won't feel like I hear you."
For the rest of the year, when I'm feeling overwhlemed I say, "Hey this is a tennis ball moment!" And they all stop and wait their turns, lobbing questions one at a time.
Today, they forgot all about the tennis ball moments. They lobbed and tossed and chucked and pitched...I got curve balls and spit balls and change up and sliders. By the time I got on my bike to come home, I didn't know if I could make it up the hill...heavy with tennis balls I shifted into low gear and just pushed one leg after the other toward the earth, watching my wheel inch forward on the pavement.
The first day back. Wimbeldon, US Open, Australian Open, and the French Open all rolled into one. World Series, all 7 games, tossed in for good measure.
The killer pitch today was finding out that one of my favorite moms of one of my favorite students has MS. Her daughter broke out in tears today admist all the balls flying hapharzardly around the room.
Nothing in this world is fair. It's hard, but it sure ain't fair.
I now see the black clouds as just that...
Monday, February 27, 2006
Saturday, February 25, 2006
A pound of flesh versus...
... a pound of fish?
We're at this new gym we joined last week. Small, but clean with lots of machines crammed into a long space, though it doesn't feel tiny or cramped.
We're sweating riding the recumbent bikes.
In front of us, on the wall, are two TV sets...one to the left, one to the right. I'm not really listening...I have on my headphones and am grooving to Brandi Carlile and Angelique Kidjo.
Ann is staring to the left where the TV channel is tuned into a boob job. Yes, a boob job. A petite woman is under the knife and there it is, for everyone to see, her "fat" (though it really isn't because she is, as I've said, petite with barely an ounce of fat on her). There is blood, lots of it, and white tissue, which I assume is the fat. The doctors are folding and bending the blood and the tissue and cutting it off like fabric.
She doesn't stop at her tummy or her boobs -- the boobs get extra "tissue" while the tummy gets "trimmed" -- they do her face and her chin and her nose, too. She's one big bandage when her husband comes in the recovery room and asks to have a look (well, I assume he did because I'm listening now to Ani DiFranco, not the TV) and she lifts up her hospital gown and there are her new and improved boobs sitting their like sculpted rock formations -- smooth, round, and fully exposed like two mountains.
And her hospital gown stays up for a long time while her husband stares and smiles and shakes the doctor's (another male) hand. The husband looks as proud as a new papa of twins. The wife's gown is still up over her head as these two men gawk at the bouncing babies lying on the hospital bed.
I turn away.
I look at the TV on my right.
There is a large man in front of a huge audience gathered in some kind of stadium to watch some guy come up to a huge scale to weigh his freshly caught fish -- bass or something -- and in the audience is this guy's wife, proud as can be, anticipating the "weigh in", which according to the words flashing up on the screen must beat 32 pounds in order to win the grand prize. I haven't a clue what the prize is, but in the backround is this gi-normous power boat glistening under the stage lights.
They show a close up of the bass flat out on the scale. They show a close up of the wife, hands covering her anxious mouth. They show a close up of the fisherman who looks as if he just got off his boat after 3 days of round the clock bass fishing. They show the numbers of the scale going up and down and up and down until they finally settle on 37.3 and the fisherman goes crazy. His wife goes crazy. The audience goes crazy. The lights on the boat start flashing different colors. The wife runs up on the stage and throws herself into his arms and he bounces her up and down and up and down.
Another close up on the fish. Another close up on the wife, now crying uncontrollably. Another close up on the guy who caught the winning fish who keeps tipping his baseball cap up off his head and then back down again, as if to say, "Well, shoot, it weren't nothin'"...
I keep pedaling. I decide to close my eyes since the bike is stationary. I listen to my music. Indigo Girls followed by Lucinda Williams followed by Bonnie Raitt.
There's an older woman to my right who has been talking to herself the whole time we've been working out. I take off my headphones to wipe the sweat from my forehead, when I realize she's not talking to herself, she's talking to me.
She's about 70 years old and she's pedaling the bike about as slow as it can go, but she's pedaling. I smile at her and she says, "I told all them trainers they got around here, I look good enough already. Just tell me what I need to do to lower my cholesterol."
I laugh. Then I look up at the TV to the left. There's the boob job woman months later taking her daughter to ballet class. She looks like a Barbie Doll. I look to the right and there is the winning bass fisherman months later, standing in his new fangled boat, baseball cap askew, his rod (and I mean his fishing pole here) tucked into his groin as he heaves and reels, heaves and reels, a proud smile pressed against his face, his wife no where in the picture.
And the 70 year old woman turns to me and says, "We didn't have to do none or this here stuff when I was 13."
Amen, I think, Amen.
We're at this new gym we joined last week. Small, but clean with lots of machines crammed into a long space, though it doesn't feel tiny or cramped.
We're sweating riding the recumbent bikes.
In front of us, on the wall, are two TV sets...one to the left, one to the right. I'm not really listening...I have on my headphones and am grooving to Brandi Carlile and Angelique Kidjo.
Ann is staring to the left where the TV channel is tuned into a boob job. Yes, a boob job. A petite woman is under the knife and there it is, for everyone to see, her "fat" (though it really isn't because she is, as I've said, petite with barely an ounce of fat on her). There is blood, lots of it, and white tissue, which I assume is the fat. The doctors are folding and bending the blood and the tissue and cutting it off like fabric.
She doesn't stop at her tummy or her boobs -- the boobs get extra "tissue" while the tummy gets "trimmed" -- they do her face and her chin and her nose, too. She's one big bandage when her husband comes in the recovery room and asks to have a look (well, I assume he did because I'm listening now to Ani DiFranco, not the TV) and she lifts up her hospital gown and there are her new and improved boobs sitting their like sculpted rock formations -- smooth, round, and fully exposed like two mountains.
And her hospital gown stays up for a long time while her husband stares and smiles and shakes the doctor's (another male) hand. The husband looks as proud as a new papa of twins. The wife's gown is still up over her head as these two men gawk at the bouncing babies lying on the hospital bed.
I turn away.
I look at the TV on my right.
There is a large man in front of a huge audience gathered in some kind of stadium to watch some guy come up to a huge scale to weigh his freshly caught fish -- bass or something -- and in the audience is this guy's wife, proud as can be, anticipating the "weigh in", which according to the words flashing up on the screen must beat 32 pounds in order to win the grand prize. I haven't a clue what the prize is, but in the backround is this gi-normous power boat glistening under the stage lights.
They show a close up of the bass flat out on the scale. They show a close up of the wife, hands covering her anxious mouth. They show a close up of the fisherman who looks as if he just got off his boat after 3 days of round the clock bass fishing. They show the numbers of the scale going up and down and up and down until they finally settle on 37.3 and the fisherman goes crazy. His wife goes crazy. The audience goes crazy. The lights on the boat start flashing different colors. The wife runs up on the stage and throws herself into his arms and he bounces her up and down and up and down.
Another close up on the fish. Another close up on the wife, now crying uncontrollably. Another close up on the guy who caught the winning fish who keeps tipping his baseball cap up off his head and then back down again, as if to say, "Well, shoot, it weren't nothin'"...
I keep pedaling. I decide to close my eyes since the bike is stationary. I listen to my music. Indigo Girls followed by Lucinda Williams followed by Bonnie Raitt.
There's an older woman to my right who has been talking to herself the whole time we've been working out. I take off my headphones to wipe the sweat from my forehead, when I realize she's not talking to herself, she's talking to me.
She's about 70 years old and she's pedaling the bike about as slow as it can go, but she's pedaling. I smile at her and she says, "I told all them trainers they got around here, I look good enough already. Just tell me what I need to do to lower my cholesterol."
I laugh. Then I look up at the TV to the left. There's the boob job woman months later taking her daughter to ballet class. She looks like a Barbie Doll. I look to the right and there is the winning bass fisherman months later, standing in his new fangled boat, baseball cap askew, his rod (and I mean his fishing pole here) tucked into his groin as he heaves and reels, heaves and reels, a proud smile pressed against his face, his wife no where in the picture.
And the 70 year old woman turns to me and says, "We didn't have to do none or this here stuff when I was 13."
Amen, I think, Amen.
Friday, February 24, 2006
And yet another reason...
...not to live in South Dakota.
First, I am a lesbian and so, you may ask yourself, why would I give a hoot if abortion were legal or not? For me to get pregnant would be, shall we say, a miracle or some sort of well-planned event but never an accident.
Secondly, I live in the State of Washington where abortion is and has been legal for many, many years so why do I give a hoot about South Dakota?
Lastly, isn't this what we all expected with Bush as a president...the not so slow movement to the extremist right so why should I be so surprised by South Dakota's legislature banning abortion?
My answer to #1: If they can invade the bodies of women in South Dakota, they are one step closer to invading the bodies of those they feel immoral...like lesbians. But more importantly, ALL women should have the right to CHOOSE...and I'm not just talking bodies here.
My answer to #2: This is a bit more involved. Last summer, Ann and I drove back to Michigan to visit, of all people, her ex and her adopted daughter. Visiting the ex and her daughter was a trip, but I'll save that for another post...maybe. The drive TO Michigan was the real eye opener. Washington driving was okay...familiar and relatively safe. Montana was just big, but beautiful, but the bigness got to us after awhile. Wyoming was scary because of the two thunder storms we travelled between and the number of Halliburton trucks that passed us and the memory of Mathew Shepard's death.
But South Dakota was one of the most frightening places I have ever been. I didn't mind the landscape, though I hated the enormous billboards advertising innane tourist traps like Wall Drug. What got to me was when we pulled into our hotel and wandered, hungry and tired, into the dining room that offered an "All You Can Eat" seafood bar!
Who are they shittin? Seafood? In landlocked South Dakota?
We ordered something mundane, which included a trip to the salad bar...the ICEBERG lettuce salad bar!
This was all comical and as Ann always says, "If you didn't have a good time at least you have a good story!" But the frightening part happened when Ann and I walked into the hotel and then the restaurant. EVERYONE, and I mean EVERYONE, stared at us. Like we had elephants growing out the tops of our heads. Or worse, poisonous fungus the leapt like fire to every passerby.
It was the most uncomfortable feeling. No one smiled. Not the waitress, not the desk clerk, not the little kids piled high at the dessert table, not even the people we made smiled at in an attempt to soothe the savages. (One word about the dessert bar: EVERYTHING was "creamed"...Boston Cream Pie, Banana Cream Pie, Chocolate Cream Pie, Coconut Cream Pie...you get the drift...)
But there was no soothing the beasts. Daggers. Bullets. Whips. Chainsaws. Knives. All optically thrown at us...two women "alone"...two women travelling together...two women in shorts and t-shirts...two women with muscles.
We sought refuge in our hotel room where we talked about the feeling of hatred permeating the state.
"Did I forget to turn off my "lesbian" neon sign on my back?" I asked Ann.
"No, but the sign now reads 'Kill me, I'm queer'" Ann retorted.
The next day, we left early and drove fast, not even stopping to see the Black Hills, which I know are beautiful, but I wasn't going to risk my life for nature.
By the time we reached Minnesota, we were dying for a friendly face and an espresso stand (which are a dime a dozen in the Pacific Northwest).
Thankfully, we found a nice little coffee shop on the outskirts of Minnesota that sold fresh blueberry cobbler and a mean tasting latte. More importantly, the young girl who served us looked like a hippie reincarnated as she listened to Dave Matthews on her stereo, her caucasian dreds unwashed and beautiful.
Answer to #3: I have no answer to #3 except to say WHERE THE HELL ARE THE LEFTIST RADICALS and why aren't they screaming in unison?
I am thankful I do not live in South Dakota. I am sorry for anyone who does. I am particularly sorry for the women of South Dakota who wish to CHOOSE something different for their bodies than what the State has mandated. I feel sorry for the queers in South Dakota, unless of course they are Republican and then I have to ask, "Why? How? Oxymoron?"
I know I will most likely never travel through South Dakota again...I'll venture North to the more "liberal" North Dakota for my travels East or miss that whole middle section and travel south through...oh wait, Wyoming and Utah ain't much better...prettier, but not much better.
Perhaps I'll take a plane next time.
I wonder if there is some competition I've missed out on...which red state can be the reddest? My vote goes to South Dakota!
First, I am a lesbian and so, you may ask yourself, why would I give a hoot if abortion were legal or not? For me to get pregnant would be, shall we say, a miracle or some sort of well-planned event but never an accident.
Secondly, I live in the State of Washington where abortion is and has been legal for many, many years so why do I give a hoot about South Dakota?
Lastly, isn't this what we all expected with Bush as a president...the not so slow movement to the extremist right so why should I be so surprised by South Dakota's legislature banning abortion?
My answer to #1: If they can invade the bodies of women in South Dakota, they are one step closer to invading the bodies of those they feel immoral...like lesbians. But more importantly, ALL women should have the right to CHOOSE...and I'm not just talking bodies here.
My answer to #2: This is a bit more involved. Last summer, Ann and I drove back to Michigan to visit, of all people, her ex and her adopted daughter. Visiting the ex and her daughter was a trip, but I'll save that for another post...maybe. The drive TO Michigan was the real eye opener. Washington driving was okay...familiar and relatively safe. Montana was just big, but beautiful, but the bigness got to us after awhile. Wyoming was scary because of the two thunder storms we travelled between and the number of Halliburton trucks that passed us and the memory of Mathew Shepard's death.
But South Dakota was one of the most frightening places I have ever been. I didn't mind the landscape, though I hated the enormous billboards advertising innane tourist traps like Wall Drug. What got to me was when we pulled into our hotel and wandered, hungry and tired, into the dining room that offered an "All You Can Eat" seafood bar!
Who are they shittin? Seafood? In landlocked South Dakota?
We ordered something mundane, which included a trip to the salad bar...the ICEBERG lettuce salad bar!
This was all comical and as Ann always says, "If you didn't have a good time at least you have a good story!" But the frightening part happened when Ann and I walked into the hotel and then the restaurant. EVERYONE, and I mean EVERYONE, stared at us. Like we had elephants growing out the tops of our heads. Or worse, poisonous fungus the leapt like fire to every passerby.
It was the most uncomfortable feeling. No one smiled. Not the waitress, not the desk clerk, not the little kids piled high at the dessert table, not even the people we made smiled at in an attempt to soothe the savages. (One word about the dessert bar: EVERYTHING was "creamed"...Boston Cream Pie, Banana Cream Pie, Chocolate Cream Pie, Coconut Cream Pie...you get the drift...)
But there was no soothing the beasts. Daggers. Bullets. Whips. Chainsaws. Knives. All optically thrown at us...two women "alone"...two women travelling together...two women in shorts and t-shirts...two women with muscles.
We sought refuge in our hotel room where we talked about the feeling of hatred permeating the state.
"Did I forget to turn off my "lesbian" neon sign on my back?" I asked Ann.
"No, but the sign now reads 'Kill me, I'm queer'" Ann retorted.
The next day, we left early and drove fast, not even stopping to see the Black Hills, which I know are beautiful, but I wasn't going to risk my life for nature.
By the time we reached Minnesota, we were dying for a friendly face and an espresso stand (which are a dime a dozen in the Pacific Northwest).
Thankfully, we found a nice little coffee shop on the outskirts of Minnesota that sold fresh blueberry cobbler and a mean tasting latte. More importantly, the young girl who served us looked like a hippie reincarnated as she listened to Dave Matthews on her stereo, her caucasian dreds unwashed and beautiful.
Answer to #3: I have no answer to #3 except to say WHERE THE HELL ARE THE LEFTIST RADICALS and why aren't they screaming in unison?
I am thankful I do not live in South Dakota. I am sorry for anyone who does. I am particularly sorry for the women of South Dakota who wish to CHOOSE something different for their bodies than what the State has mandated. I feel sorry for the queers in South Dakota, unless of course they are Republican and then I have to ask, "Why? How? Oxymoron?"
I know I will most likely never travel through South Dakota again...I'll venture North to the more "liberal" North Dakota for my travels East or miss that whole middle section and travel south through...oh wait, Wyoming and Utah ain't much better...prettier, but not much better.
Perhaps I'll take a plane next time.
I wonder if there is some competition I've missed out on...which red state can be the reddest? My vote goes to South Dakota!
Thunder and snow
Thunder woke me this morning at 2:33. I waited for Chester to clammor up on the bed frighten and confused, but he didn't move. I could hear him snoring softly on his bed in the hallway. Ann was snoring, too.
At first, I thought the loud rumble was a car accident of some sort -- two loud and jolting drum rolls rattled the house and my brain. But I waited, listening to everyone sleep and watched for a flash or two of lightning.
Nothing.
And then, just as I was falling back to sleep, Chester shook his head and I heard his ears give a muffled flap flap flap.
I got up.
He got up.
And we both went outside.
Snow.
It wasn't thunder that woke me. It was the sound of two street gods battling for turf using dumpsters as shields. The gods' dumpsters were filled with snow and it was pouring down on us, dusting the night with flakes of light.
I smiled.
Chester smiled.
And we stood out in the backyard looking up. White crystals caught on our eyelids.
And the gods put down their weapons and there was peace.
At first, I thought the loud rumble was a car accident of some sort -- two loud and jolting drum rolls rattled the house and my brain. But I waited, listening to everyone sleep and watched for a flash or two of lightning.
Nothing.
And then, just as I was falling back to sleep, Chester shook his head and I heard his ears give a muffled flap flap flap.
I got up.
He got up.
And we both went outside.
Snow.
It wasn't thunder that woke me. It was the sound of two street gods battling for turf using dumpsters as shields. The gods' dumpsters were filled with snow and it was pouring down on us, dusting the night with flakes of light.
I smiled.
Chester smiled.
And we stood out in the backyard looking up. White crystals caught on our eyelids.
And the gods put down their weapons and there was peace.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
"A thrilling match...
..down at the curling arena..."
Now that, my friends, is an oxymoron!
I'm in the study typing away and what do I hear?
Chester sounding like a Wooky from Star Wars, begging Ann to drop, please oh please oh please, some grilled eggplant. Grilled Eggplant? He doesn't even like grilled eggplant!
Women on the TV sounding orgasmic as they hoot and groan and moan and holler and yell in foreign tongues...
...curling again!
And then there's hail on the roof and against the windows and the sound of Ann clipping her nails and the sound of our tax returns delivered today from our accountant who got us just enough money back to pay for the appliances we had to buy yesterday...
and there's this ticking clock in the background that I apparently sleep through though I can't imagine that it's ever worked before today because it's so damn loud and I'm such a light sleeper...
...and now the smultzy music for some Italian skater who DICK Button will slam in his covert war of words...
...and the Canadians still upset by their Dream Team failure in hockey...
And finally, the sounds of Chester's toenails clicking against the kitchen floor and his tongue lapping the place where the grilled eggplant "accidently" fell...
...the eggplant on the floor was cleaned up and yet...he is still licking and licking and licking...
and I am crazed with the use of ellipses...
... is that how you spell this...?
I love the sound of the keyboard thinking...taptaptaptaptaptap...
Now that, my friends, is an oxymoron!
I'm in the study typing away and what do I hear?
Chester sounding like a Wooky from Star Wars, begging Ann to drop, please oh please oh please, some grilled eggplant. Grilled Eggplant? He doesn't even like grilled eggplant!
Women on the TV sounding orgasmic as they hoot and groan and moan and holler and yell in foreign tongues...
...curling again!
And then there's hail on the roof and against the windows and the sound of Ann clipping her nails and the sound of our tax returns delivered today from our accountant who got us just enough money back to pay for the appliances we had to buy yesterday...
and there's this ticking clock in the background that I apparently sleep through though I can't imagine that it's ever worked before today because it's so damn loud and I'm such a light sleeper...
...and now the smultzy music for some Italian skater who DICK Button will slam in his covert war of words...
...and the Canadians still upset by their Dream Team failure in hockey...
And finally, the sounds of Chester's toenails clicking against the kitchen floor and his tongue lapping the place where the grilled eggplant "accidently" fell...
...the eggplant on the floor was cleaned up and yet...he is still licking and licking and licking...
and I am crazed with the use of ellipses...
... is that how you spell this...?
I love the sound of the keyboard thinking...taptaptaptaptaptap...
It's a great gig...
...except for the kids.
That's a teacher motto. It's not true, really, but the kids are what take away so much of my energy and the worries that keep me up at night aren't about lessons or assignments, but about kids.
Of course today is all about grading papers. Ann is at the kitchen table with a crate full of projects and assignments to grade. I just finished my grading and am now about to begin the part I love about teaching -- planning for the next lessons.
Kind of a Catch-22...I love to assign projects, but I hate to grade them.
Luckily, the weather is crappy and so, staying inside, next to the warm fireplace, ain't such a bad gig after all. I mean, what else could I be doing on this vacation?
Oh yeah...
skiing in the mountains
lying in the Mexican sun
writing
taking long walks in the wet woods
reading
trying to teach myself mandolin
visiting all the friends I've neglected
learning to knit...well, practicing knitting since I know how, but it all lumps and curls together
cooking something new
baking bread
Yada yada yada...
Back to planning. Back to watching Chester sleep. Back to the sounds of Kate Rusby on the stereo and Ann moaning as she works through her mountain of papers.
Back to the warm fire.
Back to a week without kids!
That's a teacher motto. It's not true, really, but the kids are what take away so much of my energy and the worries that keep me up at night aren't about lessons or assignments, but about kids.
Of course today is all about grading papers. Ann is at the kitchen table with a crate full of projects and assignments to grade. I just finished my grading and am now about to begin the part I love about teaching -- planning for the next lessons.
Kind of a Catch-22...I love to assign projects, but I hate to grade them.
Luckily, the weather is crappy and so, staying inside, next to the warm fireplace, ain't such a bad gig after all. I mean, what else could I be doing on this vacation?
Oh yeah...
skiing in the mountains
lying in the Mexican sun
writing
taking long walks in the wet woods
reading
trying to teach myself mandolin
visiting all the friends I've neglected
learning to knit...well, practicing knitting since I know how, but it all lumps and curls together
cooking something new
baking bread
Yada yada yada...
Back to planning. Back to watching Chester sleep. Back to the sounds of Kate Rusby on the stereo and Ann moaning as she works through her mountain of papers.
Back to the warm fire.
Back to a week without kids!
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Biscuits and Marriage
Ann and I married almost 2 years ago in Portland during that brief window of sanity when Multnomah County granted marriage licenses to same-sex couples. For $60 we snagged a license, said our handwritten vows in a light-filled room crowded with couples and ministers of every ilk -- Buddhist monks, Catholic priets, Goddesses, and Witches. We picked a thick woman because she looked like she came from Montana and had built her own house. Plus, she had a Mary Oliver book on her table. I can't even remember her name now, but it doesn't matter...we have pictures of her holding Mary Oliver in her hands.
On the license we had to designate who would be the bride and who would be the groom. We played rock/paper/scissors and Ann won (she always wins) and she chose to be the groom. My fate...a bride.
We'd purchased our rings a month before, wore them even before we were married, but exchanged them ceremoniously on the bright March afternoon. Our dear friends Jeanne and Lisa got married too and we each served as witnesses for the other's ceremony. We feasted that night on Thai or Japanese food...again, I can't remember all the details...but it was festive and right and filled with lots of laughter.
When we got home, I made Ann carry me across the threshold. As I'm taller and about 30 pounds heavier, I jumped on her back and she lugged me up the front steps, groaning the whole way.
We framed the marriage certificate and giggled every time we looked at the Oregon Trail wagon scene embossed along the bottom of the paper. It was a journey -- to find each other, to find a state where it was okay, to find the time in our busy schedules, to finally find the country, our country, hesitantly willing to embrace the possibility.
Six months later the State of Oregon sent us back our $60 and informed us that our certificate was no longer valid. The Oregon State Supreme Court overturned the County and we were left with wagon wheels on our wall and pictures of light and laughter and a lovely bouquet of fresh wild flowers.
Tonight I made biscuits. The flour went everywhere, especially when I had to pour a new bag into the large glass container. Most of the flour went into the right place, but a huge pile formed on the counter like Mt. Hood, slightly jagged at the top. With one swift swipe I pushed the fallen flour back into the jar and laughed as my black sweater turned white and the dog's nose, just under the counter grayed in excitement of the falling food.
I washed down the counter, cleaned up my mess, and placed the biscuits in the oven. I'd taken off my watch, which I moved onto the table as I prepared to wash the dishes. But I'd also taken off my wedding ring, trying to avoid getting goo in the crevices.
The ring was not on the counter.
I looked on the floor. I looked under the dish towels. I looked under the cutting board where I'd rolled out the dough. I looked in the garbage disposal in case rolled without my noticing. I searched through my pockets dusty with flour. I looked in the waste basket under the sink in case I'd thrown it out with the empty bag. I even thought of looking at the dog in case he'd swallowed the ring thinking it tasted good.
Then I looked in the flour jar and laughed at myself. I couldn't see my ring, but something told me that it was buried in the white fluff.
I refused to believe it and once again checked the garbage disposal, the dish towels, my pockets, and the dog.
No ring.
I opened the lid of the jar and gently pushed my hand into the soft top layer. I used to love to play in the flour drawer at my baby sitter's house. Flour is soft, like a grandmother's skin and the smell is of bread and cakes and all things home.
It didn't take me long to feel the hard silver of the band deep within the jar. My hand was covered in white and so was the ring. And then I realized, the mound on the countertop had covered the ring...I'd pushed that mountain of flour into the jar, my ring along with it.
Ann walked into the kitchen and I told her the story. She laughed and said, "I wonder what it means?"
"That I 'knead' you," I responded.
She didn't laugh, though I'm certain she smiled. After 2 years of marriage she still admires my puns though no longer acknowledges them.
What does it mean?
It's memory. It's a moment when you are forced to remember the journey, the light, the woman who read Mary Oliver while we held flowers and hands, the friends, the disappointment of being $60 richer, and the silliness of choosing who would be the bride and who would be the groom.
It's biscuits on a cold night...with melting butter and raspberry jam.
Tonight I'm going to ask Ann to carry me across the threshold again.
On the license we had to designate who would be the bride and who would be the groom. We played rock/paper/scissors and Ann won (she always wins) and she chose to be the groom. My fate...a bride.
We'd purchased our rings a month before, wore them even before we were married, but exchanged them ceremoniously on the bright March afternoon. Our dear friends Jeanne and Lisa got married too and we each served as witnesses for the other's ceremony. We feasted that night on Thai or Japanese food...again, I can't remember all the details...but it was festive and right and filled with lots of laughter.
When we got home, I made Ann carry me across the threshold. As I'm taller and about 30 pounds heavier, I jumped on her back and she lugged me up the front steps, groaning the whole way.
We framed the marriage certificate and giggled every time we looked at the Oregon Trail wagon scene embossed along the bottom of the paper. It was a journey -- to find each other, to find a state where it was okay, to find the time in our busy schedules, to finally find the country, our country, hesitantly willing to embrace the possibility.
Six months later the State of Oregon sent us back our $60 and informed us that our certificate was no longer valid. The Oregon State Supreme Court overturned the County and we were left with wagon wheels on our wall and pictures of light and laughter and a lovely bouquet of fresh wild flowers.
Tonight I made biscuits. The flour went everywhere, especially when I had to pour a new bag into the large glass container. Most of the flour went into the right place, but a huge pile formed on the counter like Mt. Hood, slightly jagged at the top. With one swift swipe I pushed the fallen flour back into the jar and laughed as my black sweater turned white and the dog's nose, just under the counter grayed in excitement of the falling food.
I washed down the counter, cleaned up my mess, and placed the biscuits in the oven. I'd taken off my watch, which I moved onto the table as I prepared to wash the dishes. But I'd also taken off my wedding ring, trying to avoid getting goo in the crevices.
The ring was not on the counter.
I looked on the floor. I looked under the dish towels. I looked under the cutting board where I'd rolled out the dough. I looked in the garbage disposal in case rolled without my noticing. I searched through my pockets dusty with flour. I looked in the waste basket under the sink in case I'd thrown it out with the empty bag. I even thought of looking at the dog in case he'd swallowed the ring thinking it tasted good.
Then I looked in the flour jar and laughed at myself. I couldn't see my ring, but something told me that it was buried in the white fluff.
I refused to believe it and once again checked the garbage disposal, the dish towels, my pockets, and the dog.
No ring.
I opened the lid of the jar and gently pushed my hand into the soft top layer. I used to love to play in the flour drawer at my baby sitter's house. Flour is soft, like a grandmother's skin and the smell is of bread and cakes and all things home.
It didn't take me long to feel the hard silver of the band deep within the jar. My hand was covered in white and so was the ring. And then I realized, the mound on the countertop had covered the ring...I'd pushed that mountain of flour into the jar, my ring along with it.
Ann walked into the kitchen and I told her the story. She laughed and said, "I wonder what it means?"
"That I 'knead' you," I responded.
She didn't laugh, though I'm certain she smiled. After 2 years of marriage she still admires my puns though no longer acknowledges them.
What does it mean?
It's memory. It's a moment when you are forced to remember the journey, the light, the woman who read Mary Oliver while we held flowers and hands, the friends, the disappointment of being $60 richer, and the silliness of choosing who would be the bride and who would be the groom.
It's biscuits on a cold night...with melting butter and raspberry jam.
Tonight I'm going to ask Ann to carry me across the threshold again.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Peace with the Weatherman
We took Chester to Ravenna Park yesterday, a nice long walk through the ravine filled with trees and streams and the songs winter wrens. As we started our walk, a tall young man raced off his park bench, bundled up in his fuzzy parka and big gloves the size of oven mitts.
"Hi, I'm Larry," he greeted us with a big grin and an even bigger oven-mitted peace sign.
"Good morning," I smiled back, instinctively flashing a peace sign back at him.
"Snow is predicted for Monday!" Larry danced from side to side on thick boots that climbed up his shin. The bottom of his pant legs were stuffed into his boots.
"You mean tomorrow it's supposed to snow?" I asked.
"Yes, tomorrow! Goodbye!" And with a wave of his hand he raced back to his sunny spot on the park bench. We continued on, down the ravine, and through the park on our normal route.
Chester was full of energy today only tiring as we climbed back out of the ravine about 40 minutes later. Ahead of us, I saw a couple pushing a stroller past Larry's bench. Larry was still there, rocking to the beat of some internal metronome. He saw the couple with the baby just as I did and he popped up, raced down the path, and waved his peace sign. They smiled, waved back and just kept walking.
By the time we past Larry, he was back on his bench rocking rhythmically to the rays of the winter sun. I turned to catch his eye wondering if he'd forget us and cast his weather forecast our direction. But he just smiled when he saw us, raised his peace sign and kept rocking back and forth, back and forth.
It was a beautiful day. Warm in the sun, very cold in the shade. We packed up more of the house preparing for new windows and new flooring. As the clouds moved in across the blue sky I wondered if Larry was still on his bench casting out the rhythm of his news -- Snow on Monday -- to every passerby, tossing his peace sign confidently in the air.
Was he even aware of the war in Iraq and the forgotten war in Afghanistan? Was he aware that Bush is rattling yet another saber at Iran? Did he know that Hamas was elected in the mid-east and that Israel is sharpening their sabers?
Perhaps his greatest joy in life is sitting in the sun on a frozen morning predicting weather with the wave of two fingers.
When I woke this morning, I looked for snow on the ground.
No snow today.
No peace either.
Perhaps tomorrow.
"Hi, I'm Larry," he greeted us with a big grin and an even bigger oven-mitted peace sign.
"Good morning," I smiled back, instinctively flashing a peace sign back at him.
"Snow is predicted for Monday!" Larry danced from side to side on thick boots that climbed up his shin. The bottom of his pant legs were stuffed into his boots.
"You mean tomorrow it's supposed to snow?" I asked.
"Yes, tomorrow! Goodbye!" And with a wave of his hand he raced back to his sunny spot on the park bench. We continued on, down the ravine, and through the park on our normal route.
Chester was full of energy today only tiring as we climbed back out of the ravine about 40 minutes later. Ahead of us, I saw a couple pushing a stroller past Larry's bench. Larry was still there, rocking to the beat of some internal metronome. He saw the couple with the baby just as I did and he popped up, raced down the path, and waved his peace sign. They smiled, waved back and just kept walking.
By the time we past Larry, he was back on his bench rocking rhythmically to the rays of the winter sun. I turned to catch his eye wondering if he'd forget us and cast his weather forecast our direction. But he just smiled when he saw us, raised his peace sign and kept rocking back and forth, back and forth.
It was a beautiful day. Warm in the sun, very cold in the shade. We packed up more of the house preparing for new windows and new flooring. As the clouds moved in across the blue sky I wondered if Larry was still on his bench casting out the rhythm of his news -- Snow on Monday -- to every passerby, tossing his peace sign confidently in the air.
Was he even aware of the war in Iraq and the forgotten war in Afghanistan? Was he aware that Bush is rattling yet another saber at Iran? Did he know that Hamas was elected in the mid-east and that Israel is sharpening their sabers?
Perhaps his greatest joy in life is sitting in the sun on a frozen morning predicting weather with the wave of two fingers.
When I woke this morning, I looked for snow on the ground.
No snow today.
No peace either.
Perhaps tomorrow.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
What can we do
but keep on breathing in and out,
modest and willing, and in our places?
Mary Oliver
First breath
It's snowing
Crystalline rain before
sunrise
I dreamt of dead cats
Curled in a plastic bag
Rescued from a high tide
A blue tug without an
anchor
Exhale
At school
She is crying
Bruised from the outside in
She will not speak
I provide the words
Shaking her head yes then
no
I realize
"This is not her place"
I call her mother who wants
to understand but cannot
"We love your daughter,"
I tell her,
"She is so talented and kind.
The world lives inside her
pencil,
but she does not want
to be here. Take her home," I say
again and again
"Then let her choose where
she'd like to go to
school."
Inhale, second breath
At lunch, at the park
two sisters, twins,
throw elbows then fists
They fall to the ground and I
must call their mother, a
fertility doctor
She says, "I counsel women against
having twins. They tell me
it's so much more efficient and I
tell them, it's so much more
painful."
She breathes tears into the phone
She says, "More and more they
are turning to physical retaliation,
yet
every night they sneak out of
their beds to sleep
curled up with each other."
Exhale.
5 minutes before the
kids go home
and a knock falls timidly
upon the door
It is the younger sister
of one of my students
She overslept the
Happy Valentine's Day
she'd planned
She asks, "May I please sing to my sister?"
And her little body,
dressed in purple and orange,
like candy against her dark, Indian
skin, bounces
to the front of the room.
"I love you very much, sissy,
And I will sing you telegram song..."
We all hold our breath
The office staff crowds in
the doorway
They have all helped her
practice in the hall,
encouraged her with deep sighs
of "ooohhh" and "ahhhhh"
She draws in air and floats
this song
I love you very much
Dear sister for you I care
You are so beautiful
I really love your hair
And we all cheer, tears
welling like pools of
breath
on a frozen morning
Inhale
I breathe in triplicate
We walk the ridge
this evening
The skies are clear and
indigo, a
slanting pink
curls against the mountains
The dog wags his tail as
he scents his way home
out past the park
above the hospital where
every day children survive
cancer and birth
defects
and choices they did
not make
In between the spaces
of my breathing
I question my convictions, this,
I think,
is not the place I
thought I'd be
yet here I am
strung between breaths
of filament and fiber
stretched between ages of
what lives behind us and
what dreams beyond...
willing and modest, a boat
without an anchor,
the snow before the sun.
but keep on breathing in and out,
modest and willing, and in our places?
Mary Oliver
First breath
It's snowing
Crystalline rain before
sunrise
I dreamt of dead cats
Curled in a plastic bag
Rescued from a high tide
A blue tug without an
anchor
Exhale
At school
She is crying
Bruised from the outside in
She will not speak
I provide the words
Shaking her head yes then
no
I realize
"This is not her place"
I call her mother who wants
to understand but cannot
"We love your daughter,"
I tell her,
"She is so talented and kind.
The world lives inside her
pencil,
but she does not want
to be here. Take her home," I say
again and again
"Then let her choose where
she'd like to go to
school."
Inhale, second breath
At lunch, at the park
two sisters, twins,
throw elbows then fists
They fall to the ground and I
must call their mother, a
fertility doctor
She says, "I counsel women against
having twins. They tell me
it's so much more efficient and I
tell them, it's so much more
painful."
She breathes tears into the phone
She says, "More and more they
are turning to physical retaliation,
yet
every night they sneak out of
their beds to sleep
curled up with each other."
Exhale.
5 minutes before the
kids go home
and a knock falls timidly
upon the door
It is the younger sister
of one of my students
She overslept the
Happy Valentine's Day
she'd planned
She asks, "May I please sing to my sister?"
And her little body,
dressed in purple and orange,
like candy against her dark, Indian
skin, bounces
to the front of the room.
"I love you very much, sissy,
And I will sing you telegram song..."
We all hold our breath
The office staff crowds in
the doorway
They have all helped her
practice in the hall,
encouraged her with deep sighs
of "ooohhh" and "ahhhhh"
She draws in air and floats
this song
I love you very much
Dear sister for you I care
You are so beautiful
I really love your hair
And we all cheer, tears
welling like pools of
breath
on a frozen morning
Inhale
I breathe in triplicate
We walk the ridge
this evening
The skies are clear and
indigo, a
slanting pink
curls against the mountains
The dog wags his tail as
he scents his way home
out past the park
above the hospital where
every day children survive
cancer and birth
defects
and choices they did
not make
In between the spaces
of my breathing
I question my convictions, this,
I think,
is not the place I
thought I'd be
yet here I am
strung between breaths
of filament and fiber
stretched between ages of
what lives behind us and
what dreams beyond...
willing and modest, a boat
without an anchor,
the snow before the sun.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Red winged blackbirds
On my bicycle ride home this evening, I heard red winged blackbirds trilling from the edges of the Arboretum. The sky had cleared after a day of misty showers and the air was like ice floating in a sweaty glass.
Spring, I say, she is a great tease and I fall for her every time.
Spring, I say, she is a great tease and I fall for her every time.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Practicing Vacation
A beautiful day. Warm with a crispy edge in the morning and evening, bright sun, and a smell that can only be spring nudging herself around a very distant corner.
The mountains were out, too. Rainier, Baker, the Cascades, the Olympics -- surrounded like a white cape on my shoulders.
We walked Chester at his favorite marshy park and then down by the lake, though his increase in medication made him slow and wobbly. Still, his tail was up, his ears alert, and his eyes focused on the possibility of chicken bones or goose shit. Ah, the life and palette of a dog.
Aside from stopping by the house to check on the remodel (we have windows and morning light!) and two walks with the old man-dog, I did nothing today and it felt great. I watched the Olympics and then home improvement shows. I read. I downloaded pictures of the house. I ate healthy food. I slept.
Those who say teachers get too many days off just don't get how precious recovery time is. If I could not unwind, if I didn't have a vacation every now and then, I might not be allowed to be in the same room with children.
I'd swear far more than I do.
I'd stomp my feet a lot.
I'd scream loudly at drivers who talk on cellphones and don't "think" about driving.
I'd send my food back if it arrived at my table cold or if the portion size was too small for the dollar paid.
I'd be mean to cats.
I'd bite off my nails.
I'd run down to the ritzy mall at the bottom of the hill and force everyone to look me in the eye and say hello (which is something they never do!)
I'd scratch the sides of BMW's and Lexus' and Mercedes'...
I'd eat a whole chocolate cake.
Every day.
We have one more week of teaching before our mid-winter break. Today's rest was a warm up. In one week, I will start to get my life back just enough so I can make it until April when we take one more break so I can make it to June.
This summer I'm taking a 3 week class, so summer is really more work though I can wear shorts and t-shirts, I can stay up late and I won't have papers to grade, though I might have papers to write. Still that feels invigorating not exhausting.
I can lose some weight in the summer since I won't be running to the faculty room during my breaks to eat Top Pot donuts or handfuls of peanuts or cheese and crackers or that divine apple cake some parent brings at least once a month.
On vacations I can think about what I eat and not just eat so I don't have to think.
I can say hello to Ann more than once or twice a day.
We can go for walks with Chester...enjoy him during these last few months. We can pack up the house for the final push in the remodel -- cabinets and bamboo floors and lights, oh my.
Today was practice.
I don't think I've got vacation done, though, so I might just have to practice tomorrow, too!
Too bad there are a stack of papers to grade!
The mountains were out, too. Rainier, Baker, the Cascades, the Olympics -- surrounded like a white cape on my shoulders.
We walked Chester at his favorite marshy park and then down by the lake, though his increase in medication made him slow and wobbly. Still, his tail was up, his ears alert, and his eyes focused on the possibility of chicken bones or goose shit. Ah, the life and palette of a dog.
Aside from stopping by the house to check on the remodel (we have windows and morning light!) and two walks with the old man-dog, I did nothing today and it felt great. I watched the Olympics and then home improvement shows. I read. I downloaded pictures of the house. I ate healthy food. I slept.
Those who say teachers get too many days off just don't get how precious recovery time is. If I could not unwind, if I didn't have a vacation every now and then, I might not be allowed to be in the same room with children.
I'd swear far more than I do.
I'd stomp my feet a lot.
I'd scream loudly at drivers who talk on cellphones and don't "think" about driving.
I'd send my food back if it arrived at my table cold or if the portion size was too small for the dollar paid.
I'd be mean to cats.
I'd bite off my nails.
I'd run down to the ritzy mall at the bottom of the hill and force everyone to look me in the eye and say hello (which is something they never do!)
I'd scratch the sides of BMW's and Lexus' and Mercedes'...
I'd eat a whole chocolate cake.
Every day.
We have one more week of teaching before our mid-winter break. Today's rest was a warm up. In one week, I will start to get my life back just enough so I can make it until April when we take one more break so I can make it to June.
This summer I'm taking a 3 week class, so summer is really more work though I can wear shorts and t-shirts, I can stay up late and I won't have papers to grade, though I might have papers to write. Still that feels invigorating not exhausting.
I can lose some weight in the summer since I won't be running to the faculty room during my breaks to eat Top Pot donuts or handfuls of peanuts or cheese and crackers or that divine apple cake some parent brings at least once a month.
On vacations I can think about what I eat and not just eat so I don't have to think.
I can say hello to Ann more than once or twice a day.
We can go for walks with Chester...enjoy him during these last few months. We can pack up the house for the final push in the remodel -- cabinets and bamboo floors and lights, oh my.
Today was practice.
I don't think I've got vacation done, though, so I might just have to practice tomorrow, too!
Too bad there are a stack of papers to grade!
Thursday, February 09, 2006
The door to heaven
Chester slept through the night, though we both had one eye and one ear open for another seizure. He went outside every couple of hours (medication makes him urinate more) and Ann agreed to stay home with him today. No one got a lot of sleep last night, and at 7:30 this morning he had another seizure. I'd already left for work, a chilly ride up the hills with the sun just peeking over the Cascades. Ann called my classroom and left a message. I wanted to pedal home again, but there's really nothing I can do, that any of us can do except give him time to recover.
Ann will stay home with him again tomorrow.
There was a moment last night, as Ann and I were falling asleep, talking quietly so as not to disturb the finally sleeping dog between us, when we both realized that the seizures are not going to kill Chester. We are the ones who will have to make that choice. Soon the seizures will increase and the medication will no longer work and at that point we have to decide how much is too much -- for Chester, for us, even for the vets who have been absolutely wonderful about all of this...truly.
In between the seizures, Chester is almost a normal dog. Well, he is a normal dog only an old normal dog. He's covered in lumps and has a bit of a limp to his gait. He's incontinent and he's taken to loud snoring once he does settle down. The seizures aren't normal though and are, in fact, frightening to watch, but when he pops up, and that's exactly what he does when the seizure is over with...when he pops up, he's like an anxious puppy wondering who's going to feed him, who's going to walk him, and who's going to let him out to smell the corners of his current life.
I've had to make the decision to put down a dog once before. Somehow, the decision seemed clearer. Abbie, a lab/husky mix, was in pain. It was in her eyes, in the painful way she walked, and when I came home one day after work to find her flat on her back and unable to get up, I knew I had to put her down.
I cried uncontrollably. I scheduled the day for the vet to come over to the house, called into work to take the day off, and then cried some more.
My partner at the time had a deaf grandson, Austin, who was then about 7 years old. His mother and his grandmother didn't learn sign language, but I took classes so I could communicate with this incredibly active boy. Because we could communicate, we had a special bond.
When Austin saw me in tears he signed, "What's wrong?" I told him, with my hands, why I was sad, that Abbie, my sweet dog, was in pain and that I needed to help her die. Austin hugged me and cried, too. I didn't know for sure if he really understood what it meant to help someone die or even if he knew what death meant in its whole scope and certainty. I'm not sure I grasp it even now.
Then, on the day when I put Abbie down, I was sitting on the kitchen floor hours later signing again with Austin. "Where's Abbie?" he signed. "She died today," I told him and started crying again. "But where is she?" he asked again.
My sign is limited. I know enough to communicate basic ideas and concepts, but death and the beyond are outside my abilities even with spoken word, so I simply signed, "She's gone to heaven." I love the sign for heaven...the right hand swirls up under the left just by the forehead and then ascends upward. It's very much like the sign for birth, though the birth sign is located closer to the belly.
Austin looked at me for a moment, repeated the sign for heaven, and then got up and started searching through the house for something, I didn't know what.
"Austin," I stopped him at the front hallway, "What are you looking for?"
With the most serious look on his face, he signed, "I'm looking for the door to heaven so Abbie can come visit us."
I hope, with Chester, we are able to find the door to heaven, somewhere above our heads, swirling like a dance. For his sake and our own.
Ann will stay home with him again tomorrow.
There was a moment last night, as Ann and I were falling asleep, talking quietly so as not to disturb the finally sleeping dog between us, when we both realized that the seizures are not going to kill Chester. We are the ones who will have to make that choice. Soon the seizures will increase and the medication will no longer work and at that point we have to decide how much is too much -- for Chester, for us, even for the vets who have been absolutely wonderful about all of this...truly.
In between the seizures, Chester is almost a normal dog. Well, he is a normal dog only an old normal dog. He's covered in lumps and has a bit of a limp to his gait. He's incontinent and he's taken to loud snoring once he does settle down. The seizures aren't normal though and are, in fact, frightening to watch, but when he pops up, and that's exactly what he does when the seizure is over with...when he pops up, he's like an anxious puppy wondering who's going to feed him, who's going to walk him, and who's going to let him out to smell the corners of his current life.
I've had to make the decision to put down a dog once before. Somehow, the decision seemed clearer. Abbie, a lab/husky mix, was in pain. It was in her eyes, in the painful way she walked, and when I came home one day after work to find her flat on her back and unable to get up, I knew I had to put her down.
I cried uncontrollably. I scheduled the day for the vet to come over to the house, called into work to take the day off, and then cried some more.
My partner at the time had a deaf grandson, Austin, who was then about 7 years old. His mother and his grandmother didn't learn sign language, but I took classes so I could communicate with this incredibly active boy. Because we could communicate, we had a special bond.
When Austin saw me in tears he signed, "What's wrong?" I told him, with my hands, why I was sad, that Abbie, my sweet dog, was in pain and that I needed to help her die. Austin hugged me and cried, too. I didn't know for sure if he really understood what it meant to help someone die or even if he knew what death meant in its whole scope and certainty. I'm not sure I grasp it even now.
Then, on the day when I put Abbie down, I was sitting on the kitchen floor hours later signing again with Austin. "Where's Abbie?" he signed. "She died today," I told him and started crying again. "But where is she?" he asked again.
My sign is limited. I know enough to communicate basic ideas and concepts, but death and the beyond are outside my abilities even with spoken word, so I simply signed, "She's gone to heaven." I love the sign for heaven...the right hand swirls up under the left just by the forehead and then ascends upward. It's very much like the sign for birth, though the birth sign is located closer to the belly.
Austin looked at me for a moment, repeated the sign for heaven, and then got up and started searching through the house for something, I didn't know what.
"Austin," I stopped him at the front hallway, "What are you looking for?"
With the most serious look on his face, he signed, "I'm looking for the door to heaven so Abbie can come visit us."
I hope, with Chester, we are able to find the door to heaven, somewhere above our heads, swirling like a dance. For his sake and our own.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Seizing light
I keep rereading this passage from Gretel Ehrlich's book "A Match to the Heart" about her recovery after being struck by lightning: "Light is chemical, electrical, mineral, just the way memory is, and I wondered if light had invented the ocean and my hand dragging through it, or if memory had invented light as a form of time thinking about itself."
I have collected these memories...
Yesterday afternoon. An angry parent. She was frustrated with me because we got back late from a field trip and they would be late the girl's orthodontist appointment. I couldn't get the mother's anger off of me all night. I chewed on it for hours. The planning involved in the field trip included bus schedules, gathering bus money, filling out a field trip form, and organizing the tour of the NOAA fisheries facilities with the educator on their staff. When the city bus came to take us home, it was 10 minutes late and packed. The bus driver told us we'd have to wait for the next bus, but I put half the kids on the bus with another teacher (who filled in for my ill teaching partner) including the kid who I knew had to be back for her appointment. We waited for the next bus, which was 10 minutes later, and empty. Only an old woman who told us stories all the way back to school. When I walked into the school building, the mother laid into me as the first group arrived only 3 minutes before we did. I just looked at the mom and sighed. What was I to say? I've been practicing being grateful (New Year's Resolution #2). I wish she were practicing too.
I rode my bike to work this morning. It rained last night and the streets were wet, but the sunrise was magnificent and the cold air felt refreshing on my cheeks. Over the past few months, I thought I'd lost my love of rain. This morning, the rain redeemed itself.
By this afternoon, the hints of rain were gone, the sun was warm and energizing, and the ride home was a perfect balance of lungs, muscle, and weather. I wanted to keep riding for hours.
Once home, the dog leapt up to greet me, as excited by the warm weather as I was. I hooked him up to the leash and off we trotted on a walk up past the elementary school, right at the Catholic Church, and up an extra block because his legs and mine felt strong.
On the grassy lawn right by the library, Chester stopped, looked at me and refused to move. Oh shit, a seizure. He flopped down on the grass underneath a huge cedar tree and writhed and spun his legs as if he were bicycling on a bicycle built for four legs. His mouth pressed open in a gagging yawn and he moaned, that awful gutteral sound, like the last breath of a dying man. Foam seeped from the corners of his groaning mouth and his eyes fixed on nothing and everything. Unlike most seizures where he eventually lies quietly breathing deeply, he kept trying, during this one, to get up, to stand on the lawn as if nothing had happened.
Usually, when he goes into a seizure, I give him a syringe of valium rectally. It calms him down and brings him out of the seizure quickly. He wanders the house then, checking out every corner for food or smells eventually ending up in the backyard where he scents out every inch of the perimeter. Tonight I had no valium and I was a mile from home. Ann was at the doctor's office (she's ill with the flu) and the only way to get home was to walk. So we walked, Chester glued to my side, scraping his furry black paws against the pavement, too tired to completely pick them up.
I'm not sure how many seizures Chester has had over the past 8 months, perhaps 20 or 25, but the vet assures us that he remembers nothing of them. I remember everything. Ann does, too. This is the first seizure he's had away from the house. They've always been either early in the morning or late at night (though he had one in the middle of the day, but it was the 3rd in a series of 5 and we were both home).
Oddly, I wasn't really afraid. I never thought that he would die on that lawn or that we wouldn't make it home. Rather, I worried that he would be so disoriented and so "away" from home that he'd turn on me or bolt for some path or some smell that lead him somewhere familiar. I spoke quietly and calmly to him all the way home. We were 15 minutes from the house, but I went slowly and it took us a half hour to make the journey.
Now he's panting at my side, wondering when I'm coming to bed, almost unaware of the trauma of the day. Yes, he is worried, but that's been part of his nightly routine for the past few months -- whining until the lights go out and everyone has gone to sleep.
There is no connection to these memories, no thread I can pull from the angry parent through to the bicycle sunshine, no way to wrap it around Chester's sweet face. They are just events in the day of one person among billions. Yet oddly, I think they will live in my memory as somehow connected, linked by anger, invigoration, and sadness -- bands of light - chemical, electrical, mineral - inventing a way for time, my time, to think about itself.
And as I type the last word, I hear Chester in the hallway, writhing in yet another seizure. It's going to be a long night.
I have collected these memories...
Yesterday afternoon. An angry parent. She was frustrated with me because we got back late from a field trip and they would be late the girl's orthodontist appointment. I couldn't get the mother's anger off of me all night. I chewed on it for hours. The planning involved in the field trip included bus schedules, gathering bus money, filling out a field trip form, and organizing the tour of the NOAA fisheries facilities with the educator on their staff. When the city bus came to take us home, it was 10 minutes late and packed. The bus driver told us we'd have to wait for the next bus, but I put half the kids on the bus with another teacher (who filled in for my ill teaching partner) including the kid who I knew had to be back for her appointment. We waited for the next bus, which was 10 minutes later, and empty. Only an old woman who told us stories all the way back to school. When I walked into the school building, the mother laid into me as the first group arrived only 3 minutes before we did. I just looked at the mom and sighed. What was I to say? I've been practicing being grateful (New Year's Resolution #2). I wish she were practicing too.
I rode my bike to work this morning. It rained last night and the streets were wet, but the sunrise was magnificent and the cold air felt refreshing on my cheeks. Over the past few months, I thought I'd lost my love of rain. This morning, the rain redeemed itself.
By this afternoon, the hints of rain were gone, the sun was warm and energizing, and the ride home was a perfect balance of lungs, muscle, and weather. I wanted to keep riding for hours.
Once home, the dog leapt up to greet me, as excited by the warm weather as I was. I hooked him up to the leash and off we trotted on a walk up past the elementary school, right at the Catholic Church, and up an extra block because his legs and mine felt strong.
On the grassy lawn right by the library, Chester stopped, looked at me and refused to move. Oh shit, a seizure. He flopped down on the grass underneath a huge cedar tree and writhed and spun his legs as if he were bicycling on a bicycle built for four legs. His mouth pressed open in a gagging yawn and he moaned, that awful gutteral sound, like the last breath of a dying man. Foam seeped from the corners of his groaning mouth and his eyes fixed on nothing and everything. Unlike most seizures where he eventually lies quietly breathing deeply, he kept trying, during this one, to get up, to stand on the lawn as if nothing had happened.
Usually, when he goes into a seizure, I give him a syringe of valium rectally. It calms him down and brings him out of the seizure quickly. He wanders the house then, checking out every corner for food or smells eventually ending up in the backyard where he scents out every inch of the perimeter. Tonight I had no valium and I was a mile from home. Ann was at the doctor's office (she's ill with the flu) and the only way to get home was to walk. So we walked, Chester glued to my side, scraping his furry black paws against the pavement, too tired to completely pick them up.
I'm not sure how many seizures Chester has had over the past 8 months, perhaps 20 or 25, but the vet assures us that he remembers nothing of them. I remember everything. Ann does, too. This is the first seizure he's had away from the house. They've always been either early in the morning or late at night (though he had one in the middle of the day, but it was the 3rd in a series of 5 and we were both home).
Oddly, I wasn't really afraid. I never thought that he would die on that lawn or that we wouldn't make it home. Rather, I worried that he would be so disoriented and so "away" from home that he'd turn on me or bolt for some path or some smell that lead him somewhere familiar. I spoke quietly and calmly to him all the way home. We were 15 minutes from the house, but I went slowly and it took us a half hour to make the journey.
Now he's panting at my side, wondering when I'm coming to bed, almost unaware of the trauma of the day. Yes, he is worried, but that's been part of his nightly routine for the past few months -- whining until the lights go out and everyone has gone to sleep.
There is no connection to these memories, no thread I can pull from the angry parent through to the bicycle sunshine, no way to wrap it around Chester's sweet face. They are just events in the day of one person among billions. Yet oddly, I think they will live in my memory as somehow connected, linked by anger, invigoration, and sadness -- bands of light - chemical, electrical, mineral - inventing a way for time, my time, to think about itself.
And as I type the last word, I hear Chester in the hallway, writhing in yet another seizure. It's going to be a long night.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Perfectly Pink: Capitalism and Cecilia
The sky was pink tonight. A sliver of hot pink on the horizon. Ann called me out to look at it before she headed out the door on a walk with Chester (I'd go, but I've abused my broken toe instead of resting it so she made me stay home).
I haven't seen pink skies in months. It was beautiful.
I dislike the color pink (I'm trying not to over use the word hate in my life...I'm saving it for really important things like the president, the war in Iraq, capitalism, cooked carrots...you get the picture).
But pink in the sky tonight was perfect.
Speaking of capitalism, we had breakfast with our artist-friend Cecilia. I love her. Her mind is amazing. She holds so much in her head. We start talking about her next art exhibit (entitled: Who do we invite to the table?) -- it will be a table, decorated in Mexican motifs with huge bowls at the place settings representing AIR WATER EARTH and ANIMALS (humans included). They'll be place settings for corporations like Conoco-Phillips whose profits last year were larger than the GDP (Gross Domestic Product) of three nations...I can't remember all the countries, but Thailand was in there. She was furious and went on and on about how Americans have been suckered into thinking that "capitalism" is synonomous with "democracy".
Then, between bites of eggs and toast, she started telling us about race as a construct...a discussion we've had before...and how she watched this show called myochondrial (sp?) Eve...how scientists have traced human genetic lineage back to one woman in southern Africa and from her, 5 strands of her descendants spread through the world (Cecilia can tell exactly where each descendent went...I can't) and that they took a full-blooded Cree man and a white punk girl (that's how C. described her, though I never thought of punk as a race...but it added to the picture)...anyway, they tested their genetics and the two of them share the same myochondrial strand. Freaky.
And the whole time I'm listening to C. and I'm thinking, "This woman should be president, no doubt about it" and I tell her, "Cecilia, you should be president." And she said, "The real creative people who have real intelligence never even think about politics as an option"...only she wasn't being arrogant about it, she was being honest and upfront and passionate...
And I said, "But still, can you imagine how this country would change if the tables were turned?"
C. said, "Which brings me back to my Who gets invited to the table exhibit! The fate of the earth is in these evil, evil hands."
When the sky turned pink tonight, I knew there was a possibility that it might be a good omen -- the first step in ending evil perhaps? Or maybe just a sign that this 40 days and 40 nights shit is almost over.
Cecilia can be invited to my table any time!
I haven't seen pink skies in months. It was beautiful.
I dislike the color pink (I'm trying not to over use the word hate in my life...I'm saving it for really important things like the president, the war in Iraq, capitalism, cooked carrots...you get the picture).
But pink in the sky tonight was perfect.
Speaking of capitalism, we had breakfast with our artist-friend Cecilia. I love her. Her mind is amazing. She holds so much in her head. We start talking about her next art exhibit (entitled: Who do we invite to the table?) -- it will be a table, decorated in Mexican motifs with huge bowls at the place settings representing AIR WATER EARTH and ANIMALS (humans included). They'll be place settings for corporations like Conoco-Phillips whose profits last year were larger than the GDP (Gross Domestic Product) of three nations...I can't remember all the countries, but Thailand was in there. She was furious and went on and on about how Americans have been suckered into thinking that "capitalism" is synonomous with "democracy".
Then, between bites of eggs and toast, she started telling us about race as a construct...a discussion we've had before...and how she watched this show called myochondrial (sp?) Eve...how scientists have traced human genetic lineage back to one woman in southern Africa and from her, 5 strands of her descendants spread through the world (Cecilia can tell exactly where each descendent went...I can't) and that they took a full-blooded Cree man and a white punk girl (that's how C. described her, though I never thought of punk as a race...but it added to the picture)...anyway, they tested their genetics and the two of them share the same myochondrial strand. Freaky.
And the whole time I'm listening to C. and I'm thinking, "This woman should be president, no doubt about it" and I tell her, "Cecilia, you should be president." And she said, "The real creative people who have real intelligence never even think about politics as an option"...only she wasn't being arrogant about it, she was being honest and upfront and passionate...
And I said, "But still, can you imagine how this country would change if the tables were turned?"
C. said, "Which brings me back to my Who gets invited to the table exhibit! The fate of the earth is in these evil, evil hands."
When the sky turned pink tonight, I knew there was a possibility that it might be a good omen -- the first step in ending evil perhaps? Or maybe just a sign that this 40 days and 40 nights shit is almost over.
Cecilia can be invited to my table any time!
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Better day. They kids rolled and dove onto the floor for candy...only it wasn't candy, it was plankton...phytoplankton to be exact. Toxic phytoplankton, though they didn't know that. Their shellfish and fish and seal lion and human selves played the "bioaccumulation" game, gathering up what looked good, but wasn't. Then the Whale guy came and took two hours to do his whale show, complete with whale skull (not real, but ya coulda' fooled me) and my teaching partner and I just got to watch and do a bit of work...
And I pondered today...actually pondered, which is something I rarely find time to do or space in my brain to do it (nor do I find time to pee, but that should be another post)...and I kept thinking about Tablespoons. Not the kind on your placemat, but the kind everything is supposed to be measured in.
A tablespoon of olive oil as x amount of caloires and x amount of fat...but apparently it's good fat, so I'm not sure if that means you can have an extra tablespoon or not. Versus like a tablespoon of ice cream, though it usually is measured in 1/2 cups on the back of the carton (one serving = 1/2 cup...as if anyone can eat just 1/2 a cup of ice cream). Versus a tablespoon of sesame seeds, which is really quite a lot and they are supposedly high in fat, but if you ate the spoonful, it would be like eating bits of an eraser. Wouldn't it?
Or a tablespoon of "creamy salad dressing" (as is stated by Weight Watchers...something worth a lot of points, but at WW you don't want points, you want to eat less points). Can anyone put just one tablespoon of creamy salad dressing on their salad? Do you just make the salad that much smaller? One tablespoon creamy salad dressing to 2 tablespoons lettuce? Even a cup of lettuce couldn't be adequately covered in creamy salad dressing with a tablespoon. Could it?
And then there's a tablespoon of salt. No recipe ever really calls for a tablespoon of salt. Whereas the creamy salad dressing can't be spread that thin, a tablespoon of salt could go on for days.
I just had a tablespoon of chocolate fudge sauce sans ice cream (we have none in the house).
I could easily have another tablespoon, but I figure the label says one tablespoon is the suggested serving size.
Of course, my tablespoon was more like a mound than a flat across the spoon thing, but is a tablespoon supposed to be level?
Guess so, but it seems silly, when dipping the spoon into the jar to level it off. You'd have to level with a knife or something. Or better yet, your finger and then what? You have to lick the knife or your finger because it's silly to scrap your knife or finger against the side of the jar, isn't it?
Perhaps this is why I teach...to keep my head so full, I can't fill it up tablespoons of "rhetorical observation" designed to justify why I just had a heaping tablespoon of hot fudge sauce even though today was a good day!
I'm really no different than my students. Toxic tablespoons versus toxic food webs -- we're all just doomed to suck up what looks good, but isn't...
And I pondered today...actually pondered, which is something I rarely find time to do or space in my brain to do it (nor do I find time to pee, but that should be another post)...and I kept thinking about Tablespoons. Not the kind on your placemat, but the kind everything is supposed to be measured in.
A tablespoon of olive oil as x amount of caloires and x amount of fat...but apparently it's good fat, so I'm not sure if that means you can have an extra tablespoon or not. Versus like a tablespoon of ice cream, though it usually is measured in 1/2 cups on the back of the carton (one serving = 1/2 cup...as if anyone can eat just 1/2 a cup of ice cream). Versus a tablespoon of sesame seeds, which is really quite a lot and they are supposedly high in fat, but if you ate the spoonful, it would be like eating bits of an eraser. Wouldn't it?
Or a tablespoon of "creamy salad dressing" (as is stated by Weight Watchers...something worth a lot of points, but at WW you don't want points, you want to eat less points). Can anyone put just one tablespoon of creamy salad dressing on their salad? Do you just make the salad that much smaller? One tablespoon creamy salad dressing to 2 tablespoons lettuce? Even a cup of lettuce couldn't be adequately covered in creamy salad dressing with a tablespoon. Could it?
And then there's a tablespoon of salt. No recipe ever really calls for a tablespoon of salt. Whereas the creamy salad dressing can't be spread that thin, a tablespoon of salt could go on for days.
I just had a tablespoon of chocolate fudge sauce sans ice cream (we have none in the house).
I could easily have another tablespoon, but I figure the label says one tablespoon is the suggested serving size.
Of course, my tablespoon was more like a mound than a flat across the spoon thing, but is a tablespoon supposed to be level?
Guess so, but it seems silly, when dipping the spoon into the jar to level it off. You'd have to level with a knife or something. Or better yet, your finger and then what? You have to lick the knife or your finger because it's silly to scrap your knife or finger against the side of the jar, isn't it?
Perhaps this is why I teach...to keep my head so full, I can't fill it up tablespoons of "rhetorical observation" designed to justify why I just had a heaping tablespoon of hot fudge sauce even though today was a good day!
I'm really no different than my students. Toxic tablespoons versus toxic food webs -- we're all just doomed to suck up what looks good, but isn't...
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Graphite and Charcoal
The dog and I walked under the darkening skies tonight. It wasn't raining. It was threatening. To the north, graphite clouds. To the south charcoal clouds. We walked between the two. Wind pushed one set of clouds further north and the other set of clouds further south. Push and pull, a wind that goes in both directions with equal force. There must be some kind of meterological name for such a wind.
And the red raincoat of the dog lead me down the streets flowing with water. The lawns are sponges left in a sink. No one has squeezed them out for awhile. They are wet. They smell. The water runs off of them, pulled by gravity into rivers that gather up twigs and dirt, cigarette butts and old gum. The dog's feet are wet, knee-deep in wet. He is part Spaniel and he loves this. Duck hunting without the ducks. A marsh in his own backyard.
A friend of mine, on cold cold mornings picks up her dog's poo in thick black plastic bags. She secures them tightly with a knot and then holds them in her pockets like handwarmers.
Tonight I needed handwarmers.
But the dog just kept prancing down the street, singing in the rain -- Gene Kelly dressed in black fur. We walked through the wet black rip in heaven waiting to get soaked.
We never did.
And now, in the warmth of the house, the gas fireplace pumping out heat, the rain is coming down in sheets. I can hear it against the roof, I can see it run down the street in waves. The dog sleeps in the heat, sprawled out and twitching. Dreaming of puddles and ducks and the smell that must be followed.
In one way, I am in awe. There is so much water. It's the same awe when I have a cold and I just keep blowing my nose and more and more snot comes out.
Where does it all come from -- this rain, this snot?
But I'm not in awe of the rain anymore. Just like the snot, I'm ready for it to be gone. Just for a little while.
I want to believe there is a sun again.
And the red raincoat of the dog lead me down the streets flowing with water. The lawns are sponges left in a sink. No one has squeezed them out for awhile. They are wet. They smell. The water runs off of them, pulled by gravity into rivers that gather up twigs and dirt, cigarette butts and old gum. The dog's feet are wet, knee-deep in wet. He is part Spaniel and he loves this. Duck hunting without the ducks. A marsh in his own backyard.
A friend of mine, on cold cold mornings picks up her dog's poo in thick black plastic bags. She secures them tightly with a knot and then holds them in her pockets like handwarmers.
Tonight I needed handwarmers.
But the dog just kept prancing down the street, singing in the rain -- Gene Kelly dressed in black fur. We walked through the wet black rip in heaven waiting to get soaked.
We never did.
And now, in the warmth of the house, the gas fireplace pumping out heat, the rain is coming down in sheets. I can hear it against the roof, I can see it run down the street in waves. The dog sleeps in the heat, sprawled out and twitching. Dreaming of puddles and ducks and the smell that must be followed.
In one way, I am in awe. There is so much water. It's the same awe when I have a cold and I just keep blowing my nose and more and more snot comes out.
Where does it all come from -- this rain, this snot?
But I'm not in awe of the rain anymore. Just like the snot, I'm ready for it to be gone. Just for a little while.
I want to believe there is a sun again.
I recommended to three families that their daughters seek therapy.
I spent an hour on the phone with the therapist tonight (I sent them all to the same EXCELLENT adolescent psychotherapist). We talked about each kid.
She said, "Wow, this is a whopper of a class!" Not sure she said "whopper" but that's what I heard.
I said, "Yes, and you haven't seen the other 19 yet!"
We went through each case sharing what we knew and how I, as the teacher (and my teaching partner as well) could help support the kids in class.
First kid...
She said, "She has never learned boundaries. Her parents have no boundaries. They give her adult emotional information and she takes it in, but hasn't a clue what to do with all of it."
I said, "Yes, I see that in class...this is why I referred her to you."
Second kid...
She said, "This kid is flippant and angry. The parents are clueless and run ragged. They don't know how to set limits for this kid."
I said, "They say they are trying to set limits, but what I see is that they are in a stare down with their child and the child is waiting for them to blink first because they've ALWAYS blinked first. Meanwhile, the kid is flunking and will soon be on academic probation and I'm certain the parents are going to blink any day now."
Third kid...
She said, "I am the most worried about this kid. In 35 years of being a therapist, I've never seen such a difficult case."
I said...I said...I said...
nothing...
She had just given me too much adult emotional information and I vacillate between being flippant and angry.
I'm holding my boundaries, but barely.
I see compassion fatigue on the horizon. I've been there. I don't want to go there again. Teachers without borders. Only I don't travel to foreign places. I may not see starvation, but I see emotional starvation and it hurts just as much.
Why can't I just teach them about verbs? Why can't I just teach them about the structure of intertidal invertebrates? Why can't I just take them on a field trip to the Zoo and we can all point at the magnificent animals and go "oooohhhhh, ahhhhhh, wow!"?
When did teaching become therapy?
I think I'm going to take my wavering boundaries outside and use them to cover me up in this dreary rain while I walk the dog...
Wet wimpy boundaries...that'll help.
I spent an hour on the phone with the therapist tonight (I sent them all to the same EXCELLENT adolescent psychotherapist). We talked about each kid.
She said, "Wow, this is a whopper of a class!" Not sure she said "whopper" but that's what I heard.
I said, "Yes, and you haven't seen the other 19 yet!"
We went through each case sharing what we knew and how I, as the teacher (and my teaching partner as well) could help support the kids in class.
First kid...
She said, "She has never learned boundaries. Her parents have no boundaries. They give her adult emotional information and she takes it in, but hasn't a clue what to do with all of it."
I said, "Yes, I see that in class...this is why I referred her to you."
Second kid...
She said, "This kid is flippant and angry. The parents are clueless and run ragged. They don't know how to set limits for this kid."
I said, "They say they are trying to set limits, but what I see is that they are in a stare down with their child and the child is waiting for them to blink first because they've ALWAYS blinked first. Meanwhile, the kid is flunking and will soon be on academic probation and I'm certain the parents are going to blink any day now."
Third kid...
She said, "I am the most worried about this kid. In 35 years of being a therapist, I've never seen such a difficult case."
I said...I said...I said...
nothing...
She had just given me too much adult emotional information and I vacillate between being flippant and angry.
I'm holding my boundaries, but barely.
I see compassion fatigue on the horizon. I've been there. I don't want to go there again. Teachers without borders. Only I don't travel to foreign places. I may not see starvation, but I see emotional starvation and it hurts just as much.
Why can't I just teach them about verbs? Why can't I just teach them about the structure of intertidal invertebrates? Why can't I just take them on a field trip to the Zoo and we can all point at the magnificent animals and go "oooohhhhh, ahhhhhh, wow!"?
When did teaching become therapy?
I think I'm going to take my wavering boundaries outside and use them to cover me up in this dreary rain while I walk the dog...
Wet wimpy boundaries...that'll help.
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