The sky held its breath this afternoon. Charcoal hung heavy against the sunlit houses. Illuminated colors seemed all the brighter, all the more iridescent in contrast to the steely gray of the rain-laden clouds. I tried to take a photograph, but I couldn't capture the expanse of it. Instead, I waited for the sky to exhale and release the cold pellets of rain held deep within its belly.
Hours later, I'm still waiting.
The clouds have pushed themselves across the sky, the sun, what little there was of it, slipped behind the mountains, and still no rain.
It'll come, I know, just as it did last night and the night before. The pounding of it woke me up each time and I rolled over in my warm bed to dream of rafts in rough whitewater and swimming deep beneath the lake.
This morning I woke up to read about the symptoms of menopause, not because of the rain or my dreams, but because of my dry skin and pulsating headaches. They were both on the list along with a racing heart, irregular menstruation, and night-sweats, all of which I'm experiencing.
I'd like to think there is a connection between the long winter of this spring and my crawl beyond middle age, but I have yet to figure out the significance. My dreams are unclear as well and often they are a perfect reflection of what's on my mind or trapped deep within it.
The water dreams happen a lot for me as do the dreams of riding in a car that I'm either supposed to be driving though I'm not in the driver's seat or dreams of my teeth falling out one chunk at a time. My mother, a member of her own dream group, would say I have issues with control and my therapist would say, in Jungian fashion, that I am the water, I am the car, I am my teeth, but even knowing all of the possible interpretations doesn't unravel the tangled web I wake with every morning.
Most likely it has to do with transition and there, perhaps, is the connection between this afternoon's sky and my current life -- we are both holding our breath. I shall hold my breath, I fear, for the next 5 1/2 weeks, the time I have left "in the trenches" of my last days as a teacher. Exhaling means release and I am not at the place where I can release myself from the responsibilities of another busy end of the year.
This morning, the weather forecaster on the radio talked of a 40% chance of precipitation. That's kind of how I feel -- a 40% chance of relaxation. A 40% chance of letting go. A 40% chance of release.
When the clouds hung like velvet steely drapes this afternoon, the 40% felt imminent.
Then nothing. No rain. No hail. No pellets of sleet. Just a cold chill growing colder and the feeling that the sky was as heavy as a bank vault door.
Only without a combination to unlock the safe. Thick metal between one world and the next.
This sounds depressing, but I didn't see or feel it that way. Instead I felt anxious, but not in a bad way. It felt more suspended just like that place between a breath in and breath out. An extended anticipation. Almost calm, but with a slight tug of tension when the lungs are full, expanded and the breath pushes for release.
I can't photograph that either.
I walked the dog to the first day of the Farmer's Market. It's about an hour walk and with each step I worried about not having enough warm clothes or getting drenched when the clouds opened up just far enough from home to make the walk back miserable. When we got to the Market, I waited for Ann to join us and ate my vegetable tamale and sipped my ice-cold lemonade while Rubin played with the ice cubes I tossed him. Still no rain. I huddled against a tree and tried to catch the glimpses of sun that pushed through the sheets of metal sky.
Ann arrived, ate her tamales and we walked back to the car to avoid the rain.
But still no rain.
We came home, turned up the furnace, watched some TV while drinking hot cocoa and still the rain waited.
The sky will breathe again.
And so will I, but for now I'll head up to bed, wait for the sound of rain on the skylight and the water to fill my dreams.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Tuesdays With Dorrie
By marrying Ann, I have inherited her friends. They are good friends, good people and I feel as if my life expanded ten-fold with their addition.Two of those friends are Doris and Steven. They are such good friends that when we remodeled our house, we got to live with them for over a month. They have a large, spacious, and incredibly gorgeous house so we could have lived there without them even knowing, but that's not how Doris and Steven work. They embrace you -- full arms, full heart, and most importantly, full-bellied. Well, we at least had full bellies!
Doris retired last year from teaching. She hasn't skipped a beat since her last day of work. She traveled to Italy, knitted more sweaters than I've ever owned in my life, worked on a myriad of art projects, and mastered the science of making no-knead bread. Steven, who retired some time ago, is the steady pulse in Doris' busy life. He golfs every morning, so early that there is often frost still on the course, he walks his gi-normous German shepherd, Ben, and assists Doris in her many, many household projects.
He, too, helps with the no-knead bread.
Upon her retirement, Doris and Steven have opened their house every Tuesday night for dinner. Anyone who has lived in their house or are friends with someone who have lived in their house are invited. This includes not only Doris and Steven's two grown children --Ian and Phoebe and their spouses -- but all of their extended family and friends.
We're included. Even Rubin is included and while we all meet in the kitchen to talk politics and food, the dogs chase each other around their swimming pool in the backyard.
But always, at the center of the gathering is this incredible food. Each Tuesday is a different theme. One week it's Japanese, the next Indian. With Doris' background, Italian night is always a big hit. Last week was Mexican, but instead of tortillas we ate bread...lots and lots of bread...and pineapple spears for dessert. No matter the theme, the Italian flair is always present be it in the cheeses or the "caponata" (pictured below) that we spread on our bread.
The food is always wonderful, but the gathering of eclectic characters is even more wonderful. Tonight we may not be able to attend. Our lives are busy today and well into the evening, so we'll throw together something light and easy. It'll be enjoyable as Ann and I debrief our days and plan ahead for the upcoming summer. Rubin will enjoy the mellow environment and go for a game of fetch right before bed.
But down the street, Doris and Steven and their many friends and extended family will share yet another meal. It's good to know such people exist in the world. It's really wonderful to know they exist in my life.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Dear Mr. Obama
Don't worry. You have my support. Though my state's primaries are long gone, you got my vote. And until it was stolen, I even had a sign for you in the front yard. I took it as a compliment. Someone wanted to put the sign in their yard and couldn't afford to purchase one of their own is how I comforted myself. It's like that sometimes in my neighborhood. Even though gentrification has swept through some of the streets where I live, the neighborhood is still pretty poor, black, and therefore, according to media pundits, in your column for votes.
Still, there's something that's been bothering me lately. Just like my neighborhood, it has to do with money. When I read in the local and national headlines that you've raised 40 million dollars in a month and Clinton another 25 million, I'm torn from feeling happy that more people seem to want to put their money in support of you than Clinton (or even John McCain for that matter), but also angry that so much money is going to something as crazy as who will "lead" our country for the next four years.
40 million dollars can go a long way when you really think about it. And you've raised that much in one month. For what? Advertising? Paying your overworked staffers? Campaign costs? Nice suits and shoes? I mean, you spent more in Pennsylvania than any other candidate past or present and you still lost, though I know you don't frame it that way. Still, you didn't win and you spent oodles of money trying to convince all those white, working-class voters to believe in you.
It didn't work, I'm sorry to say, but I think I have something that just might. Instead of spending all that money on TV commercials and jets to fly you from Pennsylvania to Indiana and then to North Carolina, why not spend that money in a more meaningful way. Here are some suggestions:
1) Build "green" homes with Brad and Angelina in New Orleans.
2) Buy groceries for a family struggling to make ends meet. As you probably know, children make up 25% of our population, but they make up 35% of the poor in our country.
3) Pay for job training (or retraining) for all those unemployed workers you refer to in your speeches.
4) Fix up the Veteran's Hospitals around the country.
5) Fund a school district of your choice. Or ten.
6) Support organic farmers.
7) Buy part of the ocean and create a marine sanctuary to protect our rapidly dying seas.
8) Pay for solar panels on as many houses in as many cities as you can.
9) Clean up the polluted rivers and bays around the country.
10) Pay to clean up Hanford's toxic waste site.
I can think of a billion more things you can do with your millions (or maybe it's billions if you add it all up) than to spend it on advertising and spiteful debating. Besides, imagine the press coverage you'd get if you polled your supporters on your website for their ideas and then spent your money on their suggestions? "Barack Obama pays off the mortgage debt for 500 homeowners." Don't you think that headline would garner you more votes among those white, working class women than anything else you might spend your money on?
I think so.
Good luck and thanks for listening,
No Apologies
Still, there's something that's been bothering me lately. Just like my neighborhood, it has to do with money. When I read in the local and national headlines that you've raised 40 million dollars in a month and Clinton another 25 million, I'm torn from feeling happy that more people seem to want to put their money in support of you than Clinton (or even John McCain for that matter), but also angry that so much money is going to something as crazy as who will "lead" our country for the next four years.
40 million dollars can go a long way when you really think about it. And you've raised that much in one month. For what? Advertising? Paying your overworked staffers? Campaign costs? Nice suits and shoes? I mean, you spent more in Pennsylvania than any other candidate past or present and you still lost, though I know you don't frame it that way. Still, you didn't win and you spent oodles of money trying to convince all those white, working-class voters to believe in you.
It didn't work, I'm sorry to say, but I think I have something that just might. Instead of spending all that money on TV commercials and jets to fly you from Pennsylvania to Indiana and then to North Carolina, why not spend that money in a more meaningful way. Here are some suggestions:
1) Build "green" homes with Brad and Angelina in New Orleans.
2) Buy groceries for a family struggling to make ends meet. As you probably know, children make up 25% of our population, but they make up 35% of the poor in our country.
3) Pay for job training (or retraining) for all those unemployed workers you refer to in your speeches.
4) Fix up the Veteran's Hospitals around the country.
5) Fund a school district of your choice. Or ten.
6) Support organic farmers.
7) Buy part of the ocean and create a marine sanctuary to protect our rapidly dying seas.
8) Pay for solar panels on as many houses in as many cities as you can.
9) Clean up the polluted rivers and bays around the country.
10) Pay to clean up Hanford's toxic waste site.
I can think of a billion more things you can do with your millions (or maybe it's billions if you add it all up) than to spend it on advertising and spiteful debating. Besides, imagine the press coverage you'd get if you polled your supporters on your website for their ideas and then spent your money on their suggestions? "Barack Obama pays off the mortgage debt for 500 homeowners." Don't you think that headline would garner you more votes among those white, working class women than anything else you might spend your money on?
I think so.
Good luck and thanks for listening,
No Apologies
Monday, April 21, 2008
Spectacles
I left right after school let out today to weave my way through downtown Seattle on my way to Queen Anne Hill for an eye check-up. Navigating from one end of town to the other is not easy in Seattle. Neighborhoods like Ballard and West Seattle are the long arms of the sea star that make up the city. We live in the Central District, which is, as indicated by the name, central to everything.
But nothing is central to Ballard, West Seattle, and yes, Queen Anne. So I drove circuitous routes avoiding places I knew would be jammed with buses and cars and hundreds of people crossing the street.
Queen Anne a whole different world. Living in one neighborhood insulates me from the others and when I have a chance to wander around a bit, I'm amazed how different one neighborhood is from the other.
Queen Anne is packed with expensive condos, old homes, and wide neighborhood streets. Before my appointment I walked the back streets and found little bakeries tucked next door to churches. Pricey grocery stores and trendy coffee houses line the main street. Neighbors walk by with their well-groomed dogs on a diamond-studded leash and traffic stops when people try to cross.
Nary a drug addict or a Walgreen's to be found.
Where I live, the streets are narrower and filled with potholes. Parking is an impossibility and pit bulls lunge on the end of their short chains attached to young men in over-sized black clothes. Women wander the corners of the neighborhood waiting for their dealers or their pimps, and chicken bones pepper the sidewalk as crows drop them from power and telephone lines.
There are no power or telephone lines on Queen Anne Hill. They're all buried underground.
And everywhere I looked today were white people just like me, enjoying the first warm sun we've seen in weeks.
I like my neighborhood. I like how families sit out on their porches on hot summer evenings and wave a hello with a nod and grin. I like how easy it is to hop on a bus or my bike or even walk to the library or downtown to the bookstore. I like the diversity of faces -- the Asian woman racing across the street against a red light, the elderly black woman in her wool beret and thick, bunched up socks, and the Latino man in his work clothes heading for the bus.
I never realize the deficits of my neighborhood until I venture into another one, a more upscale one with it's high-priced shops and trendy espresso stands.
Money equals power and power means you can get the city to fill your potholes, bury your power lines, and arrest the prostitutes and drug dealers -- or at least push them to the next neighborhood. With money you have voice. I could hear that voice loud and clear today while wondering the streets of Queen Anne.
After the eye appointment I stopped at the trendy grocery store to pick up some dinner and a few odds and ends I missed when I shopped this weekend.
"I'm sorry," I said to the young, African-American clerk, "I forgot my cloth bags. Can you just cram the groceries into one bag?"
"No problem!" she said with a smile. "If you spend $50 tomorrow at our store, you get cloth bags for free."
"Too bad I don't live around here," I smiled back.
"Well, we have stores all over the city. They have same offer. Where do you live?"
"I live in the Central District," I told her.
"Oh," she said and I knew she understood the greater meanings. "Guess your options are limited."
"Very," I replied.
But when I got home, I looked passed the limitations and saw the first buds on the maple trees that line the street, the old Reverend who sweeps his front walkway every day, and my neighbors walking their new baby in a stroller.
You don't know what you don't have until you see what others have and then you can either covet their haves or cherish your own.
I'm choosing to see what I have and with a new prescription for stronger glasses, I'm thankful I can see quite a lot.
But nothing is central to Ballard, West Seattle, and yes, Queen Anne. So I drove circuitous routes avoiding places I knew would be jammed with buses and cars and hundreds of people crossing the street.
Queen Anne a whole different world. Living in one neighborhood insulates me from the others and when I have a chance to wander around a bit, I'm amazed how different one neighborhood is from the other.
Queen Anne is packed with expensive condos, old homes, and wide neighborhood streets. Before my appointment I walked the back streets and found little bakeries tucked next door to churches. Pricey grocery stores and trendy coffee houses line the main street. Neighbors walk by with their well-groomed dogs on a diamond-studded leash and traffic stops when people try to cross.
Nary a drug addict or a Walgreen's to be found.
Where I live, the streets are narrower and filled with potholes. Parking is an impossibility and pit bulls lunge on the end of their short chains attached to young men in over-sized black clothes. Women wander the corners of the neighborhood waiting for their dealers or their pimps, and chicken bones pepper the sidewalk as crows drop them from power and telephone lines.
There are no power or telephone lines on Queen Anne Hill. They're all buried underground.
And everywhere I looked today were white people just like me, enjoying the first warm sun we've seen in weeks.
I like my neighborhood. I like how families sit out on their porches on hot summer evenings and wave a hello with a nod and grin. I like how easy it is to hop on a bus or my bike or even walk to the library or downtown to the bookstore. I like the diversity of faces -- the Asian woman racing across the street against a red light, the elderly black woman in her wool beret and thick, bunched up socks, and the Latino man in his work clothes heading for the bus.
I never realize the deficits of my neighborhood until I venture into another one, a more upscale one with it's high-priced shops and trendy espresso stands.
Money equals power and power means you can get the city to fill your potholes, bury your power lines, and arrest the prostitutes and drug dealers -- or at least push them to the next neighborhood. With money you have voice. I could hear that voice loud and clear today while wondering the streets of Queen Anne.
After the eye appointment I stopped at the trendy grocery store to pick up some dinner and a few odds and ends I missed when I shopped this weekend.
"I'm sorry," I said to the young, African-American clerk, "I forgot my cloth bags. Can you just cram the groceries into one bag?"
"No problem!" she said with a smile. "If you spend $50 tomorrow at our store, you get cloth bags for free."
"Too bad I don't live around here," I smiled back.
"Well, we have stores all over the city. They have same offer. Where do you live?"
"I live in the Central District," I told her.
"Oh," she said and I knew she understood the greater meanings. "Guess your options are limited."
"Very," I replied.
But when I got home, I looked passed the limitations and saw the first buds on the maple trees that line the street, the old Reverend who sweeps his front walkway every day, and my neighbors walking their new baby in a stroller.
You don't know what you don't have until you see what others have and then you can either covet their haves or cherish your own.
I'm choosing to see what I have and with a new prescription for stronger glasses, I'm thankful I can see quite a lot.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Dang nabbit!
I like cold. I love snow. I like to get all bundled up in my heavy wool sweaters and thick gloves, my fleece pants and a woolen hat. I like to go for long walks when the temperature dips below freezing and watch my breath trail behind me as I go. I love the feeling of entering a warm house after a brisk, chilly walk. I love the smell of the wintry air, the way my eyes water when I first step out the door into the frigidity.
But dang nabbit, it's spring and it shouldn't be this cold.
This morning we woke to 34 degrees and crisp, chilly blue skies. First I went for a jog with Rubin. I warmed up, but had scheduled a bike ride with the neighbor at ten. She wanted to know the bike route to the University and I volunteered. I kicked myself as we rode down the big hills in the frosty weather, my hands chapped and clamped onto my handlebars, my nose dripping, and my ears burning with the cold. On the way back, it started to snow.
Let me say that again: It started to snow. April 20 and it started to snow. Rain I understand. Semi-cold, gray, rainy days I get. April showers bring May flowers -- that kind of gray and rainy. That kind of cold. Like flowers blooming is a possibility if not an actuality.
But now it's so cold, the flowers have retreated. They've headed to Florida that's how far they have retreated. Or maybe Texas. Or maybe even Australia where technically it's winter, but it's probably warmer than our spring. The flowers would be stupid to show their little buds in this weather.
Meanwhile, the heating bill is substantially higher. I watch that little year-long-use graph and cringe when the bar for March and April shoots far above the bar marking last March and April. And I thought it was cold last spring!
My toes are cold. My ears are cold. At night, my nose is so cold I sleep with my head under the covers. I NEVER sleep with my nose under the covers because I feel as if I'm suffocating, but now I'm so desperate to be warm, I risk suffocation every night.
The outlook for warmer weather is dismal. I check the 5-day forecast and chilly mornings are to be followed by chilly, rainy days. When I look at the 10-day forecast there always seems to be some optimism with predictions of 60 degree weather. But these past few weeks I've learned to loathe those predictions as they are almost always incorrect. Actually, they are incorrect when they forecast warmer temperatures. When they forecast colder weather they are dead on.
Dang nabbit!
But dang nabbit, it's spring and it shouldn't be this cold.
This morning we woke to 34 degrees and crisp, chilly blue skies. First I went for a jog with Rubin. I warmed up, but had scheduled a bike ride with the neighbor at ten. She wanted to know the bike route to the University and I volunteered. I kicked myself as we rode down the big hills in the frosty weather, my hands chapped and clamped onto my handlebars, my nose dripping, and my ears burning with the cold. On the way back, it started to snow.
Let me say that again: It started to snow. April 20 and it started to snow. Rain I understand. Semi-cold, gray, rainy days I get. April showers bring May flowers -- that kind of gray and rainy. That kind of cold. Like flowers blooming is a possibility if not an actuality.
But now it's so cold, the flowers have retreated. They've headed to Florida that's how far they have retreated. Or maybe Texas. Or maybe even Australia where technically it's winter, but it's probably warmer than our spring. The flowers would be stupid to show their little buds in this weather.
Meanwhile, the heating bill is substantially higher. I watch that little year-long-use graph and cringe when the bar for March and April shoots far above the bar marking last March and April. And I thought it was cold last spring!
My toes are cold. My ears are cold. At night, my nose is so cold I sleep with my head under the covers. I NEVER sleep with my nose under the covers because I feel as if I'm suffocating, but now I'm so desperate to be warm, I risk suffocation every night.
The outlook for warmer weather is dismal. I check the 5-day forecast and chilly mornings are to be followed by chilly, rainy days. When I look at the 10-day forecast there always seems to be some optimism with predictions of 60 degree weather. But these past few weeks I've learned to loathe those predictions as they are almost always incorrect. Actually, they are incorrect when they forecast warmer temperatures. When they forecast colder weather they are dead on.
Dang nabbit!
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Time in the Chair
My friend Cheryl tells me that writing is about your butt in the seat or time in the chair. She's right. It's a discipline and I'm trying desperately to master it. Some days are better than others.
Tonight, it's a struggle.
I woke this morning thinking, "Is it Friday?" and then realized for the past three Thursday mornings I've wondered the same things. A four-day work week lives inside of me somewhere though I have never really had such a luxury except when I worked part time while completing my MFA.
Then it was all about my butt in a chair, though I tempered all the writing with long, strenuous walks through the woods or on the beach. Now my days are filled with teaching and long, vigorous walks with Rubin through the streets of Seattle neighborhoods or along Lake Washington. I love those walks, but it doesn't leave me much time to put my seat in my seat.
But here I am, butt planted, and I'm struggling to find a topic. This is perhaps the tough thing about discipline. As a (former) athlete, discipline made sense. Get up, run, lift weights, practice drills, eat, stretch, eat some more, then go to bed tired and satisfied. Writing doesn't feel so regimented. There are no exercises to complete, no training schedule to meet. Instead of being tired and satisfied, my head spins with too many thoughts about what needs to get done by the end of the school year and people I need to contact to make it all work.
I loved being in a writing program. There were assignments. There were expectations and those expectations were outside myself. I was motivated by tasks to complete and professors to please. Now it's just me, my own ideas, and my expanding butt in this often too firm chair.
The other day on NPR I listened to a man who had just published his first book. I caught only part of the story, half an ear focused in twelve different morning directions. But I heard him confess to two important commitments. First, he gave himself five years to do nothing but write. (He was 45 at the time.) Next, he decided to pull out his typewriter, his favorite stories written by some of his favorite writers and retype their work...actually hammer out on a manual typewriter stories already written by someone else. He told the interviewer that those two commitments grounded him in the discipline of being a writer and even though he only got four stories published in those five years, he grew as a writer in ways he'd never imagined.
Oh, and he recently published a novel.
In my MFA program we were required to choose five of our favorite writers and write an essay in their voice. It was the hardest assignment I had in my two years in the program, but one I know challenged me as well as improved my writing. If I remember right, I chose Terry Tempest Williams, Nancy Mairs, Kathleen Dean Moore, Caroline Knapp, and then I really challenged myself and chose Jamaica Kincaid. I'm not sure I pulled it off, but I don't think that was the point of the assignment. There was a magic in the assignment. I got to leave my head for an hour or two, immerse myself in the words of others, and then spend the next hour or three living their voice on the page.
Maybe because I've been a teacher for so long I have a desire for my own assignments. A teacher would be nice, too, but even just a list of writing assignments with due dates and page lengths. Perhaps that's what all those contests are about whose announcements show up in my email box every week or so from my MFA program. I haven't been bold enough to pursue them, but maybe soon, with my shift of focus in work and in time I should muster up the courage to enter a few.
But this discipline thing scares me. Can I do it on my own?
As of late, aside from the walking, my exercise discipline has been lacking. I've recently recommitted myself to stretches and strength training in addition to the seven or so miles Rubin and I pound out in our walks to school, around the 'hood, and back home again. Now that he's old enough, we've even taken to some jogging for a couple of minutes to raise my heart rate (definitely not his) and it feels good to feel the press of my lungs working and my legs straining. Still, it's nothing like what I used to do and perhaps that's a good thing since my former athlete's body is damaged from all those jumping exercises up the stadium steps and miles of running with a sore knee or a strained back.
Maybe that's the lesson in all of this. Discipline is one thing, but moderation is the other. Carving out time to write is important, but it will only work, past experience tells me, if I temper the journey with those long walks of the brain and the heart. If I can't have the assignments doled out each week, at least I can have the time to think along with the time in the chair.
Mark Doty, the poet, once said in a workshop I attended that when you get to the end of a poem you need to be surprised by the last line. You need to feel as if the last line showed up and you really had nothing to do with it. It arrives because it was time.
I like that image.
I'm ready to be surprised. I'm ready for it to arrive because I've given it time.
And in the end, Cheryl is dead on: I need to show up.
Tonight, it's a struggle.
I woke this morning thinking, "Is it Friday?" and then realized for the past three Thursday mornings I've wondered the same things. A four-day work week lives inside of me somewhere though I have never really had such a luxury except when I worked part time while completing my MFA.
Then it was all about my butt in a chair, though I tempered all the writing with long, strenuous walks through the woods or on the beach. Now my days are filled with teaching and long, vigorous walks with Rubin through the streets of Seattle neighborhoods or along Lake Washington. I love those walks, but it doesn't leave me much time to put my seat in my seat.
But here I am, butt planted, and I'm struggling to find a topic. This is perhaps the tough thing about discipline. As a (former) athlete, discipline made sense. Get up, run, lift weights, practice drills, eat, stretch, eat some more, then go to bed tired and satisfied. Writing doesn't feel so regimented. There are no exercises to complete, no training schedule to meet. Instead of being tired and satisfied, my head spins with too many thoughts about what needs to get done by the end of the school year and people I need to contact to make it all work.
I loved being in a writing program. There were assignments. There were expectations and those expectations were outside myself. I was motivated by tasks to complete and professors to please. Now it's just me, my own ideas, and my expanding butt in this often too firm chair.
The other day on NPR I listened to a man who had just published his first book. I caught only part of the story, half an ear focused in twelve different morning directions. But I heard him confess to two important commitments. First, he gave himself five years to do nothing but write. (He was 45 at the time.) Next, he decided to pull out his typewriter, his favorite stories written by some of his favorite writers and retype their work...actually hammer out on a manual typewriter stories already written by someone else. He told the interviewer that those two commitments grounded him in the discipline of being a writer and even though he only got four stories published in those five years, he grew as a writer in ways he'd never imagined.
Oh, and he recently published a novel.
In my MFA program we were required to choose five of our favorite writers and write an essay in their voice. It was the hardest assignment I had in my two years in the program, but one I know challenged me as well as improved my writing. If I remember right, I chose Terry Tempest Williams, Nancy Mairs, Kathleen Dean Moore, Caroline Knapp, and then I really challenged myself and chose Jamaica Kincaid. I'm not sure I pulled it off, but I don't think that was the point of the assignment. There was a magic in the assignment. I got to leave my head for an hour or two, immerse myself in the words of others, and then spend the next hour or three living their voice on the page.
Maybe because I've been a teacher for so long I have a desire for my own assignments. A teacher would be nice, too, but even just a list of writing assignments with due dates and page lengths. Perhaps that's what all those contests are about whose announcements show up in my email box every week or so from my MFA program. I haven't been bold enough to pursue them, but maybe soon, with my shift of focus in work and in time I should muster up the courage to enter a few.
But this discipline thing scares me. Can I do it on my own?
As of late, aside from the walking, my exercise discipline has been lacking. I've recently recommitted myself to stretches and strength training in addition to the seven or so miles Rubin and I pound out in our walks to school, around the 'hood, and back home again. Now that he's old enough, we've even taken to some jogging for a couple of minutes to raise my heart rate (definitely not his) and it feels good to feel the press of my lungs working and my legs straining. Still, it's nothing like what I used to do and perhaps that's a good thing since my former athlete's body is damaged from all those jumping exercises up the stadium steps and miles of running with a sore knee or a strained back.
Maybe that's the lesson in all of this. Discipline is one thing, but moderation is the other. Carving out time to write is important, but it will only work, past experience tells me, if I temper the journey with those long walks of the brain and the heart. If I can't have the assignments doled out each week, at least I can have the time to think along with the time in the chair.
Mark Doty, the poet, once said in a workshop I attended that when you get to the end of a poem you need to be surprised by the last line. You need to feel as if the last line showed up and you really had nothing to do with it. It arrives because it was time.
I like that image.
I'm ready to be surprised. I'm ready for it to arrive because I've given it time.
And in the end, Cheryl is dead on: I need to show up.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Flea on a hot skillet
Last week, one of my students (I'll call her Sally because no one names their child Sally these days)...Sally was on an extended Spring Break vacation with her family. They traveled to Mexico and while she was gone, I didn't notice Sally's absence.
But upon her return this week, I noticed. Geez, did I notice.
Sally is a flea on a hot skillet. Medically speaking, she's been diagnosed with Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder, but that isn't an apt description. She's a young and lively flea on a very hot skillet.
Last week seemed easier, but I thought it was the "after spring break" relaxed phase. After three days with Sally, I've decided it wasn't relaxed last week, it was normal.
This week (all three days of it) have been anything but normal. It started on Monday. Sally came into the room in the morning, walked right up to my desk and asked, "What did I miss?" Before I could answer, she turned around to say hello to a classmate who'd just entered the room and within seconds, was conversing with yet another student standing by the door.
This was just the beginning. She flitted around the room all morning before class started, bouncing on her toes like a two-legged jack-in-the-box. Within seconds after giving instructions, her hand shot up. "But what if..." and it began, a series of questions that I'd either already addressed in my instructions or already answered for another student.
On Tuesday, during a work session, while the students independently worked on their projects, she blazed a trail to my desk at least 50 times in an hour. "I don't understand what you mean by..." to which I would explain myself again and she'd turn on her toe to head back to her seat, but never make it there. She'd turn around on her heel and be back at my desk, "But what if..."
It wasn't as if she didn't really understand the directions or the assignment or the project, rather she was trying to figure out how to do the least amount of work, put in the least amount of effort, or even, if she played her cards right, avoid the assignment altogether.
My teaching partner turned to me today, after conferencing with Sally over a math assignment, and growled, "She's going to drive me crazy!"
No shit.
Last week I started to really enjoy the group of students we have. I know, I should have "fallen in love" with them earlier as I did previous groups, but this group has been hard to love. I thought it had to do with the snobbery of the wealthy kids or the constant "I wants" from the middle class kids, but now I realize it was all because of Sally.
Without Sally they were a thoughtful, calm, and pleasing group. With Sally they're gossipy, irritated, and demanding. Could she really have this much power?
I watched her today with particular interest. She's out of her sit more than she's in it. And when she IS in it, it's not calmly. She squirms and dances as if tacks are on her seat. When she's out of her seat, she's in someone else's space and not quietly. She's talking and scheming, figuring out the social details she either missed out on last week or has found herself knee deep in this week.
"Tomorrow," I told my teaching partner, "I'm going to use a stopwatch and measure how many minutes she's out of her seat, how much she's in it, and how much of it she's silent."
"You'll be a busy woman," was her only reply.
If this weren't my last year of teaching, I'd probably find Sally amusing, but I've taught too many Sally's to find this behavior anything pleasing.
Once, I had a runner on the track team I coached. His name wasn't Dwayne, but I'll call him that. His ADHD was even more severe than Sally's. He was a magnificent runner. He ran the mile and two mile races and often won, but in order for him to perform up to his ability, I had to station other athletes all around the track, about every 100 meters or so. Their job was simply to "remind" Dwayne that he was in a race because, and you could see it happen, he'd totally lose focus, slow down, and do things like wave to a cute girl, watch the shot putters off to the side, or my favorite, actually stop in the middle of the race and try to talk with the other race participants.
With Dwayne I had a lot more patience than I do with Sally. He wasn't in my classroom. He was on the track running gracefully and with incredible speed. I didn't have to answer any of his questions because there was so much happening during any given practice or competition, he was always distracted by something or someone.
Not the case with Sally. We're together almost 7 hours a day, 5 days a week. She's everywhere, too. I turn around, and there she is with yet another question or inappropriate comment. She raises her hand to participate in class discussions and nine times out of ten, she's completely forgotten the topic and prattles on simply to hear her own voice or to "impress" her classmates.
Except for last week. Last week there was a silence I couldn't explain. Last week there wasn't a buzz of activity, motion without a purpose. Last week we all seemed to be on the same page and everyone seemed joyous and content.
The hardest part about teaching Sally is that I can't say any of this to her. "Hey Sally, when you weren't here last week, we got a whole lot done." Or "Hey Sally, when you weren't here last week there wasn't one single social crisis."
Instead, I muster up all my patience and do the best I can to answer her questions, redirect her energy, and turn down the flame on that hot, hot skillet.
Perhaps that's why I'm so tired tonight.
But upon her return this week, I noticed. Geez, did I notice.
Sally is a flea on a hot skillet. Medically speaking, she's been diagnosed with Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder, but that isn't an apt description. She's a young and lively flea on a very hot skillet.
Last week seemed easier, but I thought it was the "after spring break" relaxed phase. After three days with Sally, I've decided it wasn't relaxed last week, it was normal.
This week (all three days of it) have been anything but normal. It started on Monday. Sally came into the room in the morning, walked right up to my desk and asked, "What did I miss?" Before I could answer, she turned around to say hello to a classmate who'd just entered the room and within seconds, was conversing with yet another student standing by the door.
This was just the beginning. She flitted around the room all morning before class started, bouncing on her toes like a two-legged jack-in-the-box. Within seconds after giving instructions, her hand shot up. "But what if..." and it began, a series of questions that I'd either already addressed in my instructions or already answered for another student.
On Tuesday, during a work session, while the students independently worked on their projects, she blazed a trail to my desk at least 50 times in an hour. "I don't understand what you mean by..." to which I would explain myself again and she'd turn on her toe to head back to her seat, but never make it there. She'd turn around on her heel and be back at my desk, "But what if..."
It wasn't as if she didn't really understand the directions or the assignment or the project, rather she was trying to figure out how to do the least amount of work, put in the least amount of effort, or even, if she played her cards right, avoid the assignment altogether.
My teaching partner turned to me today, after conferencing with Sally over a math assignment, and growled, "She's going to drive me crazy!"
No shit.
Last week I started to really enjoy the group of students we have. I know, I should have "fallen in love" with them earlier as I did previous groups, but this group has been hard to love. I thought it had to do with the snobbery of the wealthy kids or the constant "I wants" from the middle class kids, but now I realize it was all because of Sally.
Without Sally they were a thoughtful, calm, and pleasing group. With Sally they're gossipy, irritated, and demanding. Could she really have this much power?
I watched her today with particular interest. She's out of her sit more than she's in it. And when she IS in it, it's not calmly. She squirms and dances as if tacks are on her seat. When she's out of her seat, she's in someone else's space and not quietly. She's talking and scheming, figuring out the social details she either missed out on last week or has found herself knee deep in this week.
"Tomorrow," I told my teaching partner, "I'm going to use a stopwatch and measure how many minutes she's out of her seat, how much she's in it, and how much of it she's silent."
"You'll be a busy woman," was her only reply.
If this weren't my last year of teaching, I'd probably find Sally amusing, but I've taught too many Sally's to find this behavior anything pleasing.
Once, I had a runner on the track team I coached. His name wasn't Dwayne, but I'll call him that. His ADHD was even more severe than Sally's. He was a magnificent runner. He ran the mile and two mile races and often won, but in order for him to perform up to his ability, I had to station other athletes all around the track, about every 100 meters or so. Their job was simply to "remind" Dwayne that he was in a race because, and you could see it happen, he'd totally lose focus, slow down, and do things like wave to a cute girl, watch the shot putters off to the side, or my favorite, actually stop in the middle of the race and try to talk with the other race participants.
With Dwayne I had a lot more patience than I do with Sally. He wasn't in my classroom. He was on the track running gracefully and with incredible speed. I didn't have to answer any of his questions because there was so much happening during any given practice or competition, he was always distracted by something or someone.
Not the case with Sally. We're together almost 7 hours a day, 5 days a week. She's everywhere, too. I turn around, and there she is with yet another question or inappropriate comment. She raises her hand to participate in class discussions and nine times out of ten, she's completely forgotten the topic and prattles on simply to hear her own voice or to "impress" her classmates.
Except for last week. Last week there was a silence I couldn't explain. Last week there wasn't a buzz of activity, motion without a purpose. Last week we all seemed to be on the same page and everyone seemed joyous and content.
The hardest part about teaching Sally is that I can't say any of this to her. "Hey Sally, when you weren't here last week, we got a whole lot done." Or "Hey Sally, when you weren't here last week there wasn't one single social crisis."
Instead, I muster up all my patience and do the best I can to answer her questions, redirect her energy, and turn down the flame on that hot, hot skillet.
Perhaps that's why I'm so tired tonight.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Transitions: The Sequel
Sunday nights have always been tough. I've relaxed just enough to feel the weight of Monday soil the edges of the last moments of a weekend.We spent this weekend with our friends Jeanne and Lisa at their cabin on the Wenatchee River. The photograph above reflects the level of our relaxation. While it's been cold and wet on this side of the mountains, we were greeted by sunshine and warmth on the other side. It was warm enough that we ate lunch outside and on our hike this morning, shed our jackets and fleece to bare our white arms and legs to the sun.
"My legs aren't white. They're blue!" I announced.
"Like non-fat milk?" Lisa asked.
"Exactly!"
We laughed and rested, read and talked, and all of us slept like we hadn't slept in decades. The air was dry and fresh with the scent of pine needles and spring. We watched the river rush by with winter snow melt and watched the mergansers fly down the river and then back up again. We counted the number of chipmunks on the bird feeder and listened for the woodpeckers and owls.
It was exactly what I needed.
But now it's Sunday night and Monday looms.
I haven't done any homework, but it doesn't seem to bother me. I know everything that needs to get done will get done, but I'm still a bit anxious about the flow of the day.
But that's tomorrow and I want to push out the worries of what might happen and hold on just a bit longer to the gentle rhythms of this weekend.
It's hard. I'm not good at it. I struggle with thinking about the next thing and not savoring the now thing. It's been a lifelong struggle.
I also struggle with being easy on myself. I have 8 more weeks left of teaching. 8 more weeks of this career and then the true transition begins though I think of all of this -- the next 8 weeks, the last 8 weeks -- as a kind of slow motion transition. I want to push through quickly and move on, but there's so much to do and the end of any school is not particularly easy. The end of this particular school year could be perhaps the roughest.
Lately, I've found myself irritated with the notion of having to explain the transition. If I had my way, no one would really know what I was doing. They'd just look up one day and I'd be gone or somewhere else and no explanation would be necessary.
But it's not working out that way. Friends (and Ann as well) announce my transition with pride and flair -- "She's leaving teaching, you know" or "She's retiring from teaching to become a dog trainer!"
I don't see myself as really doing any of those things as specifically as they are stated. Yes, I won't be teaching in a way I've always taught, but in many ways I will still be teaching just to a different clientèle. Yes, I want to train dogs, but it's not like I'm going to let go of one career and instantly be the other career -- there's a great deal to learn and absolutely no pay involved yet. And no, I don't see myself as retiring. Retiring feels like there's no job I "have" to do, just jobs I might want to do or things I want to do like volunteer or travel or sit on my ass and watch TV.
So, when people announce my transition, I feel compelled to explain or justify or clear up the image I somehow feel they are getting when in actuality, it isn't the image I have at all. With a bit of irritation, I then must engage in a conversation about the transition and answer questions I really don't have the answers to. "Where will you be working?" "Do you have clients?" "Has this been a difficult decision?"
I'm polite. I answer all the questions though my answers change from person to person. Inside I'm screaming, "Can't I just do this without having to explain it all?"
Early in the year, I met with Leah, a personal coach who was hired by the school to work with faculty and staff. I love Leah. She's powerful, she's articulate, she's clear-headed. She said to me that over the next few months (the months I've been experiencing as of late) I would have to define my leaving again and again. The story of my leaving will evolve and morph the more I was asked to tell it. At the time she was talking about having to explain my departure to my colleagues and to my students and their families. I haven't told my students yet and aside from my colleagues knowing, no one else associated with the school actually knows yet.
Still, I've had to define my leaving numerous times and in addition, something Leah did not warn me about, I've had to define my arriving -- my choice of becoming a dog trainer.
But it's not just being a dog trainer. There's more to this story and it's that part of the story I've been holding very close to the bone. I want to have time to write. While I've always loved working with dogs, while I've often thought about training dogs over the years, the real motivation for this move is to make more creative space in my life for writing.
I haven't shared this part of the telling with too many people. Odd that I'm sharing it here, but it seems less public than all the individual conversations I have when everyone announces my transition. I'm not sure why I haven't shared it, but I know it's a combination of fear (if I say I want to write, then I will have to have something to show for it so don't set up the expectation if you feel everyone else is going to hold you to it), disbelief (can I really take time to focus on something as ambiguous as writing?), and the unknown (what does it mean to focus on my writing?).
I suppose I should be glad everyone announces this transition as a move away from teaching to a move toward dog training because if they announced it as a move toward becoming a writer, I might throw myself into one helluva panic attack. As it is, I wake up once a night to the sound of my own fragile breathing and talk myself down from a full-throttle worry for about 10 minutes before I fall back asleep.
I am to become a dog trainer. This is much easier to swallow than something as nebulous as being a writer. I am leaving teaching after 22 years to pursue a passion for dogs feels a lot more solid than I am leaving a middle class income with summer's off to sit my ass in a chair and practice the discipline and art of writing without pay.
Sunday is dwindling, melting away like butter and Monday morning sits fat on my hips.
This was the first picture I took at the cabin. It's a trillium. The first bloom. I counted them as we hiked today. Hundreds hidden under pine trees. Somehow it gives me hope that I am on the right path despite my worries and dislike of transitions.
Friday, April 11, 2008
It's Been A Week
Oh my. The week back from Spring Break is always tough, but this week was tougher than I've experienced in a long, long time. It began with a field trip to the beach. It was a cold, cold day, but the rain held off and as we headed back to the cars, we sat on the big log by the parking lot and ate the rest of our lunch while the Beach Naturalist talked with us about our observations. Meanwhile, a parent stood next to me and talked. I hate it when they do that--like somehow the on-going lesson isn't worth listening to.
And then she said, "Where's N (my teaching partner)? Oh there she is. She looks like one of the kids!"
I know, it seems like an innocent comment, but 10 times a week we hear this comment and for N, well, it's 10 times too many.
"Would they say that to a tall, white woman?" N asked me. "I don't think so."
She's right. I've watched it all year long. Everyone approaches me first (the tall, white woman) and even after I introduce N as the "other teacher" or "my teaching partner" I'm the only one who gets eye contact, questions asked of me, or invitations to meetings and discussions. It' amazing. Bigotry in action.
So when this parent, who has made this comment numerous times before, blurted it out one more time, I didn't know what to do. My mistake wasn't in keeping silent, though. My mistake was using it as an example with our students (no names mentioned) of how we can make people feel invisible or insignificant with our words.
Well, bigot-mama found out about the discussion and blew about 5 gaskets first on our Assistant Head of School, then on the Head of School and finally on me.
Oh, and let's not forget who she didn't include in her rants and raves...that's right, N my teaching partner.
"It's another way to render me powerless," N said and all of the sudden I saw what she meant -- I'm the threat because I'm white and older and somehow this parent sees me as an "equal." N on the other hand, is bi-racial, dark-skinned, young, and short. She's not a threat in this parent's play book. Not a threat at all.
"She once told me that she doesn't see color," N said yesterday.
"What, like she can't tell red from green?" I asked.
"No, like she doesn't see black people or Asian people or even gay people or Jewish people. She just sees people."
"Isn't that convenient," I joked.
"Isn't that privilege," N quipped back.
I've had some wing-dingers for parents in my 22 years of teaching, but this woman, she takes the wing-dinger cake.
"She wants us to believe in her view of the world," the Assistant Head said today, "but I've been swimming in her water all my life and I still don't get it." (He's Cuban and gay.) "When she said N was 'cute and little' I lost my patience and told her I thought that was demeaning! That's when she stormed out of my office."
So today, bigot-mama was to come in and conference with me only I invited N to join us. We waited for school to begin (the time for the appointment) only bigot-mama never showed up. We talked to her daughter, "Is your mom coming in today?"
"Oh, she's really sick."
Leave it to the bigot to back out of the meeting and let her daughter bare the burden of breaking the news.
I was relieved, on the one hand, and pissed as hell on the other. "It's another power move," I told N.
"Ya think?" she smiled back. N wore her "Got Privilege" shirt today. I almost wore mine, but we'd agreed that my job was to be the bridge in the conversation and not the "in your face" kind of teacher that I really wanted to be.
Of course, after it's all said and done, it's the daughter I feel the most upset about. She's a good kid. She's starting to get it (this privilege stuff) and she's really questioning and observing and is willing to really listen to different perspectives and realize that her view of the world may not be everyone else's. That makes her a threat at home, I'm certain, and since mom sees us as the instigators of her daughter's rebelliousness, well, she's decided to move her to a different school next year.
Good for everyone who had to deal with the mom. Bad for the kid.
My only hope is that when the daughter decides to pull the teenage rebellion at age 15, she does so in a fury of liberal anger, calling her mom out for the bigot she truly is.
What a week!
And then she said, "Where's N (my teaching partner)? Oh there she is. She looks like one of the kids!"
I know, it seems like an innocent comment, but 10 times a week we hear this comment and for N, well, it's 10 times too many.
"Would they say that to a tall, white woman?" N asked me. "I don't think so."
She's right. I've watched it all year long. Everyone approaches me first (the tall, white woman) and even after I introduce N as the "other teacher" or "my teaching partner" I'm the only one who gets eye contact, questions asked of me, or invitations to meetings and discussions. It' amazing. Bigotry in action.
So when this parent, who has made this comment numerous times before, blurted it out one more time, I didn't know what to do. My mistake wasn't in keeping silent, though. My mistake was using it as an example with our students (no names mentioned) of how we can make people feel invisible or insignificant with our words.
Well, bigot-mama found out about the discussion and blew about 5 gaskets first on our Assistant Head of School, then on the Head of School and finally on me.
Oh, and let's not forget who she didn't include in her rants and raves...that's right, N my teaching partner.
"It's another way to render me powerless," N said and all of the sudden I saw what she meant -- I'm the threat because I'm white and older and somehow this parent sees me as an "equal." N on the other hand, is bi-racial, dark-skinned, young, and short. She's not a threat in this parent's play book. Not a threat at all.
"She once told me that she doesn't see color," N said yesterday.
"What, like she can't tell red from green?" I asked.
"No, like she doesn't see black people or Asian people or even gay people or Jewish people. She just sees people."
"Isn't that convenient," I joked.
"Isn't that privilege," N quipped back.
I've had some wing-dingers for parents in my 22 years of teaching, but this woman, she takes the wing-dinger cake.
"She wants us to believe in her view of the world," the Assistant Head said today, "but I've been swimming in her water all my life and I still don't get it." (He's Cuban and gay.) "When she said N was 'cute and little' I lost my patience and told her I thought that was demeaning! That's when she stormed out of my office."
So today, bigot-mama was to come in and conference with me only I invited N to join us. We waited for school to begin (the time for the appointment) only bigot-mama never showed up. We talked to her daughter, "Is your mom coming in today?"
"Oh, she's really sick."
Leave it to the bigot to back out of the meeting and let her daughter bare the burden of breaking the news.
I was relieved, on the one hand, and pissed as hell on the other. "It's another power move," I told N.
"Ya think?" she smiled back. N wore her "Got Privilege" shirt today. I almost wore mine, but we'd agreed that my job was to be the bridge in the conversation and not the "in your face" kind of teacher that I really wanted to be.
Of course, after it's all said and done, it's the daughter I feel the most upset about. She's a good kid. She's starting to get it (this privilege stuff) and she's really questioning and observing and is willing to really listen to different perspectives and realize that her view of the world may not be everyone else's. That makes her a threat at home, I'm certain, and since mom sees us as the instigators of her daughter's rebelliousness, well, she's decided to move her to a different school next year.
Good for everyone who had to deal with the mom. Bad for the kid.
My only hope is that when the daughter decides to pull the teenage rebellion at age 15, she does so in a fury of liberal anger, calling her mom out for the bigot she truly is.
What a week!
Monday, April 07, 2008
Transitions
We went to the beach today on our first day back from Spring Break. I didn't sleep much last night worrying about a million little details for the week. Will they all remember a sack lunch? Will they have the right shoes and warm clothes? Did I fill out the field trip paperwork? Did I send that email to the parent who asked me a question on the last day before break?
Of course, the day went well. Three kids weren't dressed well and one brought a lunch that needed a microwave. No one was worried about paperwork or emails, but despite all of that, I'm exhausted tonight.
"I think the thing I'm looking forward to the most," I told Ann tonight, "Is not having to hold 23 things in my head every 5 minutes."
She smiled knowingly as she, too, must hold all the flotsam and jetsam of classroom teaching.
I have 9 weeks left. 9 weeks. I'm trying not to focus on the time, but today, when we were loading all the kids into the cars of the parent drivers, making sure they all had their raincoats and backpacks, that they'd all gone to the restroom, that they had their lunches and field journals, 9 weeks seemed both a long time to carry myself through and a short time before I am free of all of this.
I'm torn, too. After school my teaching partner showed me some resumes of the new candidates to take my place. There were strong credentials. She was excited to read the lists of achievements. I could feel a little jealousy creep in, envious of her enthusiasm. I won't be missed, I thought, though even as I thought it, I knew it wasn't true. I would be missed though someone excellent will take my place.
Transitioning from vacation back to work is always tough for me. Not only do I struggle holding all the bits and pieces in my head, but the voices, the questions, the constant chatter overwhelms me when I first return. Today was no exception. The kids were all bubbly, calling my name all over the beach to show me a sea lemon or a burrowing sea cucumber. I pumped up my energy. I cracked jokes about mollusks (alls whelk that ends whelk) and stuck my finger into the siphon of a piddock to watch a spray of water shower a student I'd lured over.
On Thursday nights I've been taking a dog to obedience classes and as I drive the 30 minutes north, I don't think I can make it -- I'm so exhausted from my days of teaching. But when I arrive to the arena, when we start working the dogs and challenging them to sit or stay or lie down and roll over, I'm not tired at all. It feels simple in so many ways -- train a dog to walk by your side, sit on command, come when you call her -- but learning the complexity of a dog's mind, of a particular breed of dog's mind is fascinating and invigorating.
It's what teaching used to be for me.
I know the next 9 weeks will be a struggle. I know the months after I leave teaching will be a struggle in ways I can't imagine. I worry about finances in this time of economic crunch. I worry that there's too much for this old dog to learn. But just when I think that maybe I should just stay where I am, in a classroom teaching kids, I hear the dog trainer ask me after class, "Do you want to teach a refresher course for me this summer?"
I was shocked when she asked. Turns out I'll still be teaching, but that she even thought I could do it blew me away.
Transitions are so fascinating. I suppose I hate them so much, I rush through them and miss the learning that can come from them. I found myself doing it today, but then I decided to just play in the moment, be glad I was on the beach exploring the diversity of life there on a cold day without rain.
I need to do the same thing for the next 9 weeks and after that, go easy on myself as I transition into whatever comes next. Something will come next and I can't force it. Just keep moving forward, slowly, deliberately, and with minimal worry. It will all go as it should.
Of course, the day went well. Three kids weren't dressed well and one brought a lunch that needed a microwave. No one was worried about paperwork or emails, but despite all of that, I'm exhausted tonight.
"I think the thing I'm looking forward to the most," I told Ann tonight, "Is not having to hold 23 things in my head every 5 minutes."
She smiled knowingly as she, too, must hold all the flotsam and jetsam of classroom teaching.
I have 9 weeks left. 9 weeks. I'm trying not to focus on the time, but today, when we were loading all the kids into the cars of the parent drivers, making sure they all had their raincoats and backpacks, that they'd all gone to the restroom, that they had their lunches and field journals, 9 weeks seemed both a long time to carry myself through and a short time before I am free of all of this.
I'm torn, too. After school my teaching partner showed me some resumes of the new candidates to take my place. There were strong credentials. She was excited to read the lists of achievements. I could feel a little jealousy creep in, envious of her enthusiasm. I won't be missed, I thought, though even as I thought it, I knew it wasn't true. I would be missed though someone excellent will take my place.
Transitioning from vacation back to work is always tough for me. Not only do I struggle holding all the bits and pieces in my head, but the voices, the questions, the constant chatter overwhelms me when I first return. Today was no exception. The kids were all bubbly, calling my name all over the beach to show me a sea lemon or a burrowing sea cucumber. I pumped up my energy. I cracked jokes about mollusks (alls whelk that ends whelk) and stuck my finger into the siphon of a piddock to watch a spray of water shower a student I'd lured over.
On Thursday nights I've been taking a dog to obedience classes and as I drive the 30 minutes north, I don't think I can make it -- I'm so exhausted from my days of teaching. But when I arrive to the arena, when we start working the dogs and challenging them to sit or stay or lie down and roll over, I'm not tired at all. It feels simple in so many ways -- train a dog to walk by your side, sit on command, come when you call her -- but learning the complexity of a dog's mind, of a particular breed of dog's mind is fascinating and invigorating.
It's what teaching used to be for me.
I know the next 9 weeks will be a struggle. I know the months after I leave teaching will be a struggle in ways I can't imagine. I worry about finances in this time of economic crunch. I worry that there's too much for this old dog to learn. But just when I think that maybe I should just stay where I am, in a classroom teaching kids, I hear the dog trainer ask me after class, "Do you want to teach a refresher course for me this summer?"
I was shocked when she asked. Turns out I'll still be teaching, but that she even thought I could do it blew me away.
Transitions are so fascinating. I suppose I hate them so much, I rush through them and miss the learning that can come from them. I found myself doing it today, but then I decided to just play in the moment, be glad I was on the beach exploring the diversity of life there on a cold day without rain.
I need to do the same thing for the next 9 weeks and after that, go easy on myself as I transition into whatever comes next. Something will come next and I can't force it. Just keep moving forward, slowly, deliberately, and with minimal worry. It will all go as it should.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Kitchen Aide
The past few days our house has been swarmed by a friendly landscaping crew. Ann's been helping, but I've been inside watching the dog (who wants nothing more than to be with the crew) and baking for the intermittent breaks the crew takes. Today's culinary tasks include baking bread, molasses cookies, and preparing a biscuit crust for a chicken pie recipe.
This is the last day of our spring vacation though we still have two days of the weekend to prepare ourselves for the trenches on Monday. I haven't done a stitch of school work, but there's a pile waiting for me in my backpack as well as lessons to plan.
I keep putting it off.
I keep baking.
I haven't made bread in quite a few months, but Ann made a special request last night so I got up fairly early and started the process. Now the bread is in the oven baking and creating that satisfactory aroma around the house. Intermingled with the smell of the molasses cookies that are now cooling on rack by the oven, the house feels warm and cozy on this blustery, rainy day.
Years ago, when I lived with my ex (Karen), I rarely baked. I rarely did any kind of cooking at all. She was the "queen" of the kitchen and even when I tried, she rarely let me in to butter a piece of bread let alone whip up something more elaborate.
I'm not complaining. She was (and probably still is) a good cook, but I never realized until I left the relationship how much I love to be in the kitchen working through a recipe. I was thinking about Karen today and her need for control when it came to the kitchen while I kneaded the large mass of bread dough on the counter. While the bread was rising, I mixed together the cookie dough. Ann came in right when the first batch of cookies laid to rest in the oven and she smiled saying, "Umm, it smells so good in hear. You should make bread every weekend!"
"I will if we buy a Kitchen Aide," I smiled back.
"Deal!" She's kind of a push over about these things.
The Kitchen Aide made me think of Karen again. She owned one though she did not pay for it. She didn't pay for a lot of things. My salary was three times as much as hers and since we combined our incomes, I now see how much of my money went into purchases "we" made together. For instance, we bought a small piece of property behind us to keep it from being developed. We built a better fence around the garden and had a shelter built for the llamas. We paid a man to do stone work in the garden and we re-roofed the barn with new gutters and all.
But Karen also purchased other things, not with my money, but as "gifts" from her friend Bud. Bud was in his mid-70's when I left Karen. She had known Bud and his wife, Eva, for 25 years. Eva died after a painful battle with leukemia and shortly after her death, Bud "courted" Karen. He'd drive over in his big pickup truck, dressed in a clean, starched white shirt, pressed jeans, polished shoes, and smelling of very old cologne.
Karen claimed that she told him about "us" but it never seemed to have sunk in. Bud was undeterred and this played to Karen's advantage. A wealthy man, Bud bought Karen all sorts of things -- a brand new car, a new washer/dryer set, the new roof on the house, a fancy new computer, and yes, the high-powered, high-performance Kitchen-Aide. He paid for all of it with cash, helping Karen avoid any monthly payments.
I benefited as well. I shouldn't complain, but looking back on it now makes me realize how much Karen received without really having to work for it. So, when I heard myself "bargain" for a Kitchen Aide I cringed a bit.
Later, Ann came in to get some lunch and offer the crew some cookies and I said, "You don't really have to buy me a Kitchen Aide. The hand mixer works well for the cookies and kneading bread is therapeutic."
"What made you change your mind?" she asked.
"I didn't want to be like Karen." Ann got it. She'd heard all about Karen and felt the effects when Karen and I tried to negotiate a fair financial settlement (which really didn't end up fair at all, but that's a whole other story).
"God, you're nothing like that," Ann guffawed.
"I just don't want you to think that I see you like a sugar-momma like she treated Bud."
"Never!"
The thing with Ann is that she always takes what you say at face value. That's a good thing most of the time, but at this moment it meant that she believed me when I said she didn't have to buy the Kitchen Aide.
"So, if I'm not treating you like Karen treated Bud do I still get the Kitchen Aide?"
Sheepish smile.
The bread is almost done and there's still a pie crust to make. My life in the kitchen during this vacation is not yet over.
This is the last day of our spring vacation though we still have two days of the weekend to prepare ourselves for the trenches on Monday. I haven't done a stitch of school work, but there's a pile waiting for me in my backpack as well as lessons to plan.
I keep putting it off.
I keep baking.
I haven't made bread in quite a few months, but Ann made a special request last night so I got up fairly early and started the process. Now the bread is in the oven baking and creating that satisfactory aroma around the house. Intermingled with the smell of the molasses cookies that are now cooling on rack by the oven, the house feels warm and cozy on this blustery, rainy day.
Years ago, when I lived with my ex (Karen), I rarely baked. I rarely did any kind of cooking at all. She was the "queen" of the kitchen and even when I tried, she rarely let me in to butter a piece of bread let alone whip up something more elaborate.
I'm not complaining. She was (and probably still is) a good cook, but I never realized until I left the relationship how much I love to be in the kitchen working through a recipe. I was thinking about Karen today and her need for control when it came to the kitchen while I kneaded the large mass of bread dough on the counter. While the bread was rising, I mixed together the cookie dough. Ann came in right when the first batch of cookies laid to rest in the oven and she smiled saying, "Umm, it smells so good in hear. You should make bread every weekend!"
"I will if we buy a Kitchen Aide," I smiled back.
"Deal!" She's kind of a push over about these things.
The Kitchen Aide made me think of Karen again. She owned one though she did not pay for it. She didn't pay for a lot of things. My salary was three times as much as hers and since we combined our incomes, I now see how much of my money went into purchases "we" made together. For instance, we bought a small piece of property behind us to keep it from being developed. We built a better fence around the garden and had a shelter built for the llamas. We paid a man to do stone work in the garden and we re-roofed the barn with new gutters and all.
But Karen also purchased other things, not with my money, but as "gifts" from her friend Bud. Bud was in his mid-70's when I left Karen. She had known Bud and his wife, Eva, for 25 years. Eva died after a painful battle with leukemia and shortly after her death, Bud "courted" Karen. He'd drive over in his big pickup truck, dressed in a clean, starched white shirt, pressed jeans, polished shoes, and smelling of very old cologne.
Karen claimed that she told him about "us" but it never seemed to have sunk in. Bud was undeterred and this played to Karen's advantage. A wealthy man, Bud bought Karen all sorts of things -- a brand new car, a new washer/dryer set, the new roof on the house, a fancy new computer, and yes, the high-powered, high-performance Kitchen-Aide. He paid for all of it with cash, helping Karen avoid any monthly payments.
I benefited as well. I shouldn't complain, but looking back on it now makes me realize how much Karen received without really having to work for it. So, when I heard myself "bargain" for a Kitchen Aide I cringed a bit.
Later, Ann came in to get some lunch and offer the crew some cookies and I said, "You don't really have to buy me a Kitchen Aide. The hand mixer works well for the cookies and kneading bread is therapeutic."
"What made you change your mind?" she asked.
"I didn't want to be like Karen." Ann got it. She'd heard all about Karen and felt the effects when Karen and I tried to negotiate a fair financial settlement (which really didn't end up fair at all, but that's a whole other story).
"God, you're nothing like that," Ann guffawed.
"I just don't want you to think that I see you like a sugar-momma like she treated Bud."
"Never!"
The thing with Ann is that she always takes what you say at face value. That's a good thing most of the time, but at this moment it meant that she believed me when I said she didn't have to buy the Kitchen Aide.
"So, if I'm not treating you like Karen treated Bud do I still get the Kitchen Aide?"
Sheepish smile.
The bread is almost done and there's still a pie crust to make. My life in the kitchen during this vacation is not yet over.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Garden of Earthly Delights
Today, I'm playing "the wife" though I'm not exactly sure of my motivations. The garden crew is here to continue work and perhaps finish up the work they started yesterday. Plants have been placed and now the hole digging begins and as I write, I can hear the pound pound pound of shovels and post-hole diggers. I love this picture as it shows the shadow of our old cherry tree against the house and the greenery Madeline (bent over) is about to plant. My second favorite picture is this one:
Ann with her hands in the dirt and a happy smile on her face. She loves this stuff, mucking around and getting dirty. She, then, is playing "the husband" role while I stay inside watching the "child" -- Rubin who is delighted by the activity, but struggles with just watching from the window. He barks and whines and want to join in the fun. Right now I have him settled down underneath the desk with a promise of a long walk in the woody park at the end of the lake. I think he rolled his eyes at first, but now he's being as patient as a puppy can be. Meanwhile, the coffee cake I constructed for the work crew is cooling on the stove. See, the wife. My mother would be proud. Not that I'm a "wife," but that I'm cooking for the workers. Money is nice, but food always feels like a nice payment in addition to the salary one earns. The crew has grown in size today. There's Madeline and Kristen, who were here yesterday...
Madeline on the left...Kristen on the right prepping the soil yesterday for today's planting...Then there's Fred, digging holes for plants and more plants. We learned he's an artist as well. He paints watercolors in his studio in Port Townsend and works for Madeline to pay for his art addiction.
Ann is helping Pedro, moving the red bark maple to the front of the house.
And below is James, the man Rubin wants to play with all day long. James is gentle and quiet and just like the rest of the workers, he rarely rests except for a drink of water or a fresh-baked brownie brought to him by yours truly, the wife. To the right, all the workers (including Anna by the bamboo) spending the chilly, sunny day making our yard a garden of earthly delights.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Hail Spring!
Can you see it? Just at the edges in the bark and on the deck. It's hail. Cold, hard hail. It fell in sheets yesterday afternoon.At first we thought it was snowing, but upon further inspection, we realized it was hail.
March 31 and the temperature was still in the 30s early in the morning. April 1, we woke to fog and 36 degrees, but then the fog moved away to reveal beautiful sunshine and blue skies. Good thing. A very good thing.
Today begins the end of our landscaping. Madeline, the landscaper, is here with her crew rototilling all around the yard, digging holes for the multitude of plants purchased to fill in the blank spaces.
This is only a sampling as the truck arrived this morning hauling buckets more of not only foliage, but dirt. It smells marvelous outside.Ann's busy helping them and I'm on doggie watch as Rubin would LOVE nothing more than to get out there and help dig. Instead, we're inside making brownies for the crew and painting the main floor doors that have needed a coat of trim color since we remodeled over 2 years ago.
Chores. Lots and lots of chores. I guess this is what spring cleaning is all about. Sprucing up the dingy and revitalizing the old. The sun does much the same thing to me. I'm feeling spruced and revitalized a bit. Perhaps that's due to spring break, but mostly it's because of the sunshine. And the accompanying warmth.
I have a few more doors to paint, but the stack of paid bills/receipts keeps calling to me -- file me, file me. But what a daunting job. It's like the thread of a sweater -- once pulled, things tend to unravel before they repair themselves.
So, I shall attack the door and hope Rubin keeps his tail out of the way.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)