Inside Outside

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

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

Me: What do you mean?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: What's with E?

Teacher One: Bad day.

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

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

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

Me: How are things at home?

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

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

Me: How ya doin?

E: Fine.

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

E: Nope, I'm good.

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

Me: Are you getting enough sleep?

E: Yep.

Me: Are you eating well?

E: Yep.

Me: Everything okay at home?

E: Jeez, why all the questions?

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

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

E: I'm fine.

She goes back to reading her book.

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

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

Insides. Outsides.

Inside out.

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

Kissing

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

Yikes.

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

Guess not.

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

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

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

A Few Changes

I changed my blog site a bit. Added some links, but chief among the changes, I added Rubin's own blog. Pathetic, I know. It just seemed that I didn't want to crowd my own blog with endless pictures of the new pup. So...he now has his own blog -- Rubinations.

I will now insert pictures of other things aside from the dog...like Ann before her first cup of coffee while on vacation in a little cabin by the Wenatchee River.

She's going to kill me for posting this hysterical photo!

Home

It's been a journey, but Rubin is finally home!

We already have oodles of pictures, but I'm certain they'll be oodles more. Right now he's running up and down the hallway, sliding his way across the bamboo floors.

Our home feels complete.

A Lisp

Rubin (the soon to be new puppy in our home) was neutered yesterday. After losing his manhood he ate a large meal, or so the breeder said, which may have been more difficult than it sounds for during the surgery they realized that Rubin has an underbite. To fix the problem, they removed one of his bottom canines in hopes that his teeth will move back a bit.

The breeder emailed us with the name of the vet, a phone number, and many assurances that this will not pose a health problem in the future.

I wasn't worried about health problems. Instead, I was trying to imagine what a dog sounds like when he barks with a lisp? Will he be teased on the playfield? Will he need to go to speech therapy to work on his "s" sounds? Will he be able to whistle? What will his smile look like? Will we notice the gap in his teeth? Will he need to see an orthodontist in his teenage years?

Chester was not a gay dog. He was a woman-identified man. He liked girls. No, he loved girls. Boys were okay, but girls were attractive. He liked to hump them. He liked to lick them. He liked to sidle up to them and smile.

I have no idea Rubin's preferences, but I worry that with a lisp, he may be pigeon-holed, that he may not be able to express his true identity. And if he turns out to be a gay dog, will he be stereotyped because of his lisp?

I remember David Sedaris's hysterical essay on having to go to speech therapy to learn to properly pronounce the "s" sound. Sedaris claimed that all the boys in speech therapy grew up to be gay.

I will accept Rubin no matter what his inclinations, but I don't want surgery to determine his fate in life.

Although, if he turns out to be a gay dog, then I may just have to teach him how to loosely hang one paw in a delicate hand shake.

If anything, it's certain that his underbite has given him quite a smirk. It's that smirk that made us choose him. Gay or not, he's our son. Or will that be "thson"...with a lisp?

It Could Be Worse

Eight years ago I was struck by allergies. Tree pollen set me off and instead of a runny nose and sneezing, I looked as if someone had hauled off and hit me square in both eyes. Red, swollen and flakey, two circles formed around my eyes making me look like a sad raccoon. I went to my doctor at the time, she prescribed some medication and within a week, I was relatively back to normal.

That was eight years ago and I've never had any reaction to tree pollen since.

Except this month. Walloped. That's the only way to describe it. I knew what was happening even before it fully happened. My eyes teared up, my lids itched intensely, and before I knew it, I woke up in the morning unable to open my swollen eyes. I fumbled downstairs, found an ice pack, and pressed it onto my burning eyes. I had to work that day and getting a doctor's appointment was going to take time...time I didn't really have.

So I suffered for about three days before my teaching partner said...here are the keys to my car (I walk to work)...go!

My doctor is an earth-goddess. She's in her early 60's with wide hips and gloriously long, silver hair that glows like a halo whenever she walks into a room. She embraces me, her full arms taking me in for a warm hug that lasts long enough to make me feel comfortable and loved. She sits on her stool, her knees wide apart, and places her elbows on her thighs. "How are you?" she'll often start and then listen while I talk about my life. She even asks questions about work, about my eating habits, and about my nemisis -- stress. She takes her time. I never feel rushed. I feel as if she really cares so the struggle to get an appointment is well worth it.

This time, when I walked into her office, she took one look at me and said, "Oh honey, this doesn't look good." I cried immediately, adding salt to my already burning eyes.

We talked about stress. We talked about tree pollen. We talked about my need for a week in the desert. We talked about eight years ago when the same affliction struck and compared my life then with my life now.

Often, since she is both a naturopath and MD, she offers me a choice -- do I want a traditional treatment or should we try something more alternative? I'm more likely to choose the alternative first and then, if that doesn't work, get the drugs. This time, though, she said, "You don't get a choice. We're going for the drugs and then, if that doesn't clear up the irritation, we're going for a short burst of steroids."

The prescription worked with in 24 hours, but then we travelled to Santa Fe for a vacation (the desert, right?) and all hell broke loose again. The tree pollen was even thicker in the high altitudes of New Mexico and my medications had no effect. When we flew home, over the Cascades into the lowland valley of Seattle, the burning irritation reduced somewhat, but not until the first heavy rain did I actually feel any relief.

The medication, while it doesn't make me sleepy, clouds my thinking. Sentences form slowly. I forget things like my keys or appointments. This morning I lathered my hands with my special lotion, ready to apply it to my eyes when I found myself applying it to my hair as if it were gel and not lotion.

My eyes look much better. We've had a number of days of rain though today looks partly cloudy and feels a bit warmer. While I love trees, I look at them with caution, admiring their blooms from far away. My medication is taken every 24 hours and an hour before the clock makes its full turn, I can feel the need for the drug.

I am not a good patient for I am exactly what a patient shouldn't be -- impatient. I want it to be over. I want the pollen to disappear. I want to be able to walk outside without fear that I'll be a raccoon again.

Today, a friend called and when I asked how she was she said, "Miserable." She'd been suffering with a migraine for 3 days and the cause? Yes, allergies.

I thought I had it bad. For weeks I've prayed that I could just sneeze or wheeze or have a running nose, that the itchy eyes and swollen lids would end. But when Elizabeth reported her reaction, I was thankful the raccoon. "It's like a knitting needle in my eye," she said, "I feel as if my head is literally going to explode off my neck."

She's better today. The rain of last night has dampened her reaction just enough that she could get out of bed and make a call. "Jesus," she said, "I'm even laughing. Laughing last night would have killed me."

I'm not sure why I'm writing about this, but just like with Elizabeth's phone call this morning, it feels good to talk about it, to share your misery in an attempt to alleviate it. When I realized my pain was nothing compared to Elizabeth's plight, my eyes didn't itch so much. I suppose that's cold comfort for her, but I guess it just supports that old addage...it could be worse.

Please, if there is a god, NO!

Dead Virgins

She erupted. It was not uncommon. Three, four times a year she was known to spew. Usually about money, but often that morphed into feeling left out. No one ever saw it coming. How could you? No rumbling. No tremors. Not even little curls of steam emanating from her jagged ridge.

Sometimes it came in the form of a phone call. Endless minutes of circuitous prattle half of which wasn't understandable, as if she were talking through oatmeal, marbles stuffed tight into her cheeks. The pitch of her voice tip-toed up to the high ranges and dogs in the neighborhood could be heard howling in the background.

Other times, like this time, she'd write her eruptions in cryptic emails filled with small letters where there should be capitals and three magical dots to denote a change of subject. Wild changes of subject from "it's always all about you" to "how is the puppy?" to "do you even know what I'm going through?"

The clencher is the "i love you" at the end, which isn't really the end but only a warning that a PS is to follow, though she never writes the PS. Instead, she just keeps going, writing sentence after sentence about how "insensitive" we are, how we never "include" her in anything, how we have a "family and finances and don't have to make it on our own."

In the past, these eruptions felt like vomit. They'd seep through the phone or over the cyber wires and all you could do was wipe yourself off and then scrub yourself clean in a hot bath. In the past, responding to the vomit seemed important. Explain yourself. Engage in conversation. Be rational. Try to reason. Remind her that you love her too, but nothing she is feeling really comes from you.

But that strategy soon revealed itself futile. First, you couldn't get a word in edge-wise. There wasn't even a breath for "hey," or "Can I" or "Just one moment." Instead, you cradled the phone in the crook of your neck and said "uh-huh" or "okay" or "umm," and after awhile your grunts weren't even well-timed and she never noticed. She just kept talking and blaming and spewing.

Sometimes she'd even cry, but even after that, she'd giggle as if it were all a joke or as if she'd said something funny only you weren't really listening so you missed the joke and before you could ask, "What did I miss?" she'd cry again and get angry.

Did you know, that if you're really good at it, you can hear fists tighten over the phone? We could hear hers. If we listened carefully, we could hear them like a 7 year old, balled up and white, demanding the world change and address the crisis of the moment.

That's it, of course. You never know when the crisis will occur. You never know if it's something you said or something you didn't say so you throw the dice and make a wager -- speak up or don't speak up.

Roll the lucky seven.

Or lose the shirt off your back.

In between the eruptions is dormancy. Beautiful sunny days sparkling off her peaks and valleys. She calls and sounds reasonable. She sounds grounded and solid as if she's really worked things out, has found her center, is ready to learn from her past mistakes and move forward.

Or she emails and you see pictures of puppies dressed like humans or cats splayed out with big fat bellies waiting to be rubbed. At the bottom of every email a row of dancing smiley faces, kicking up their heels in unison. Like call girls in a chorus line.

And then the volcano erupts. You ask a question and pages or hours of response come flying your way. You dodge. You take cover. You wait for the debris to fall, the lava to harden or roll past in red hot streams.

Where before you responded, now you realize there is no point. Active volcanoes erupt. That's what they do. There's no avoiding it or trying to put a stopper in it. There's no monitoring the seismic activity since it's all over the map and never once changes course dramatically enough to provide you with a solid warning.

You can live your life just waiting for the explosion or you could just ignore it, let it pass and live your life without fear or resentment or in any kind of hateful anticipation.

This takes vigilance and patience. When others see the blow, they want you to react. They say, "Does this happen often?" or "Is she crazy?" or "By god, what in the hell just happened?" But you must not react because that's like tickling the rattle of a giant snake. That's like daring the volcano to explode, to wipe you out with ash or lava or a big, flat boulder -- a projectile flung by the force of the eruption.

Instead, you gather up the virgins in your neighborhood. You dress them regally with flowers in their hair. You annoint them with holy water. Then you toss them into the fire. A sacrifice, hoping this will calm the volcano.

And then you wait.

For the next email or phone call or maybe even the next visit.

They'll be no eruption then.

So you hope.

But even if there is, you just duck your head, cover your forearms over your neck, crouch down low and wait.

Soon, all will be normal again. The dead virgins, the wake of destruction will go unnoticed.

And you can once again live in peace.

11 Days

At lunch today, E stood by my desk and swayed back and forth in a little dance.

ME: What are you doing?

E (in a whisper): I don't know it's just sometimes I want to shout out loud, "I love you!"

ME: That you love me (I'm whispering back)?

E: Not just you, everyone.

ME: So, why don't you do it?

E: Oh no, I'm just too shy.

She has become one of my favorite students. At the beginning of the year she was quiet and thoughtful and took ages to finish an in-class assignment, contemplating the ceiling or her pencil until just the right thoughts came then slowly, meticulously writing them down, erasing a misspelled word and writing again. Now, 7 months later, she is silly and creative and beloved by all of her class members.

Her mother wrote to me and asked what we'd done to her shy child. This child, she said, is not the same one who she sent to school in September.

She's not and while I know the mother is pleased and teasing us, I hope she realizes what amazing kid she has.

I'm sure she knows. Her older daughter was much the same -- quirky and fun and brilliant in many ways. I just want E to not be in the shadow of her sister. I want everyone to see E for her beauty and her talent and her odd sense of humor.

Yesterday.

E: (We're at the park and she sits down beside me on the park bench from where I watch the kids play tag.) 12 days, you know?

ME: Really? 12 days.

E: Yep.

ME: Will that be your birthday?

E: Nope.

ME: Will that be the day you climb Mt. Everest?

E: Nope.

ME: Will that be the day you turn into an elephant?

E: Nope. I would not turn into an elephant, I would turn into a caterpillar.

ME: Why a caterpillar?

E: You're off the subject. 12 days.

We sit in the sun for awhile. I'm lightly tapping my foot and she's swinging her legs because they just barely touch the ground.

E: Do you need me to restate?

ME: No, I've got it. 12 days. I'm just trying to figure out the significance of 12 days.

I count in my head. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday...

ME: It's a Saturday.

E's eyebrows rise.

E: Yep.

ME: (I'm struck by lightning) Our puppy arrives in 12 days!

E: (beaming) Yep.

And then today. E walks up to me this morning and stretches herself to whisper in my ear.

E: 11 days.

ME: Yep.

And then she takes her seat, crossing her swaying legs, folding her hands on the table in front of her. I laugh. She's dancing in her seat. I offer my most loving smile.

She winks.

The Choice

The mother of our soon-to-be new puppy gave birth to seven puppies six weeks ago. Five of those pups are female, two are male. Unlike most of the people wanting a Labradoodle puppy from the same breeder, we wanted a male (perhaps as a way to balance out the dominate female energy in our house). These are the two males, the picture sent to us by the breeder so we could choose which puppy we'd like to call our own.


In the email she wrote: "The puppy on the left (in her right hand) is very sweet, but not as outgoing as the puppy on the right (in her left hand). If the puppy on the right were a student in your classroom, he would raise his hand to offer the answer, but be very polite as well. The puppy on the left would rarely raise his hand, but would know the answer if called upon."


She continued to explain that the more timid puppy would require softer discipline while the more assertive puppy would need a firmer hand.


It was a tough choice, but since we are both teachers familiar with a firm hand and clear boundaries, and both of a more outgoing spirit, we chose the puppy on the right. What sold us on the right-side puppy was not only his friendly confidence, but his smirk. Look closely at the picture. His smirk says, "Once you've taken this picture, can we go exploring? Can we play a little? Can we chase each other and roll around and then flop our front paws down on the carpet and wiggle our tails in the air? Can we, can we?"


It's been a difficult Spring. I've been socked with allergies that make me look like I've been in a bar fight. On our vacation in Santa Fe, I came down with a flu bug that made coughing as common as breathing. Ann has traveled thousands of miles, riding 14 planes in two weeks to first visit her father when he was still alive, then to return for his funeral, and finally to escape for a much-needed vacation to New Mexico. April is the one year anniversary of our beloved Chester pictured here at age 11 when we took him on an 11-mile hike where he romped in streams, chased butterflies, and relaxed in the sun of Spider Meadow.


We feel the heavy worry for my two former students now being treated for various forms of cancer as well as a deep love and concern for the years ahead for our beloved Fossilguy. And these are just the personal struggles -- the world offers us too many more.

Last night we travelled to Bremerton to hear the Seattle Women's Chorus sing the songs of Sweet Honey in the Rock as well as other choral arrangements of many great African American women singers and composers. We sat at small tables surrounded by my parents, Bookworm, and many other friends to feel the power of the inspirational music. It reminded me of how history is filled with examples of struggle and strife, people overcoming tragedy and hardships.

We are one ripple in that great pond. Our lives are filled with sadness, at times, but also with joy. On one hand is the death of Ann's father, but on the other is her visit back to Madison where she reunited with distant family and neighbors she has not seen for 30 years. On the one hand is the anniversary of Chester's death; on the other hand the anticipation of a new man in our lives. On the one hand, there is illness and on the other, there is NOW, this now filled with day-to-day activities that bring a simple beauty to living. Today will shall go grocery shopping, mow the lawn, finish up the laundry, grade papers and prepare lessons for the coming weeks, bake bread, ride our bikes in the sun, and hold each other as we fall off to sleep.

What choices we make today will not change the course of history, they will not determine our life's destiny. We will either choose nonfat milk or 2%, to mop the floors or not, to change the sheets or stay with this choice for another week.

We will choose one smirk over the other and life will continue, not as it was before, but as it should be all the same.

Rivers and Rocks

A few weeks ago I was talking with a woman who is a leadership consultant. Among many skills, Leah, the consultant, is her ability to listen to all sides and then bring out of the differences an agreed upon truth. Sitting in such a session, I marveled at Leah's ability to honor the feelings and opinions of everyone in the room even though those feelings and opinions often came from opposite and conflicting perspectives. At the end of the meeting I asked her how she does it -- how she can genuinely respect such opposing viewpoints making everyone involved feel heard, valued, and open.

Her response surprised me. "I learned long ago," she said, "that I must value each person's best side and assume, despite what they might be showing me at the moment that they live in their best selves." She went on to explain that often we say we're "respecting" someone when in actuality we're giving them the "benefit of the doubt," which she described as seeing the person as their best self 80% of the time. "That's not good enough," Leah explained, "because that damn 20% dominates and we assume that their best selves are contingent on situations or specific events or even specific moods or even days of the week. We must see the best self of everyone 100% of the time and in doing so, that is what we shall receive from them -- good and honorable people."

I am an 80% person and on some days a 50% or perhaps even 30% believer in the best self. To give it 100% seems impossible, equivalent to climbing Everest or performing brain surgery. Not that I don't want to be a 100% believer, but I'm not certain I'm capable of it.

"Are you capable of trying?" Leah asked me.

"I suppose I am, but..." I feebly responded to which she put up her finger and said, "In finishing that sentence your are committing to not trying. It is only in the trying that you catch yourself, that your conscience says, 'I am not accepting this person, whoever that person may be, as capable of living up to their best self.' When you catch the voice doubting that is when you say, 'I will erase my doubt and assume best intentions, best potential from this person.' And when you do that enough times, the doubt will fade away and you will begin to see the best self in everyone."

I am not a fan of Oprah. I don't read Deepok or the Dali Lama or meditate at coastal ashrams. My house is not filled with incense or with books teaching me about Feng Shui or balanced living. I don't go to church and until recently, with a growing list of friends and family diagnosed with cancer, I have not been a person who has attempted to utilize prayer.

I do not surrender. I do not "Let Go and Let God" or anybody for that matter. I prefer to live with my feet firmly planted on the ground. This became even clearer to me this past week as we vacationed in New Mexico, spending days marveling at the blueness of the desert sky and the shades of red on the mountain horizons.

On long hikes through canyons and the shores of the Rio Grande we ventured through time measuring our steps in the flow of rivers and the weight of rock, the cycle of water and the sculpting of earth. Leahs' words came back to me with every breath I sucked in, my sea level lungs challenged by the 7000 foot elevation and the steep, narrow trails of the ascending canyons.

I want to dismiss her words as hokey, as fluff used to market books and schedule expensive lectures, but the more I counted my steps up the rocky trails, the more I marveled at the patience of geologic time, the more I realized how right she is. I'm not exactly sure of the connection, but somewhere between the basalt and the tuffs, the waterfalls and the wide river beds, I committed myself to trying to understand the people in my life who irritate and annoy me, who anger and enrage me, who seem to purposefully find how to drag their long nails across a dusty chalkboard.

Perhaps it was the desert air or the heat of the sun despite the snow on the ground. Perhaps it was the rocks, mountains of Swiss cheese, carved by wind and sand and time. Perhaps it was the layers of age pressed into the earth or the water on its return journey down the same river through the same canyon generation after generation. Perhaps it was feeling insignificant not only in size to the canyon walls, but in comparison to geologic history.

We visited the cave dwellings of the "ancient ones" and even among all the tourists from France and New Jersey, their was a vibration of time and purpose carved in those cliffs. The narrow passages, the depths of the kivas, and the perfect arc of each dwelling seemed significant and important. The best self was present even in the petroglyphs and hand-made bricks.

Early this morning, as we waited to board our flight back home we met a woman from Australia. She had spent time in Santa Fe not exploring the wilderness, but taking classes in what she vaguely described as "energy work." In her late sixties, perhaps even early seventies, she talked with great animation about energy's memory, how we carry with us all of time. "Your vibration or your aura, as it were," she explained with her hands flowing through curves of air, "is specific to a place and time. Actually, it's specific to the place and time of your mother at least two months before you born. When you arrive back to this place, you are perfectly aligned with the energy of the earth, the vibration of the place. You are, in every sense of the word, home."

I am not a desert dweller. While the high desert is one of my favorite locations to vacation, I could not live with the dust and sand, the wind and the thunder clouds, the cacti or the snakes. While I was born in Iowa, I have lived most of my 48 years here in the Pacific Northwest. As we flew over the mountains today and ascended over Puget Sound, I was reminded of a drive my brother and I made from a small airport in Iowa northwest to the birthplace of my mother years ago. As much as the Pacific Northwest feels like home, I remember carving our way through the cornfields of Iowa and knowing I'd been there before, not just as a small child, but always. As if the corn and the sky and the dairy cows and the puffy clouds were as much a part of me as the rain and evergreens and salt water of Seattle.

Who is my best self? Most days I don't even think about it. Most days I am completely caught up in what must happen next. But this I know: My best self is rooted in place, in the unseen rhythm of the earth. In order to meet my best self and, I suppose, to allow myself to see the best self of those around me, I must be outdoors where rocks and rivers whisper in languages I'm just beginning to understand.

You Never Know

(I'm not certain why I took this photo. We were walking up the gallery street and I looked through the trees and saw the snowy mountains. The tree, the adobe pueblo, the hills, even the snow just felt like Santa Fe at the moment. Hard to see the mountains in the background, but I liked the photo anyway...more tomorrow.)

We fell asleep at 8:30 Santa Fe time, 7:30 our time. We slept like we were sinking, waking at 3:30 Santa Fe time. We rolled over and sighed. It's good to be close again, in the same bed, and semi-conscious. I read for a half hour and fell back to sleep and then we started our day with rain and hail and finally snow. Breakfast was an accident albeit pleasant and fulfilling -- organic everything right down to the Mexican Hot Chocolate Ann let me share with her. We bought an umbrella and sauntered around the plaza saying good morning to the artisans bundled in their colorful blankets trying to stay warm. Every gallery was beautiful and though we want to buy art for our house, it was overwhelming, a sensory overload so we walked away with only postcards from the Georgia O'Keefe museum.

And then a nap. I am still suffering from this nasty cold, which first settled in my throat where all my nasties settle and has now moved to my chest. I feared something worse on our hike after the nap as I had to stop on numerous occasions to catch my labored breath. "How high up are we?" I asked Ann. "I haven't a clue," she huffed back. So tonight, after another scrumptious bowl of squash soup and cornbread, we looked up Santa Fe's elevation.

7000 feet! No wonder I can't breathe!

The sun is setting and as our hillside retreat looks west, we've a beautiful view of the pinks and blues of the evening. Tonight Venus is supposed to be visible and the Seven Sisters as well. We'll stay up for a look and then I imagine crash again as we are both recovering from the life (and death) of the past two weeks.

Traveling is not in my blood. I like landing, but the journey brings about my impatience. Ann is very tolerant of my irritation with slow lines and nasty flight attendants, but I am a much better person when I am HERE and not on my way HERE. I am enjoying this HERE (Santa Fe) and I so thankful Ann's friends were out of town for the first half of our visit as their house has been the perfect retreat -- quiet, clean, spacious, and filled with good food and more bathrooms than bedrooms (odd, but helpful when you're in one corner of the house and nature calls -- oh, there's a bathroom right here!)

Traveling also makes me appreciate home more. Simple things like the taste of the water or not knowing the aisles of the grocery store throw me out of whack. Though our trip to Whole Foods was a cultural experience far more entertaining than our gallery hopping. I don't miss home, but I know, once we board the tiny plane back to Denver and then head home from Denver to Seattle, I will grow impatient with my desire to be home where the water tastes clean and I know my way around.

Ann (as we're sitting eating lunch at Whole Foods before shopping): Don't all these people looke like they live in Seattle?

Me: Yes, but they're all white.

Ann: True, but their clothes and their posture, it all says Seattle.

Me: Do you think we'll ever travel to some place that's not like Seattle?

Ann: We'll go to Paris and visit my relatives. That's not like Seattle.

Me: But then I'll have to wear fancier shoes. People in Paris wear fancy shoes, like fancy-expensive and uncomfortable shoes. I wear Keens. People in Seattle wear Keens. I'd be guillotined if I wore Keens in Paris.

Ann: (smiles)

Me: I like to fit in, but fancier shoes, well, I'm not sure I can do it.

Ann: We don't have to think about it now. We can just be here.


Yes, we can just be here with Venus and Mexican Hot Chocolate and the thin air.

From Where I Sit

The green mother-in-law tongue stands out against the yellow adobe wall, the terra cotta tiled floor, and the enormous picture window that lays before us the Santa Fe mountainous desert. We have arrived. Our road only slightly bumpy both metaphorically and in reality. All connections to cabs, planes, and the loaner car went well, only a bit of a hitch when the tiny plane that was to take us from Denver to Santa Fe locked up its emergency breaks and would not move. We all got off the plane, waited in the tiny corner of the huge airport until the crew brought another tiny little plane after deeming the first to be officially broken.

And the bumps down the road to Kasha and Rob's house chattered my teeth as much as the ride through the storm clouds in the little plane.

But we're here and we're the only ones as Kasha is offer on a mini-retreat and Rob is off hiking with his buddies in Arizona and we are left in this desert home listening to the rain pattering on the crooked juniper just outside the window. Kasha has left us homemade squash soup with just enough spicy kick to rattle my clogged sinuses. The freezer is packed with homemade goodies -- enchiladas, tamales, pesto -- that if we chose, we would not have to leave the confines of these four walls. When I turned on my computer to write, wireless popped up allowing me to contact the world if I so desire. Vivaldi and Eva Cassidy and music I've never heard of lines the shelves of a beautiful Mexican armoire with delicate hammered copper fronts. The floors are heated. The bed is lush and firm and inviting. Our room spacious and clean and perched at the highest point so from bed, we can see the park behind us and the mountain in front of us just by lifted our heads.

This is good. After all we've been through, it feels good to just sit next to each other and do relatively nothing with no one else around. Ann's emotions have run a marathon. We are both sleep deprived and exhausted. I have a nasty cold stuck where my colds always get stuck right in my throat. I've lost my voice.

But this is still good. We are finally here, where the world seems to have stopped, if only for a short while. I am no longer spinning. Ann is finally off a plane (she's been on 12 in the last two weeks with two more to go before we land home). And the desert surrounding us is beautiful. Georgia O'Keefe beautiful.

We don't even mind the rain.

Living In My Head

I haven't exercised in over 2 weeks. As I type this, I'm eating ice cream...low fat ice cream, but ice cream nonetheless...my life is on speed dial...

...so much so that now it's two days later and I'm finally getting some time to finish this post...

Here are the highlights (some lowlights, so perhaps best to just call them "lights" though at times they've felt heavy)...

Ann flew back to Wisconsin last week and came home for a brief stay only to fly off again this past Thursday...
...her father died.

If that wasn't enough, we had a number of emotional conversations around the whole "go back/don't go back" for the funeral and while I wouldn't call them arguments, they were emotional debates. (We rarely argue...)

Ann says that when we "debate" it's unfair because she says I'm far more articulate while she is a "quiet debater." Over the years, she's asked that I not respond so quickly and let her think in silence. Fair enough. In the meantime, I've learned to choose my words carefully, trying not to think out loud, but instead, form my side of the debate with well-chosen arguments and then set them out as methodically (and unemotionally) as I can.

This "debate" was harder though because in my heart, I knew she should return for her father's funeral and I knew she was extremely resistant to the idea. Finally, after patiently listening and letting time pass I said, "It's not about you, Ann. It's not even about your being there. It's about your NOT being there. No one cares really if you're there, they only care that you're not."

The debate ended when she got on the phone with her brother and sister and sent out this trial balloon -- I'm thinking about not coming to the funeral.

Silence. No pun intended, but it was DEAD silence.

When she got off the phone she said, "Did you plan that?" and then smiled.

So now, she's about to board her plane in Madison, fly to Minneapolis, and then arrive home this evening.

But here's where it all gets complicated...here's where I feel like someone pushed pause on my life and I'm now wrapped up in the dramas of everybody else's life...

We fly out for Santa Fe tomorrow morning...early. We have to be at the airport at 4 in the morning. Ann flies in tonight at 11. We'll be home by midnight and then up again at 3.

This isn't how we planned it. Every flight scheduled in the past two weeks has been delayed, changed, or cancelled. Ann was to be home by now, but her flight got cancelled, so now she's coming home later...much later.

In addition, her ex is here visiting from Michigan with her 7 year old daughter Zoe. I picked them up at the airport. I was supposed to pick them up this morning, but guess what, her flight was cancelled and she came in later.

And when we stood waiting for their luggage, we had to wait an extra plane as they loaded all the baggage on the plane after hers.

I've been on the phone with one person or the other these past few days double checking flights, making certain I'll be available for pick up or drop off, and checking in on funeral arrangements, sibling interactions (Ann's not mine), and blindly feeling my way through this emotional terrain.

Then our friend Laurie called. She's being stalked by freaky neighbors. She wanted to spend the night, but decided her dog and a pile of rocks by her bed would make her safe. One more emotion. One more person's life to deal with.

Not that it's a problem. I don't mind picking people up at the airport or offering our house as a safe haven. In fact, I love doing that...I just didn't expect it to all happen at once.

And so, of course, I now have a cold...a sore throat, a nasty cough, drippy eyes, and a need to sleep...but I can't sleep because Beth and Zoe are here, there are bags to pack for our trip to the desert, and oh yes, I must go pick up Ann at 11:30 tonight.

When whirlwinds happen like this, I move out of my body and just shift into my head. It's weird. I don't want it to happen, but I can't seem to stop it. I'm disconnected and while I try to sleep, it's difficult because I'm making lists or reliving my day or staring at the ceiling wondering why I said that to someone or this to someone else.

Then I look at this picture....


...and I feel my heart beating again, I wiggle my toes, I hear my breath relax and stretch through the length of my spine.

Laurie says the world is spinning just 5 mph faster these days and we're all holding on at a 45 degree angle.

Perhaps a week in Santa Fe will be just what we need, though that's been crazy too as Ann's friend, Kasha (with whom we are staying), called and said she won't be home until Tuesday. Luckily, we can still stay in her house and we can use her husband's car, but the logistics of getting from the airport to her house has been one more straw on this camel's back...

...I'm not breaking yet...so let's just hope the flights all take off and land when they're supposed to...

The Purple One

Ann and I are tucked into a small cabin by the Metolius River just outside of Sisters, Oregon. The cabin is so old, we walk downhill to enter the kitchen, but it's quiet and clean and just the place for us to be after seeing the puppies for the first time. The picture above is of the "purple one" -- a sweet boy who we held today and may end up being "our dog"...though there is another male (a blue one) who may also be the choice. It's up to the breeder who will choose based on personality and not by the color of the little bands they wear around their necks.

We'd be happy with either...they are so, so adorable (a word I usually avoid using, but today, while holding them in my hands there was no other word for their puppy breath, their puppy smell, their puppy kisses).

It's been a whirlwind trip. Tomorrow we drive 6 hours back home and then back to work Monday morning. Ann has had even more of a whirlwind this week. She left for Madison on Monday morning, returned on Thursday night, we drove to Portland Friday morning and then to Sisters this morning. Sisters isn't close to anything so we drove back and forth between this little cabin by the river and the house of puppies further north, stopping in between for soup and a sandwich at Russian deli and dinner at a Mexican restaurant.

And through it all, we've talked only about the puppies!

Terrie, the breeder, was wonderful. Kind, informative, and very concerned about her dogs, their health, and the health of the puppies. She's an animal person, for certain, with a blue crested Amazon parrot in her kitchen and a bevvy of dogs in the backyard and in the house. She used to own horses, but doesn't have the time for it anymore. Her husband is a painter, but pays the bills contracting a few days a week. We didn't get to meet him, but we saw his paintings. While we would never buy them, he is talented and hopes in his retirement to paint full time.

We originally chose this breeder because she was recommended and the mother of the current pups is named Abbey, which happened to be the name of the first dog I ever owned when I was officially an adult. But the more we talked today, the more we realized how much we had in common with the breeder. She and Ann talked about esophogial (sp?) cancer, which both of their fathers have been diagnosed with -- Ann's father most recently and Terrie's a year ago. Terrie gave Ann some hope because her father is now cancer free. In addition to the father/cancer connection, I used to own an Amazon parrot so we swapped stories about parrots and their funny antics. There were many more connections, but listing them doesn't seem important. What was important is that we felt wonderfully confident that this was EXACTLY the woman from whom we wanted to purchase our next dog.

Meanwhile, Sisters is a trip. I've been here many times before, but Ann never has. I love the scenery and I really enjoy the high desert air, but amazingly I've forgotten how redneck and white the place is. The only people of color we've seen are the Mexican owners and workers of the recently opened Mexican restaurant where we ate dinner tonight. Everyone else is either cowboy boot and dusty conservative or sinfully wealthy and well-pressed Republican. The only moment we felt like we belonged (aside from being with the puppies) was in the local bookstore whose liberal offerings and folkie music (The Weepies -- which the clerk was surprised I'd heard of...) made us sigh and relax a bit. It took over an hour to get seated tonight for dinner and I felt very much as if the "gay girls" were forced to wait while the Republicans all took their seats. Ann thinks I'm being paranoid, but it sure felt odd to be stared at for an hour.

Still, it's been a very successful trip. In a month we'll come back to Sisters, pick up the new pup and head back to Hillsboro to stay with my brother and sister-in-law who've graciously allowed us to stay at their house while "passing through" to puppy land. If you're reading this big brother and dearest sister-in-law, you're absolutely going to go ga-ga over the pup (who I'm pretty sure will be named Rueben or Reuben because that's how it was spelled on the lunch menu at the Russian deli...or maybe Rubin so there won't be any trouble with e before u or u before e...)

Ann says she can't hear it, but the man in the cabin next door to ours is snoring. Could spell trouble, but earplugs solve everything.

Long drive tomorrow...best get my rest tonight. A sweet goodnight to all family and friends who read these blogs and who, we know, are awaiting the new puppy as much as we are.

It Goes Like This

I hear the doorbell. I scoot down the hall in my stocking feet and slide to the front door thinking maybe Cecilia's come by or perhaps Dely or Laurie to check up on me while I'm "alone" for the week with Ann off in Wisconsin.

I look through the peephole, but I don't have my glasses on so the person outside the door just looks like a bundle with rain dripping off the edges.

Cecilia?

I open the door and there stands a man I think I know, but am not so certain I know. There are lots of homeless folks around the neighborhood. I saw three such men today, huddled in a driveway a few blocks up the street. When I walked by, they got quiet, squatted closer together and eyed me from under their rain-soaked baseball caps.

There's also a number of crack addicts. They wander the streets in sleeveless shirts oblivious to the rain or the wind or the recent cold snap. I see them early in the morning as I walk to school swaying their arms like they haven't got a care in the world. They strut, pacing a street corner in frenetic circles waiting for their dealer to drive by or walk by or once, to my amazement, bicycle by. They shout out nonsense peppered with insults and curses and toss their heads to the sky like god is carrying on one half of the conversation.

So the man at my front door could have been homeless or drugged up, but he was submissive and calm and stood like a wet puppy on the first step of the stairway so it was hard to tell. He looked up, "Hi, I don't know if you remember me, but I used to live across the street and I once borrowed gas from you."

When we first moved into the neighborhood, the house across the street was abandoned. Squatters occupied it occasionally and one night a mid-sized RV pulled up to the front curb and ran an electrical cable to the basement of the house. They sat their for days until the police showed up and moved them on their way -- which happened to be one block over and one block up.

The man on my front porch lived in that RV and to earn money, he mowed lawns, hauled away people's garbage, and busied himself as a gruff handyman. Two boys in the neighborhood worked for him and he ordered them around, cussing and swearing loud enough that the engine of the mower couldn't drown him out.

We did give him gas for his lawn mower, but just once. He always said he's pay us back, but he never did. Instead, he just kept showing up and asking if we could spare some more gas. Eventually, even Ann's midwestern kindness faded.

We haven't seen him around for about a year now, until tonight when he stood at the front step, drenched and deshevled.

"I just need a bit of work," he kept saying. "Do you have anything for me?"

I'm always torn by those who are down and out. Part of me wanted to give him money. The other part knew that giving him money meant he'd be back next week and the week after that like a woodpecker on a dead stump. And he didn't really look like the same guy who used to boss around young kids making them do all the work while he hauled in all the cash. That man was strong. He stood tall and barked his orders with authority.

This man looked lost. He stood hunched, his head down, and he barely looked me in the eye. He was beaten. I don't know if it was drugs or hard times, but he really wasn't the same man we'd tried to help years earlier.

I decided not to give him money partly because, with Ann away until Thursday, I am home alone with no dog to signal warnings. There have been robberies of late -- the neighbor up the street, the neighbor just behind us -- and it's hard to know if this man still has kids working for him. I doubt it, but still...And I didn't give him money partly because, even though he didn't look like the same man, he claimed that he was and the man he was before was not a man I liked very much. He was mean, he was deceitful, and took advantage of kids who were just trying to earn a dollar or two.

"If you don't have no work, could you spare a dollar?"

When the crack addicts ask me for money on the corners, it's easy to say no. I know exactly where my money would end up. But occasionally, when the homeless ask for change, I give it to them. Like the old man who stands outside Walgreens with a cup and his cane and smiles a greeting as I pass by. I give him change and he nods and blesses me. Once he was in line in front of me at the grocery store buying a loaf of bread. He didn't have enough money so I paid for the rest. He blessed me then, too.

Folks in the neighborhood tell me he's not really homeless, that he lives in an old run-down house behind the grocery store. Giving him money seems to have a point, but giving money to someone who just knocks on my door early in the evening doesn't feel right.

When I finally shut the door, I could hear him still asking away. "I don't mean no harm, miss," but I couldn't listen. I don't want to be cold and cruel. I don't want to be someone who turns their back on those in need, but sometimes it goes like this -- you just have to close the door. You have to choose and all the reasons for choosing are screwy sometimes and sometimes it's just a matter of what's in your gut. There was doubt in my gut tonight and I tried to listen to it.

Sometimes it just goes like this.

It Came Down To This...

We talked for a long time this weekend. In between the basketball games and the laundry and Ann packing for her trip back to Wisconsin, we weighed our options. My options, really, but they will impact both of us. In my head I created the plus and minus columns and tabulated the results the deeper into the discussion we went.

And it came down to what was best for the new puppy we are soon to get (about a month away). I have always loved animals. No matter where I am, if there's a dog or a cat in the room, they climb up on or next to me. Perhaps I was a house pet in my previous life, but no matter the aura, they are as drawn to me as I am to them.

A dream I've always had (aside from spending my days writing) is to be a dog trainer. I never really knew how to go about it, but took opportunities to help train friends' dogs whenever I could. Since the Dog Whisperer has gained such popularity, the dog training profession seems to be a bit more prestigious. I've looked into earning a certification many times before, but now that I'm back in the city, the options are limitless.

I want to raise our new pup as a therapy dog -- a calm dog who ventures into children's hospitals and nursing homes to lay his head on some soul's lap for comfort and scratches. We chose to get a Labradoodle precisely for this reason -- a non-shedding, hypo-allergenic dog bred for a calm disposition and intelligence.

Staying at my current job allows me to raise the puppy literally at my side since I can take the dog to work, put on his "working dog" vest, and train him to stay calm amid the adolescent chaos of a middle school. Plus, we live 6 blocks from school and if I need to keep him at home, I can race back to the house during lunch or breaks to check on him.

If I left my job, the dog would be less of a companion animal and more of a pet. His therapy training would happen in between my work schedule at an undetermined business and I wouldn't have easy access to home or to work.

So here's the plan: One more year of teaching and while I'm teaching, I'll get my dog training certificate, build a network of job opportunities (outside of classroom teaching) all the while training our dog to do therapy work in and out of the classroom.

One more year. I need to stay focused, work on my boundaries, and give all my attention to my students for just one more year.

Who knows what will come with that decision. Right now, there are a few opportunities that just might open up -- a trainer for an anti-bullying program, working with the "horse whisperer" to teach parents better parenting skills, joining forces with a dynamic woman who is using current brain research to help eliminate the achievement gap in schools, or even REI with its excellent benefits and equally wonderful opportunities to move up into something like training or educational work with local kids. Or even just being a dog trainer...

"Don't just react," my friend told me the other day. "Take your time and everything will unfold as it should."

There's a lesson I can learn.

As for the dog, we travel down to Sisters next week to meet him...yes, it will be a him although we don't know which him it will be. At the end of April, that him will come home and the next weekend we begin our "therapy" training every Saturday morning way out in Woodinville, which a friend from Rhode Island pronounces as W00- Din- Ville versus "Wooden" ville..the way it's pronounced out here. It will be nice to have something else to focus on. It will be nice to have something to ground me, lower my blood pressure, and make me laugh. It will be nice to remember Chester and what an amazing dog he was. It will be nice to take the new dog for visits. It will even be nice to clean up his messes.

It's come down to this...

Our Current Focus

Today was a weird day. I worked at home, meeting with our Dean of Faculty and one other teacher to write up our assigned section of the accreditation document. It's a beast. And frankly, once we get approved for accreditation, the document will sit on a shelf somewhere and no one will pay any attention to it.

Still, we blurred our eyes and fried our brains editing, rewriting, and rephrasing the document...again and again and again.

It's hard to stay motivated when I feel so torn about work. I love my job on the one hand -- the teaching, the kids, the families -- and abhor it on the other -- the lack of structure, the deceit, the inability and unwillingness to diminish the chaos. I went back and forth today between leaving at the end of this year and staying for one more year ...

...and then the phone rang and we got the message from school that one of our students (she was in my class last year) has been diagnosed with cancer. That makes student number 2 with such a diagnosis. They aren't sure exactly which kind of cancer, yet, but it's not looking good.

Why, my teaching partner asked me over the phone, do the most messed-up families have to cope with such tragedy?

It's true...E. who is battling leukemia, lives in a family that can barely dress themselves let alone raise a child. V., the recent student diagnosed with some kind of lymphoma, has parents who can barely say a kind word to each other and are equally torn about their expecatations for their daughter.

There's weird ju-ju in the atmosphere...I'm telling you...weird-ass ju-ju.

So instead, we're focusing on this...

One of these cute bundles with their eyes closed will be ours. We drive down to Sisters, Oregon next weekend where we'll meet them along with their human owners and spend our time rolling around on the floor smelling their puppy heads. They're only 2 weeks old in this picture, but by next weekend, their eyes will be open and they'll be moving around a bit more at 4 weeks old.

I can hardly wait. I'm already so excited about a new dog in our house, I'm not even sure I can wait until the end of April when we drive back down to Sisters to pick him up. Yes, it looks as if it will be a him and one of the darker, redder hims piled somewhere in this photo.

I find myself dreaming about the puppy wondering how he'll do during our long drive back from Sisters to Seattle with a stop along the way at my brother and sister-in-laws house so we can spend the night and let the little guy meet his four-footed relatives, Hope and Ringo. Should be interesting.

I dream about our walks through the neighborhood and our first visit to the vet. I dream about how much he'll enjoy our doggie friends -- Monty and Lulu and Josie and Lucky and Salal and Ben and Keenan. I dream about our ferry ride to Bremerton to see Grandma and Grandpa and then Fossilguy and Bookworm. I dream about how everyone will "ooh" and "ahh" and giggle and snuggle over the little fur ball. And dreaming of it all keeps my spirits up. Knowing we're ready for a new dog in my life gives me hope.

I can hardly wait to feel his soft, full belly and listen to him sleep deeply, twitching his little paws as he dreams next to me.

When does the stronger come?

I am on a three-year cycle. Every three years (or sometimes six) I think about quitting my job or changing my job or going back to school. This time it's three years...three years in my current teaching position and I can't even contemplate coming back next year.

Not because of the kids or the teaching or my colleagues, but because of the politics and mismanagement. It's all too complicated to write about so I won't, but needless to say I feel exhausted, unmotivated, and nasty. Why do people treat each other this way? Why do "institutions" always resort to such misguided, inhumane tactics to get to their glorified goals?

Or is it just me?

Last week I experienced the worst convergence of early menopause (sweating, irritability, and rage) on top of pre-menstrual angst (bloating, headaches, and snappishness). It wasn't pretty. I was all emotion. I kept it in pretty well until the faculty meeting where the Head of School lied without actually lying, avoided confrontation by agreeing with me, and forged on ahead like an enormous bulldozer rolling town a tiny stream. "By god we're moving forward no matter what delicate ecosystems we destroy."

I felt like my head was going to pop off my neck. I turned bright red. Still, I kept the emotion somewhat contained and what do you know, the next day an enormous cold sore popped out on my lower lip.

So much for containing emotions.

Here's the dilemma:

My teaching partner is leaving. Our Dean of Faculty was essentially fired (that's where the lying without lying came into the conversation), and I feel left hanging without any support systems for next year. I look around at the rest of the faculty and while I respect them, there isn't one person I feel I can ally with, one person who I can be supported by at the same time support them.

Teaching without M., working without the Dean, A., bringing in a new partner is like starting a new job all over again, but one I'm not sure I would have chosen if there was any choosing to do.

To make things even more complicated, IF I were to quit, I'd be leaving the school in a really tough spot as I am the only anchor for our grade team -- I created the curriculum, I've been teaching it for 3 years, and I'm the one who really understands how the whole thing works. I walk away and I'm not really certain what impact it would have on the school. Would the new enrollees pull their kids? Would the administration demand that I explain everything before I go? Who knows.

Ann and I talk endlessly about our options. There are many, but is it the right time? Is it just a three year itch that I need to work through? What if I stayed another year? Would things get better? Would I feel better?

My fear is that I'll be completely overwhelmed by a new teaching partner and all the nasty politics that keeps flicking its dragon tail through anything that appears normal or balanced. I don't do well in chaos, yet our school is founded by a woman who creates chaos in EVERY aspect of her life.

Maybe I'm just middle aged. Maybe I'm just hormonally imbalanced. Maybe, as my dear friend Jeanne tells me, I'm a victim of my own passion -- it drives me and it burns me. Whatever it is, I feel like I'm at another crossroads and I can't decided which choice to make.

What was it my therapist said to me years ago -- a choice is just a choice, nothing more, nothing less.

Perhaps, but it feels like there are weird cosmic rays penetrating earth and we're all warped by them and every choice is wrinkled and slighted twisted.

It's not just at work, either. Our neighborhood has been hit with numerous house and auto robberies. A woman at work had her car broken into in the middle of the day right on the street in front of school. The bad boys from down the street are out of jail and they have taken to "hanging out" on every street corner the cops aren't patrolling.

Closer to my heart, FG is on the cancer fence...how much time, how much pain, what kind of treatment? This not only impacts me, but a whole bunch of people I love deeply -- FG, of course, but BookWorm, too as well as my parents all the friends who love FG as I do, probably more than I do.

One more zap from the cosmos came when we found out last week that Ann's dad is dying of esophageal cancer (she's flying back to Madison next week). I wanted to go with her, but I'd have to take unpaid leave (how's that for a family friendly policy) and the airplane tickets are outrageously expensive. Meanwhile, she's unsure of exactly how she feels about it all. He's been drinking and smoking himself into a stupified lump ever since his wife (Ann's mother) left him 40 years ago. Every time Ann's seen him she's unsure how to connect. He gets nasty at times and when Ann calls him on it, he gets quiet. She loves him or the him he used to be, but she says she doesn't really know him anymore.

Convergence.

That which does not kill you makes you stronger.

When does the "stronger" come?

A New Campaign

Epiphany: (Noun) A sudden intuitive leap of understanding, especially through an ordinary but striking occurrence.

I leapt the other day. I was sitting at my desk at home with the radio on in the background. Throughout my two hours of work, I heard the phrase “Children are our future” at least four times during a conversation with an educational analyst who was dismayed at the lack of funding and standards in American schools. I found myself agreeing with this analyst one moment and then, struck with an “intuitive understanding” I realized he had it all wrong.

Children are our future. How often do we hear that phrase? How often do we use it? My firm belief in that expression has driven my work as a teacher for my entire career. In a time of social and political anxiety, I find hope in my students, in the knowledge that they will be the compassionate leaders I long for; that the world will be a better place in their thoughtful hands. Sitting at my desk, correcting papers and planning lessons while half-listening to the radio, my epiphany came fast and strong as I imagine most do. We’ve set ourselves up for failure by doing what my father always warned against: Putting off until tomorrow what we can do today.

Americans have a paradoxical relationship with time. We attend Zen retreats to learn to live “in the now,” but spend hours overworking, saving money, and acquiring the “things” we think will make us happy someday. We schedule our weekend in date books or on Blackberries at the same time we reflect on past mistakes. We race from one place to the next in an effort to “get there” wherever there may be, not really paying attention to the journey and then spend thousands of dollars in therapy to learn how to slow down.

In America, the future is both motivator and excuse, the thing we work towards at the same time fear. We put off homework (remember cramming for the test the night before?), we delay scheduling doctor appointments, paying taxes, cleaning the cat box, flossing our teeth, writing thank you notes, getting to the gym and on and on and on. We procrastinate and in the same breath grow impatient with slow drivers, congested traffic, grocery clerks, long lines, technology, arrogance, and with impatience itself. We rush and multi-task our way through life torn between working too hard and not getting enough done. Our lives are filled with doing and avoiding, and in this oxymoronic relationship with time we throw out the phrase, “Children are our future.”

No, children are our NOW! We can’t wait until tomorrow or in the future of tomorrows. Children are not bills to be paid or traffic to race through. They are not commodities to fund or employees to promote. They are not cargo to move or packages to pick up. They are not the destination, they are the journey; they are the now we pay money to find.

If we continue to put our children’s lives in the undefined future, we avoid our daily obligations on both personal and political levels. A futuristic commitment holds no weight; it’s too easy to disregard the consequences of our daily actions. By saying children are our future we avoid the magnificent and daunting responsibility of raising thoughtful, compassionate, and critical citizens of the world right now.

Children are our now. Say it. Hear yourself say it. Better yet, hear yourself commit to it. Do you feel the shift? Do you feel the urgency? Imagine how priorities might alter if we made such a commitment on a state and national level. Demand that our leaders say it and hear themselves saying it, committing to it.

Children are our now.

Demand an epiphany.

Now.

Thrown Off Course In A Starbuck Moment

From Bookworm's Writing Workshop...thanks for the writing time, BW!

I find myself searching for balance in an unbalanced world.

It happened this morning. Exiting Starbucks, the man in front of me flung open the glass door and slammed it unintentionally into the face of a man passing by. I saw it coming and gasped, spilling my cup scalding onto my hand. The man who walked into the door smacked into it face first, a split in his forehead spurting a tablespoon of blood upon impact. In that silent moment when everyone paused and held a shocked breath, I expected to hear the injured man shout obscenities or at least a “What the hell?” Instead, his apologies spilled forth like the blood from his wound.

Meanwhile, the man who’d pushed open the door smiled innocuously and said nothing. He walked off while I ran back into the shop for napkins as a compress for the bleeding man. There was no apology from the door opener, no sense of worry, not even a helping hand – just a smile, perhaps even a giggle, and then off to his day, a bloody man in his wake.

In the parking lot, I watched another man drive off with his recently purchased vente double pump on the roof of his car. I thought to stop him, but I was still lost in thinking about the man with the gashed forehead. In the end, the driver didn’t hear the thump of the cup or the sloppy spill on his bumper and sped down the avenue oblivious, in so much of a hurry it seemed as if he’d forgotten he’d stopped to get coffee at all.

Later, the drive on the freeway to my appointment was about counting red-tailed hawks perched in hunger on the light posts. Twelve in total, watching for rats, I imagine – unbalanced predators doing their best to dent the burgeoning populations of unbalanced prey. The president was on the radio using words I could not hear and I was thinking about work and how I want to leap and change and manifest myself into something different, something balanced.

Yin and yang, and in these troubled times I feel caught in between.

F. Scott Fitzgerald said that he “cracked up” when he could no longer hold two opposing thoughts in his head at the same time – to be hopeful, for instance in the time of hopelessness.

I feel neither hope nor hopelessness nor do I feel as if I am cracking up. Cracking up, I now think, is more a matter of feeling one without feeling the other – the heavy weight of hopelessness flinging the scale vertically or the equally profound import of hope catapulted by the reality of despair. Balance is quantified in dosages. A bloody forehead and famished hawk. A bouncing coffee cup and a long, fast drive on the freeway.

I have often wondered, at what point did the Romans know their empire was crumbling? At what point did they throw up their hands and say, “Well, folks, it was a nice ride but this isn’t working anymore? We are too far out of balance, we must begin again.”

I know it’s not that simple, that change does not walk in the plain clothes of a monk. Change is layered, like a beggar dressed in pants on top of pants, shirts on top of shirts, wool coats covered by wool coats. Good happens. Bad does too, and we mark our days with what went well and what didn’t, with the memories of a smile or the flame of someone’s anger. The scale tips, first in this direction and then in that and we are forever trying to hold out our arms and balance it all as skillfully as we can.

I find myself counting the weights placed on either side of the scale, observing, speculating, determining if indeed one disaster here can outweigh a thousand little pleasures over there. Can laughter compensate for grief? Can a compliment counteract an insult? Can a drop of compassion stop internal bleeding?

I want to believe it can. I want to believe that balance is achieved not by stacking the weights in our favor, but by relishing the gentle nuances – the rise and fall, the delicate swing at the fulcrum.

There is the man with the bloody forehead apologizing for something that happened to him, something he could not control. And there is the man who walked away, inattentive and seemingly pleased with the world at that moment. We can live in those extremes or we can live in the middle, swaying as if on a ship, our legs firmly planted on the deck piloting this stormy sea of an unbalanced world.

Naming

Why is it, I asked Ann the other day, that people learn the sex of their unborn child and decide to name it right then and there while it's still in the womb, but when they get a new pet they feel they have to "get to know" the animal before they name it? What would our lives have been like if our parents had waited to name us after assessing our personality?

I wonder what my parents would have named me? What was my personality at birth? I had a head of hair, I hear, and I was active. Harry? Harriet? (depending on my gender) Or maybe Spunky or Curly or Frolic? Who knows?

We are getting a puppy. One of these...

We're not sure which one of these, but one of these nonetheless. They are tagged with a colored ban so the breeder can tell them apart. They are not yet named (aside from the color), but when I think of a puppy, names cascade through my mind and I blurt them out.

"Rubin!" I shout at Ann while we watch the latest Netflix movie or "What about Quasi or Psuedo, ya know because they are not quite labs and not quite poodles."

At first, she engaged in these conversations. Then she just rolled her eyes. Now she just ignores me.

We watch the credits scroll by at the end of a TV show or a movie and I try whispering, "Tilly's a nice name. What about Mavis? Phineaus is long, but I like it."

I try to ignore her ignoring.

We're not sure what we'll get. We like the red colored Labradoodles and I think we'd prefer a boy, but then I think, "Ginger's a nice name. Or even Opal or Zelda."

I try to sneak in names. "I met this man Oscar today. That's a nice name, don't ya think?"

No response.

I try a different approach. "You know, there are so many kids whose names I don't like. I'd never name a kid Tyler or Justin," I say and this usually gets a response because, as teachers, we've met one too many Tylers and Justins who are screwy and out of control. "And no way would I name a girl Ashley or Amber or Brittney." Then I say, "So we could name our dog Rumor or Banjo or Splash, ya know, something nonhuman."

Ann turns away. She will not engage.

Nell. Prudence. Abner. Rufus. Wiley. Herschel. Odetta. Ivy. Flora. Archie. Darwin. Oliver. Grover. Flora. Cleo.

Still no response.

So, I've taken to writing the names down on a scrap piece of paper and leaving the paper in obvious places like by her coffee cup in the morning or in her underwear drawer...just in case...just in case Ann decides that it's time...now that the puppies are out of the womb and we can see pictures of them like this...

Now that's personality, don't ya think? Who needs any more information? Rupert, I think, or maybe Ivan or maybe Grace or perhaps Nell ..."

I Don't Do Well...

I don't do well with death. Odd as it is, at 48 years old, I've only really experienced the death of family pets. Yes, I've known people who've died and while it's saddened me, nothing has surpassed the death of my dogs, in particular, and even the death of a baby lamb just 3 days old who we tried desperately to nurse back to life in, of all places, our kitchen.

Fossilguy is not dead, but as we wait to hear the prognosis -- lung cancer or not, operable or not -- death is on my mind. My life feels like a disconnected montage. There are the routines -- getting up, making coffee, walking to work on these surprisingly cold, crisp mornings, teaching, coming home, making dinner, and then reading or writing before bed. But then there are moments like this:

A friend of a friend is trying to get her daughter accepted to our school. I see her in the hallway with her daughter, the applicant. A, the daughter, is bright, friendly, and very sweet. J, her mother, is loud, brash, and slightly irritating. 6 years ago she fought off breast cancer. "How are you doing?" I ask, yet instantly I know that something's not right. J is not brash or irritating and she says, in almost a whisper, "Not so good. They've found spots on my lungs." And all of the sudden I can feel tears in my eyes. I'm not thinking about Fossilguy (well, I am sort of), I'm thinking about A -- the bright, cheerful kid who is being raised by a single mother and then I think of Aleister, Fossilgut's grandson and what pops up is a 5th grade whiny voice (one I hear almost daily from my students) yelling inside my head, "It's not fair!"

Or this moment --

Our friend, L is in Mexico on vacation. She has owned a house in a small village on the water for 30 years and she journeys south 5 or 6 times a year. We've offered to watch her dog, an 11-year old shepard/chow mix who is slightly crippled and a bit crotchity. Her name, of all things is Salal like the bush that grows prolific in these parts and is an impossible mouthful when you're calling her at the dog park. She's been with us for almost a week and goes home on Saturday night. She sleeps mostly, but gets excited and barky when she hears the house keys or the car keys or watches one of us put on our shoes. When we walk, she grabs the leash in her mouth and pulls herself down the street. At night, she sleeps by the front door and then eventually hauls her stiff back legs upstairs and sleeps on her bed at the foot of ours.

Last night, while she was in her downstairs by the front door position, I was reading in bed while Ann was getting ready to join me.

Me: Can you feel it?

Ann: What?

Me: There's a dog in the house. She's not making a single sound, but you can feel her presence here just the same. I miss that.

Ann: Yeah, me too.

And then my eyes welled up with tears again remembering Chester, remembering my old dog Abbie, remembering all the pets in my past whose presence grounded me to my life.

Fossilguy grounds me to my life. I've known him since I was about 8 or maybe 10. I played with his daughters. I laughed at his jokes. He's like an uncle only closer. He's like this wise philosopher who dabbles in bones and photography and who turned me onto Louise Erdrich and even to blogging. Even if I can't hear him...even if I don't see him very much...his presence is there and I can feel it. He's like the dog at the front door of my life.

And then there's this moment:

A student from last year who is in 6th grade now comes by my classroom almost every day to say hello and give me a hug. She drove me crazy last year. She and her family live in chaos and every drama known to humankind falls in their laps almost daily. During Thanksgiving she was rushed to the hospital and diagnosed with Leukemia. For awhile they didn't think she'd make it, the treatment was not working. Now, she comes to school for half a day, wears magnificently crazy hats to cover her extremely large bald head, and smiles at me every morning with puffy, drug-induced cheeks. Some days she comes in and throws herself at me demanding a hug. Other days she can barely drag herself through the door to wave at me. She loves my library and I'm certain half the books I'm missing are under her bed at home.

Yesterday she came in to peruse my bookshelves.

E: What's new in your library?

Me: Ummm, I'm not certain. It's been awhile since I've updated the collection.

E: What's this book about?

She holds up a book about a boy who is wheelchair bound, can't talk, but is able to think quite clearly, which he does in his first-person telling of the worries he has about his father trying to kill him and he's not sure how to explain to his father that, even though he can't walk or talk, he still wants to live.

Why do I have that book on my shelf, I'm thinking after E. holds up the cover to show me.

Me: Well, to be honest, it's about death and not being able to control your own destiny.

E: (Looking more closely at the cover) I don't think I need to read it. (Long pause because I can't really think about what to say in response and she's still looking at the cover.) Besides, I'm already kind of living that story.


Death, I think, isn't so bad if you're the one dying. Yes, it can be long and painful or it can be short and quick, but then it's over and you don't experience the aftermath. It's everyone else who does, everyone who's left behind, everyone who didn't die with you. What are we supposed to do with all the absence? What are we supposed to do with the hole that's left? I think that's why sometimes I fear death...I don't want to leave a hole in somebody's life.

I knew what it was like when Chester died. For weeks, months even, I kept thinking I heard him -- his dog tags, his licking lips, his deep and heavy sighs at night. I'd wake up from sweaty dreams because I could feel the weight of his body on the bed with me only to realize it was a dream and he really wasn't there. For a long time the hole he left behind in my life had a very painful weight. Now it's just there, a simple hole reminding me of what I had and what I lost. Somedays the hole makes me laugh with funny memories. Other days it makes me cry because I'd rather have the dog than the hole.

I imagine the same things happen when someone close to you dies, but so far I haven't had to experience that. I'm still holding out hope that Fossilguy will get better. I've even started to pray, which is something I've never done because I thought, like an unused library card, my account with whatever god there may be was closed.

I want Fossilguy to be well, but more than anything I just want to know that his weight, his presence will be in my life. That even if I can't see him every day, even if I can't hear his witty under the breath comments, he's still there, resting at the front door of my life.

Dreaming Memories

For about 10 years of my life I lived on a small farm on the Olympic Peninsula. We dug up an old horse corral filled with sandy soil and years of horse manure and built 20 foot long raised beds where we grew peas and squash, artichokes and beans. In the pasture, we provided a home for a variety of rescued animals and my ex-partner's old, old mare.

Farm life was part chop wood/carry water, but it was also part overwhelming and exhausting. When my relationship broke up (over 5 years ago), I was thankful in one way to be done with farming. Most of the heavy tasks fell to me (part of the reason why the relationship didn't work though there were many other reasons as well) so my days on the farm began feeding sheep and llamas and ended cleaning stalls and clearing the pasture of unwanted debris. In between it all was tilling and planting, weeding and harvesting.

Most of the animals who lived with us were rescues. Our friend, Jan the large animal vet, was always the recipient of half-eaten and close to death critters. Two of the llamas, for instance, had been chased by dogs who ripped out the back end of one llama and scarred the other. The wounds did not heal easily and required flushing out of cavernous holes and picking out maggots that formed almost overnight. That llama, Paco, survived but spent most of his life with limited vision learning to depend upon the other llamas as his guides around the pasture and on our excursions through the woods.

The llama he depended upon the most was Lupine, a skinny, short-haired ruffian with the temper of a snake. Lllamas spit, it's true, but generally at each other and usually only after serious provocation. Lupine, on the otherhand, spit as a matter of principle, hurling green slime at anyone who dared to test his patience. This became interesting when Lupine developed acid reflux, not a pretty picture in a long-necked llama. Anything chunky got stuck in Lupine's throat and he'd gag and choke until we put a tube down his throat to clear whatever was dislodged there. This made feeding Lupine difficult as he couldn't eat hay or fresh spring grass.

But he had to eat so we cordoned off sections of the pasture with sheep fencing and confined him to the parts of the field that had short grasses or had been eaten down by the other llamas. He could have no hay, which is the main staple for llamas and his grain had to be made into a goopy mush in order for him to eat it.

Atticus was the third lllama. Spunky and graceful, he had an overbite that made him look even more like a Dr. Seuss character than llamas already do. Atticus eventually went to live with friends who raised sheep where he served well as a guardian of their flock, chasing off coyotes and even once, a mountain lion.

We had rescued sheep, too who were also chased down by a pack of dogs. The sheep were part of a large flock used primarily for dog herding practice. The flock was about 30 sheep strong when a pack of domesticated dogs gathered together and broke into their pasture. Fueled by instinct and shared energy, the dogs turned ruthless and violent killing all the sheep except for two ewes. Those two ewes came to live with us where their gashed and bloody loins were nursed back to relative health. After a few weeks of care, I finally decided to name the sheep knowing they were most likely permanent residents.

Dotty received her name for the brown dot on her right hind leg while Fiesty was named for her temper. A black-faced sheep with spiraled horns, she protected Dotty from any human contact by stamping her front hoof hard against the floor of the barn and then lowering her head and charging. I was hit once by those horns and the brusie left me limping for a week.

What we didn't know about Dotty and Fiesty is that they were pregnant. Of course, it became obvious quickly as the grew in size and developed swollen teats. Then one day, when I got home from work, I found the ewes tucked away in the corners of the barn each nursing twins. Our flock went from two sheep to six and soon we were naming the new lambs just as we'd named their mothers. Truth, Justice, Honor, and Ukelele.

Now that I live in the city, there are parts of farm life I miss. The smells mostly -- the warmth of a llama's neck, the breath of a new lamb, the dust of hay, even the sour smell of the mush I'd mix three times a day for Lupine. I even miss the blistered hands and the sore shoulders from lifting 100 pound bales of hay or 50 pound sacks of grain or from repairing broken fences or clearing away brush.

Sometimes, when I'm deep asleep, I dream of the animals on the farm. In addition to the horse and the llamas and the sheep, there were four cats, two dogs, and a parrot. My dreams are ethereal with llamas galloping in the sky above me and cats lined up like birds on the barn rafters. I can smell all the scents I miss in those dreams and I float around the garden and pastures with my arms outstretched trying to hug a lamb or a dog.

Things did not end amicably with my ex. I was the "leaver" and so I was seen as the evil one. My old dog, Abbie, had died a few years before I left and though I wanted to take a cat or two or even the German Shepard, Ali, I left the house without any of the animals in tow. Perhaps that is why I dream about them or why sometimes my dreams are filled with worry -- who is feeding Lupine? Is anyone scratching Paco on the warm white spot on his chest? Is Bella (the cat) still catching swallows from the rafters of the barn or is Ali digging holes in the garden searching for moles? And what of Rico, the parrot? My ex purchased him before our relationship began, but he was difficult and demanding and instead of committing time to him, she ignored him, which made Rico all the more difficult and demanding. What has become of him?

Recently, Jan (the vet) got ahold of me. I'd loaned her some money years ago and through some wheeling and dealing she'd managed to scrape together the funds to pay me back. She called to get my current address and we talked, not about my ex but about the animals I've missed so much.

Paco and Mesmer (a llama who came into the picture later) still live with a family I found for them after I left. Lupine died shortly after I'd moved to Seattle. Unable to keep food down any longer, Jan helped euthanize him to end his suffering. Rico, the parrot, was given to a woman who rescues birds and is much happier now that someone is paying attention to him. All the cats are gone except for Kiffa, the 25 pound calico who adores Jan and rolls on her socks whenever she visits the farm. Ali the shepard was put down this last Christmas after suffering from bad hips and crippled legs. All the sheep died except two -- Dotty, the stalwart mother, and her fat, round daughter, Ukelele. They live with Jan now. Jan's old dog Vern is still alive, but crippled and aging.

And my ex? Well, I didn't ask about her. She's rarely in my dreams though when I do dream about her I am always struggling to correct the dream. "This is not my life," I say to myself, "She doesn't belong here." And then I wake up, roll over and look at Ann to make certain the dream was just a dream.

The animals on the other hand, are always in my dreams though since Jan's phone call, I haven't dreamt of them once. Perhaps Jan's report provided closure or now that I know their fates, my dreams no longer need to be filled with worry or concern or the heavy weight of responsibility to feed and care for them.

There are days when I miss the farm and there are days when I'm glad I live in a city. There are days when I long to nuzzle the warm neck of a llama or stroke the rough muzzle of lamb, and there are days when I marvel at the creativity and ingenuity of city crows. There are days in the city when I know I haven't worked hard enough and there are days when I am thankful there isn't wood to stack or stalls to clean. There are days when I wish the city weren't so loud, when the sound of the wind down a long valley whistles in my memory. But there are also days when I hear the organ from the church, the whine of the electric bus, and the songs of Avery, our neighbor, singing along with his iPod as he walks to or from work that make me appreciate the diversity of city life.

What I miss the most... if there were one thing I could bring with me to the city it would be the brillance of the stars at night. On warm summer nights I loved to lie out in the pasture with the musky smell of llama dung all around me and the black shadows of the tall trees above me, and just blur my eyes to the silvery sparkles cast like dust across the sky. Often the llamas or the sheep would lie close by, close enough to hear their breathing. The dogs would lie down too, and in the spring, when the lambs were trusting and curious, they'd curl up with their butts tuck into the dogs' bellies like some biblical scene.

Sometimes, in those dreaming memories late at night, I'm spread flat in that pasture pretending to count stars when in actuality I'm counting the heartbeats of all the different animals around me. Though it's sad to know Bella is no longer chasing birds and Rico is no longer calling my name, in my dreams everyone is right where they should be -- nearby, content, breathing -- and so am I.