I woke with a start the other night, sucking in air and feeling shivers of shock course through my body. I'd dreamt of a dead woman lying in a dark room. She was blue and cold and though I am not a doctor, I was waiting for someone to arrive to tell me that this unknown woman was officially dead. Since I didn't want to stay in the dark room with the dead corpse, I closed the tall skinny door and waited for the doctor or the coroner to arrive. Seconds later, for it was a dream, someone arrived and I opened the door again. The woman was still stretched out on the bed where I'd found her and now the room was as chilly as her body.
"Is she dead?" I asked the doctor/coroner. The doctor/coroner was as much a mystery as the woman on the bed. I couldn't see him/her and when I woke up from the dream, I couldn't even remember this person's presence in the room.
I leaned over the woman. She was wearing white and her skin was equally pale. She had long fingers and wavy flowing hair spread out over her pillow. As I examined her more closely, waiting for the doctor/coroner to deliver the verdict, the woman sat straight up and said, "Why is it so cold in here?"
That's when I woke up swallowing air, feeling my heart beat through my chest. Needless to say, it took awhile to go back to sleep.
There are a million interpretations to this dream -- while I'm leaving teaching, I am still a teacher and not dead yet; despite my worries of what I'll do next, I'm still kicking; I'm in this journey alone and on and on -- but it didn't make me rest any easier knowing that the dream was simply a reflection of my psyche.
It felt so real.
My dreams have always been vivid and realistic even when I was a child, but this was the most realistic dream I've had in a long, long time. It's stayed with me for days now. Early this morning, when I woke to pee, I couldn't go back to sleep because I kept trying to remember every detail of the dream: What was the dead woman wearing? What color were the sheets? How big was the room? Straining to remember the dream brought back the panic and I found myself staring at the ceiling at 4:30, listening to the dog snore at the end of the bed.
My decision to leave teaching and move forward without a real job has had an interesting impact on those around me. The most common reactions are these:
1) Good for you: This comes from people who are, by nature, positive and encouraging, but also a bit burned out in their own jobs. They are proud of me for taking the plunge they feel they cannot. I understand these people, but I want to tell them that they too can join the ranks of the unemployed, that I was no more trapped than they are, and that while they are encouraging of my choice, I'd sure love a little company.
2) What will you do next?: This comes from people who feel that everyone must do something all the time and (like me) worry when they are doing nothing. This is the thought that keeps me up at night -- the unknown -- and I find myself floundering around with my time trying to plan out all the possible options.
3) How brave: This comes from people who see change as an act of god not one of free will. That someone would actually bring change upon themselves requires more bravery than intelligence. That someone would leave a perfectly good job without another job to jump into have courage and chutzpah something they don't see themselves as having. I want to grab these people by their shoulders and say, "I am not brave. In fact, I'm beginning to think I am very, very stupid, but bravery is not at play here at all."
In those early morning hours when I'm contemplating my situation, bravery is the farthest thing from my mind. Rather I feel confused. Which is more difficult -- to stay in a job that eats at your soul or to leave it for something unknown? Is bravery about running from one thing into something undefined or is bravery about staying in the same thing and never knowing what lies beyond the horizon?
Hence the dead-but-not-dead woman of my dream. She is neither fully dead nor fully alive. She is so cold with uncertainty she turns the temperature of the room to something that resembles ice and darkness. Is she brave? Does she just need some encouraging to go on living? Is she simply contemplating what will come next after she warms the room? Was she ever really dead or just faking it? Perhaps resting. Perhaps meditating. Or maybe she was just waiting.
On our walk this morning, Rubin counted squirrels. They teased him from the trees and darted across the sidewalk inches in front of us. At one point, he walked with a bit of a limp. Generally this means he has something stuck to the bottom of his paw and by removing it, I remove the limp. But this morning the limp persisted.
Until he saw the next squirrel. The limp was cured and for the remaining mile of our walk home, he pranced with his ears at the ready and his tail tight and curled. The possibilities were endless. Squirrels could appear at any given moment.
I know Rubin is in my life to teach me how to live in the "now," but I somehow forget that lesson and need multiple reminders. There are squirrels every where. You can feel dead one minute and alive the next. You can walk with a limp or race with abandon. There are more possibilities than the evidence might suggest. If you assume the future, you will be shocked and breathless when an alternate reality emerges.
Now is now. Brave or not, now is now. What I will do next is exactly what I will do next.
And so I begin...again and again.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Learning from Doris
Lesson #1:
Make a mess -- Every Tuesday night, Doris and Steven have a "family" dinner at their house. Family consists of anyone who is biologically or "logically" related to them -- friends, friends of friends, sons, daughters, spouses, etc. Meals are generally eclectic and filling. Conversation is always lively and the dogs (of which there can be anywhere from 1 to 4 present) offer unexpected entertainment -- accidentally (or not) falling into the pool, race-like chases around the garden, and games of catch on the porch.
Yesterday I went early because I wanted to learn how Doris made "things." By things I mean bread, pasta, salads, soups -- whatever the particulars are of that meal. Yesterdays particulars were bread, ravioli, and baked asparagus.
Doris has two pasta machines. Not the fancy electric kind, but two hand-held machines -- one she found at Goodwill. While it's missing some parts, it works just fine for basic pasta making. So I got a lesson.
And it was messy. Flour was all over the kitchen island workspace and all over the floor. The dogs -- our dog, Rubin and their huge dog, Ben -- licked the smatterings of flour and dough. Their muzzles turned white from their efforts.
"Oops," I confessed. "I'm making a mess."
"Don't worry about it," Doris replied in her best Rhode Island accent. "It's always like this. You should see the mess in Italian kitchens."
Doris' father was Italian. He spoke very little English though he could speak French fluently. His wife was French. She was a well-known and renowned drape-maker (is there a word for that?). She worked her fingers to the bone designing and sewing drapes as well as sending out her cadre of gay salesmen. Meanwhile her husband, Doris' father, stayed home and cooked amazing Italian meals. Doris speaks Italian and travels back to the old country once every few years and always returns with a new recipe lodged somewhere in her memory.
"Pasta making is messy," she laughed. "Get used to it!"
And so I did.
Lesson #2: Recipes don't matter -- I am a rule follower. I don't like to do the wrong thing. Recipes seem important to me. Too much salt and the whole thing can be ruined. Too much liquid and you have soup instead of chili. I cling to the recipes and then, if my dish doesn't turn out, I try to figure out what went wrong by re-examining the recipe.
"Put about a cup of flour on the island," Doris instructed, but as she did it I noticed it wasn't quite a cup. No exact measuring for her!
"Now make a well in the middle of the floor and crack an egg into it."
"Wait," I worried out loud, "Aren't you just supposed to use the egg yolk?"
"It doesn't matter." Doris slid the egg from its shell and then took the broken half of the shell and filled it with water. "You need to add water and about half a shell is perfect."
Then, just like they do on the Iron Chef, we pulled the flour into the egg and blended until we had a dough that held together, "not too dry, not too wet" as Doris explained.
I was nervous. I kept feeling her dough compared to mine. I mimicked her every movement hoping my dough would be exactly like hers.
"Is this okay?" I'd ask.
"Sure," Doris tossed back and then moved onto the next task.
Lesson #3: It's not about measurements. It's about textures.
Once the dough was mixed we cut off chunks and pressed them through the pasta maker.
"It will have a rough texture at first," Doris instructed, "and then, without much effort, the dough will be smooth and silky."
We ran the chunk of dough through again and again, and just as promised, the dough moved from a rough, lumpy chunk to a smooth, stretchy rectangle.
"Like this?" I kept asking.
"Yep, that's it!" We stacked the finished dough in geometric lumps on the counter.
"Now we must press it to the exact thickness we want." Doris skillfully adjusted the pasta maker, spinning the dial from 1 to 3 to 5 to 7 -- narrowing the width of the metal rollers. "7 looks too thin," she pronounced. "Let's stick with 6."
I rolled my first chunk of pasta through first 1, then 3, then 5, and finally 6. I had a long tongue-shaped swath of dough. From all the cooking shows I've been watching lately, I knew we had to hang the pasta to dry.
"We forgot to put out the drying rack," I announced.
"Oh just hang it over the chair," Doris replied. She took my finished dough and draped it over the back of the island stool. Soon we had 15 scarves of silky, thin dough hanging throughout the kitchen, the summer breeze through the back door swung them gently.
Lesson #4: If it doesn't work, just try something else.
"I've tried to use the ravioli maker," Doris informed me, "but I can't get it to work without Herculean efforts. So we'll just do it this way."
"This way" entailed laying the strips of dough on the counter, plopping the filling (cooked spinach and brie) in a Zen garden, linear pattern. We wet the edges with water from a finger bowl and then laid another strip on top.
"I have this ravioli cutter," Doris held up a metal stamp with triangular edges, "but it doesn't cut through enough so I just use a knife or a glass."
She demonstrated both methods -- one producing square ravioli, the other making half or full moons, depending on your preference.
Within the hour we had a huge tray of oddly shaped ravioli.
The kitchen was a disaster. Well, in my mother's sense of cleanliness, the room looked like a disaster to me. "Shall we clean up?" I asked invoking my mother's sense of tidiness.
"Oh no, we have more to do. We'll clean up later."
Lesson #5: Clean up once. No need to clean up again and again.
In the end, Steven, Doris' husband, returned from his errands and while Doris made braised vegetables, threw the bread into bake, roasted asparagus, and made a salad from the greens in her expansive garden, Steven cleaned off the surfaces and swept the floor.
Lesson #6: A faithful partner is essential to all cooking adventures.
The meal was wonderful, as usual. We ate fresh bread, big, meaty green olives, and cheese for appetizers. Then 9 of us -- family and friends -- sat around the enormous dining table and served up ravioli, vegetables, salad, asparagus, a lentil mush that was incredibly tasty, and stuffed ourselves silly not only with food, but with laughter. The dogs -- three for the night-- swirled around the table, nudging their noses into laps and finally settling on the floor by our chairs.
I'd made dessert earlier in the day -- an apple tart with enough butter to kill a cow and enough sugar to bury a pyramid. It was wonderfully rich with a dollop of fresh whipped cream.
Lesson #7: Never let the guests clean up.
I tried, but Doris shooed us out the door around 9 last night while she and Steven and their son rinsed the dishes and placed them in the dishwasher.
"No need to rinse the dishes," I heard Doris' voice echo out of the kitchen window as we got into the car. "The dishwasher will take care of all of that."
Food is both complicated and simple. When I examine the way I have always cooked -- cleaning up as I go along, following the recipe to the exact specifications, tossing out mistakes, making everything look exactly like it does in the recipe book, not allowing others to help lest I lose my place in the process -- I realize it is a complicated and lonely process. Cooking with Doris, while it produces complicated meals, felt much simpler -- communal, fun, random, stress and worry free.
We came home last night with one of Doris' pasta machines ("Practice," she told me, "Have fun with it. You can't go wrong!"), our empty tart dish (a cast iron skillet) and one very tired dog. I came home with many lessons, the biggest of which is how to relax.
Make a mess -- Every Tuesday night, Doris and Steven have a "family" dinner at their house. Family consists of anyone who is biologically or "logically" related to them -- friends, friends of friends, sons, daughters, spouses, etc. Meals are generally eclectic and filling. Conversation is always lively and the dogs (of which there can be anywhere from 1 to 4 present) offer unexpected entertainment -- accidentally (or not) falling into the pool, race-like chases around the garden, and games of catch on the porch.
Yesterday I went early because I wanted to learn how Doris made "things." By things I mean bread, pasta, salads, soups -- whatever the particulars are of that meal. Yesterdays particulars were bread, ravioli, and baked asparagus.
Doris has two pasta machines. Not the fancy electric kind, but two hand-held machines -- one she found at Goodwill. While it's missing some parts, it works just fine for basic pasta making. So I got a lesson.
And it was messy. Flour was all over the kitchen island workspace and all over the floor. The dogs -- our dog, Rubin and their huge dog, Ben -- licked the smatterings of flour and dough. Their muzzles turned white from their efforts.
"Oops," I confessed. "I'm making a mess."
"Don't worry about it," Doris replied in her best Rhode Island accent. "It's always like this. You should see the mess in Italian kitchens."
Doris' father was Italian. He spoke very little English though he could speak French fluently. His wife was French. She was a well-known and renowned drape-maker (is there a word for that?). She worked her fingers to the bone designing and sewing drapes as well as sending out her cadre of gay salesmen. Meanwhile her husband, Doris' father, stayed home and cooked amazing Italian meals. Doris speaks Italian and travels back to the old country once every few years and always returns with a new recipe lodged somewhere in her memory.
"Pasta making is messy," she laughed. "Get used to it!"
And so I did.
Lesson #2: Recipes don't matter -- I am a rule follower. I don't like to do the wrong thing. Recipes seem important to me. Too much salt and the whole thing can be ruined. Too much liquid and you have soup instead of chili. I cling to the recipes and then, if my dish doesn't turn out, I try to figure out what went wrong by re-examining the recipe.
"Put about a cup of flour on the island," Doris instructed, but as she did it I noticed it wasn't quite a cup. No exact measuring for her!
"Now make a well in the middle of the floor and crack an egg into it."
"Wait," I worried out loud, "Aren't you just supposed to use the egg yolk?"
"It doesn't matter." Doris slid the egg from its shell and then took the broken half of the shell and filled it with water. "You need to add water and about half a shell is perfect."
Then, just like they do on the Iron Chef, we pulled the flour into the egg and blended until we had a dough that held together, "not too dry, not too wet" as Doris explained.
I was nervous. I kept feeling her dough compared to mine. I mimicked her every movement hoping my dough would be exactly like hers.
"Is this okay?" I'd ask.
"Sure," Doris tossed back and then moved onto the next task.
Lesson #3: It's not about measurements. It's about textures.
Once the dough was mixed we cut off chunks and pressed them through the pasta maker.
"It will have a rough texture at first," Doris instructed, "and then, without much effort, the dough will be smooth and silky."
We ran the chunk of dough through again and again, and just as promised, the dough moved from a rough, lumpy chunk to a smooth, stretchy rectangle.
"Like this?" I kept asking.
"Yep, that's it!" We stacked the finished dough in geometric lumps on the counter.
"Now we must press it to the exact thickness we want." Doris skillfully adjusted the pasta maker, spinning the dial from 1 to 3 to 5 to 7 -- narrowing the width of the metal rollers. "7 looks too thin," she pronounced. "Let's stick with 6."
I rolled my first chunk of pasta through first 1, then 3, then 5, and finally 6. I had a long tongue-shaped swath of dough. From all the cooking shows I've been watching lately, I knew we had to hang the pasta to dry.
"We forgot to put out the drying rack," I announced.
"Oh just hang it over the chair," Doris replied. She took my finished dough and draped it over the back of the island stool. Soon we had 15 scarves of silky, thin dough hanging throughout the kitchen, the summer breeze through the back door swung them gently.
Lesson #4: If it doesn't work, just try something else.
"I've tried to use the ravioli maker," Doris informed me, "but I can't get it to work without Herculean efforts. So we'll just do it this way."
"This way" entailed laying the strips of dough on the counter, plopping the filling (cooked spinach and brie) in a Zen garden, linear pattern. We wet the edges with water from a finger bowl and then laid another strip on top.
"I have this ravioli cutter," Doris held up a metal stamp with triangular edges, "but it doesn't cut through enough so I just use a knife or a glass."
She demonstrated both methods -- one producing square ravioli, the other making half or full moons, depending on your preference.
Within the hour we had a huge tray of oddly shaped ravioli.
The kitchen was a disaster. Well, in my mother's sense of cleanliness, the room looked like a disaster to me. "Shall we clean up?" I asked invoking my mother's sense of tidiness.
"Oh no, we have more to do. We'll clean up later."
Lesson #5: Clean up once. No need to clean up again and again.
In the end, Steven, Doris' husband, returned from his errands and while Doris made braised vegetables, threw the bread into bake, roasted asparagus, and made a salad from the greens in her expansive garden, Steven cleaned off the surfaces and swept the floor.
Lesson #6: A faithful partner is essential to all cooking adventures.
The meal was wonderful, as usual. We ate fresh bread, big, meaty green olives, and cheese for appetizers. Then 9 of us -- family and friends -- sat around the enormous dining table and served up ravioli, vegetables, salad, asparagus, a lentil mush that was incredibly tasty, and stuffed ourselves silly not only with food, but with laughter. The dogs -- three for the night-- swirled around the table, nudging their noses into laps and finally settling on the floor by our chairs.
I'd made dessert earlier in the day -- an apple tart with enough butter to kill a cow and enough sugar to bury a pyramid. It was wonderfully rich with a dollop of fresh whipped cream.
Lesson #7: Never let the guests clean up.
I tried, but Doris shooed us out the door around 9 last night while she and Steven and their son rinsed the dishes and placed them in the dishwasher.
"No need to rinse the dishes," I heard Doris' voice echo out of the kitchen window as we got into the car. "The dishwasher will take care of all of that."
Food is both complicated and simple. When I examine the way I have always cooked -- cleaning up as I go along, following the recipe to the exact specifications, tossing out mistakes, making everything look exactly like it does in the recipe book, not allowing others to help lest I lose my place in the process -- I realize it is a complicated and lonely process. Cooking with Doris, while it produces complicated meals, felt much simpler -- communal, fun, random, stress and worry free.
We came home last night with one of Doris' pasta machines ("Practice," she told me, "Have fun with it. You can't go wrong!"), our empty tart dish (a cast iron skillet) and one very tired dog. I came home with many lessons, the biggest of which is how to relax.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Unknown
A friend said last night that it was natural to fear the unknown. She told me that I shouldn't be in a rush. I should just enjoy each day of this journey. She told me to relax into my freedom. I have the resources, I have the time. I must sit with it and let things unfold.
We talked on the phone. She'd just spent a day of nothing before she went back to work today. She enjoyed it she said. "Unproductive feels good at times," and then she listened to me worry about the thought of being unproductive for the rest of my life.
"You worry too much," she warned.
Duh.
I have a list on my desk of all the things I must do today. They aren't "musts" really as guidelines. These are the activities I can do if I find myself with nothing to do, but perhaps doing nothing is what I am wrestling with the most. I am not good at "nothing."
The days have been hot and humid. Yesterday's 90 degree heat turned us into putty. We laid around and watched terrible television shows, old movies, and slept. Even the dog was too hot to really be an annoyance. There was a whole lot of "nothing" going on as the heat expanded in the house and the breezes died. Yesterday I was good at "nothing," but it was out of necessity and survival, not some Zen-like practice.
Today promises to be cooler, but the nothing I feel like doing results not from an inner journey of awareness, but from an overwhelming feeling of where to begin. My list of things to do is long, but I struggle with where to start. There's pasta sauce to be made for tonight's dinner. Making it in the cool part of the morning feels like a good idea, but so does cleaning the house and weed-eating the yard.
There are job applications to fill out and the dog needs a good brushing. The list for Costco an the grocery store is long, but leaving the dog in a warm house feels as cruel as leaving him in a hot car. I know I will start soon -- one thing on the list, then the next -- but in this space between not doing and doing I can sense a vibration of fear.
I have leapt. I have left my career and now I'm staring at my compass. The needle is spinning slowly. "This is the vacation you wanted," Ann tells me. Yes, but what's after vacation?
She laughs at me. "You move too fast in this heat," she chides. "You need to learn to slow down. Not everything has to be accomplished today. What will be on your list tomorrow? Nothing?"
Nothing. The unknown. Are they one and the same? I'd like to think not, but right now they are folded in on one another so tightly it's difficult to distinguish their separate features. Regardless, I am equally uncomfortable with both.
Ironic. I wanted to do less. I wanted to not work so hard and let my body relax into something peaceful and calm. I wanted time to think. Instead, I could easily work myself into a state of panic and fear. My thinking could be devoured by doubt and insecurity. I could easily let the unknown overtake me and fall into a pit of nothingness.
I won't, but knowing that is cold comfort. It doesn't motivate me to change old habits. It just makes me uncomfortable with the unknown that sits before me.
"You just have to make peace with the unknown," my friend said last night on the phone. "That takes awhile, but you'll get there."
Enough. I shall begin with pasta sauce and while it's simmering, I'll dust the rest of the house, then sweep, then mop. Check marks on a list are always satisfying. I'll think about today's list today and tomorrow's list tomorrow. I'll push nothing into the future where it can sit safely with the unknown...temporarily.
We talked on the phone. She'd just spent a day of nothing before she went back to work today. She enjoyed it she said. "Unproductive feels good at times," and then she listened to me worry about the thought of being unproductive for the rest of my life.
"You worry too much," she warned.
Duh.
I have a list on my desk of all the things I must do today. They aren't "musts" really as guidelines. These are the activities I can do if I find myself with nothing to do, but perhaps doing nothing is what I am wrestling with the most. I am not good at "nothing."
The days have been hot and humid. Yesterday's 90 degree heat turned us into putty. We laid around and watched terrible television shows, old movies, and slept. Even the dog was too hot to really be an annoyance. There was a whole lot of "nothing" going on as the heat expanded in the house and the breezes died. Yesterday I was good at "nothing," but it was out of necessity and survival, not some Zen-like practice.
Today promises to be cooler, but the nothing I feel like doing results not from an inner journey of awareness, but from an overwhelming feeling of where to begin. My list of things to do is long, but I struggle with where to start. There's pasta sauce to be made for tonight's dinner. Making it in the cool part of the morning feels like a good idea, but so does cleaning the house and weed-eating the yard.
There are job applications to fill out and the dog needs a good brushing. The list for Costco an the grocery store is long, but leaving the dog in a warm house feels as cruel as leaving him in a hot car. I know I will start soon -- one thing on the list, then the next -- but in this space between not doing and doing I can sense a vibration of fear.
I have leapt. I have left my career and now I'm staring at my compass. The needle is spinning slowly. "This is the vacation you wanted," Ann tells me. Yes, but what's after vacation?
She laughs at me. "You move too fast in this heat," she chides. "You need to learn to slow down. Not everything has to be accomplished today. What will be on your list tomorrow? Nothing?"
Nothing. The unknown. Are they one and the same? I'd like to think not, but right now they are folded in on one another so tightly it's difficult to distinguish their separate features. Regardless, I am equally uncomfortable with both.
Ironic. I wanted to do less. I wanted to not work so hard and let my body relax into something peaceful and calm. I wanted time to think. Instead, I could easily work myself into a state of panic and fear. My thinking could be devoured by doubt and insecurity. I could easily let the unknown overtake me and fall into a pit of nothingness.
I won't, but knowing that is cold comfort. It doesn't motivate me to change old habits. It just makes me uncomfortable with the unknown that sits before me.
"You just have to make peace with the unknown," my friend said last night on the phone. "That takes awhile, but you'll get there."
Enough. I shall begin with pasta sauce and while it's simmering, I'll dust the rest of the house, then sweep, then mop. Check marks on a list are always satisfying. I'll think about today's list today and tomorrow's list tomorrow. I'll push nothing into the future where it can sit safely with the unknown...temporarily.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Among the Plebians
What we do defines us. A dentist is defined by her expertise with teeth and gums. A firefighter by his strength and his knowledge of fire. A basketball player by her skills with a ball, a team, and a hoop. And I, as a teacher, have been defined by my years in the classroom creating lesson plans and motivating children to learn.
When I sat down last night at the "meet and greet" hiring event at REI I had that odd feeling of being out of place -- a square teacher in a round business.
As a business, it's universally agreed that REI is progressive. They offer health care to all employees. They build "green" stores. They promote and fund stewardship and education. They encourage their employees to play as much as work. And they pay just enough above the minimum wage to earn themselves a spot on Fortune Magazine's Top 100 Best Places to Work.
But they are a business, not a school, and navigating through the brief and rather uninformative "meet and greet" interview I felt out of my league. A Bachelors Degree, two Masters Degrees, and 22 years of teaching experience and I felt out of my league. Could I cashier? Of course...how difficult could it be? Could I stock shelves? Why not! Could I put clothes on a rack and shoes on display? No problem.
Yet here was one of the "managers" telling me that getting hired at REI is quite difficult and that, in fact, they wouldn't be hiring anyone until mid-August or perhaps September. I should return. I should remind them that I'd already applied and if my application "fit" in with their needs, I would be called back for a full interview.
Okay. I didn't want a job until August and can afford to not get one until September, but what was it about my application that did not stand out above the rest?
"Have you had any experience in sales?" the very young interviewer asked me.
"I have been a teacher for 22 years," I smiled politely, "Every day was a sales job."
"Well," he smirked, "perhaps Customer Relations, but not actual sales."
I found myself saying, "When was the last time you were in the classroom?" I wanted to tag on "young man" but I held my tongue.
He laughed, thankfully, but I'm not certain he understood that I was serious.
I don't want to be a snob. I don't want to be someone who thinks any minimum wage job is beneath me, but yesterday I felt like a commoner in many ways. My qualifications felt bulky and outdated. I felt old in a room of 20-somethings (only one other applicant was close to my age) and I felt as if I needed to grovel to prove my worth.
One young man was a master of the grovel. He arrived early. He provided a resume. He wore a casual suit and a tie. He introduced himself to every REI employee in the room. His "brief" interview was longer than everyone else's. He asked questions and gave long, expansive answers. He carried a briefcase.
In contrast, the young man who sat to my right carried his skateboard into the room. His tennis shoes were worn and tattered. His pants hung low and he wore an old hat slanted on his head. His t-shirt sleeves were too short to cover up his detailed and plentiful tattoos, colorful designs over each bicep.
Where did I fit in?
It's not that I've never had that feeling before. I felt it often during my 22 years of teaching. I was a different teacher in many ways, but my difference helped me carve a niche for myself. I was considered "creative" and an "out-of-the-box" visionary. I earned a reputation for innovative teaching methods and original projects that engaged students and met state standards.
If applying for another teaching position I'd know exactly what to say, what to ask, how to present myself. I'd know the jargon and the key points that needed to be made to get the interviewers attention. But I'm not sure what knowledge I need to display in order to work a cash register or re-rack clothes or lace up shoes on a customer's foot. That's a whole different body of water in which I found myself swimming last night.
I didn't drown. They raced through each of the interviews because they weren't actually hiring. In the world of business, it appears, you just keep showing up and eventually they'll be a spot that might match your qualifications.
I can wait. If anything 22 years of teaching has taught me it's how to be patient. In the meantime, though, I think I'll apply to a few other places --Whole Foods perhaps or maybe even the UW bookstore or Elliott Bay Books -- just to cover all contingencies. Besides it will be good practice -- shoving my square peg into more round holes.
When I sat down last night at the "meet and greet" hiring event at REI I had that odd feeling of being out of place -- a square teacher in a round business.
As a business, it's universally agreed that REI is progressive. They offer health care to all employees. They build "green" stores. They promote and fund stewardship and education. They encourage their employees to play as much as work. And they pay just enough above the minimum wage to earn themselves a spot on Fortune Magazine's Top 100 Best Places to Work.
But they are a business, not a school, and navigating through the brief and rather uninformative "meet and greet" interview I felt out of my league. A Bachelors Degree, two Masters Degrees, and 22 years of teaching experience and I felt out of my league. Could I cashier? Of course...how difficult could it be? Could I stock shelves? Why not! Could I put clothes on a rack and shoes on display? No problem.
Yet here was one of the "managers" telling me that getting hired at REI is quite difficult and that, in fact, they wouldn't be hiring anyone until mid-August or perhaps September. I should return. I should remind them that I'd already applied and if my application "fit" in with their needs, I would be called back for a full interview.
Okay. I didn't want a job until August and can afford to not get one until September, but what was it about my application that did not stand out above the rest?
"Have you had any experience in sales?" the very young interviewer asked me.
"I have been a teacher for 22 years," I smiled politely, "Every day was a sales job."
"Well," he smirked, "perhaps Customer Relations, but not actual sales."
I found myself saying, "When was the last time you were in the classroom?" I wanted to tag on "young man" but I held my tongue.
He laughed, thankfully, but I'm not certain he understood that I was serious.
I don't want to be a snob. I don't want to be someone who thinks any minimum wage job is beneath me, but yesterday I felt like a commoner in many ways. My qualifications felt bulky and outdated. I felt old in a room of 20-somethings (only one other applicant was close to my age) and I felt as if I needed to grovel to prove my worth.
One young man was a master of the grovel. He arrived early. He provided a resume. He wore a casual suit and a tie. He introduced himself to every REI employee in the room. His "brief" interview was longer than everyone else's. He asked questions and gave long, expansive answers. He carried a briefcase.
In contrast, the young man who sat to my right carried his skateboard into the room. His tennis shoes were worn and tattered. His pants hung low and he wore an old hat slanted on his head. His t-shirt sleeves were too short to cover up his detailed and plentiful tattoos, colorful designs over each bicep.
Where did I fit in?
It's not that I've never had that feeling before. I felt it often during my 22 years of teaching. I was a different teacher in many ways, but my difference helped me carve a niche for myself. I was considered "creative" and an "out-of-the-box" visionary. I earned a reputation for innovative teaching methods and original projects that engaged students and met state standards.
If applying for another teaching position I'd know exactly what to say, what to ask, how to present myself. I'd know the jargon and the key points that needed to be made to get the interviewers attention. But I'm not sure what knowledge I need to display in order to work a cash register or re-rack clothes or lace up shoes on a customer's foot. That's a whole different body of water in which I found myself swimming last night.
I didn't drown. They raced through each of the interviews because they weren't actually hiring. In the world of business, it appears, you just keep showing up and eventually they'll be a spot that might match your qualifications.
I can wait. If anything 22 years of teaching has taught me it's how to be patient. In the meantime, though, I think I'll apply to a few other places --Whole Foods perhaps or maybe even the UW bookstore or Elliott Bay Books -- just to cover all contingencies. Besides it will be good practice -- shoving my square peg into more round holes.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Constants
I am taking an online class on Ocean Systems. It makes my head hurt. I am not a scientist. While science fascinates and amazes me, it feels too fixed in many ways. I like to think about loftier ideas. Here is my response to this week's discussion question: Mangrove trees are considered to be one of the few true plants of the ocean. Why?
I’ve been trying to recall constants in my life – things that stay the same and only vary slightly over time. I can’t think of any. The only constant is change. I’m not sure who said that, but it strikes me as profound – until this morning when I read in my assigned reading for my Oceanography class that the chemical make up of the ocean is relatively constant. Relatively in the sense that it does change, but the changes are miniscule. The temperature, for instance, varies only 5-10 degrees in any given spot. So water at the polar icecaps stays the same temperature and though it may vary from the temperature of the tropics, the tropical oceans stay basically the same temperature as well.
So it is with their chemical composition. Of course, that constant seems to be in danger. That’s the great debate. How much are we changing this constant? If you think about it, we are the only species who significantly changes our environment versus adapting to it like most species on the planet. If it’s cold out, we make warm sweaters or better yet, build houses with central heating systems. Those heating systems require intricate networks of energy in order to work, but we’ve mastered that as well. Need heat? Flip a switch, push a button, and the whole system swings into action. While we have some remarkable internal adaptations, we have constructed for ourselves even more extraordinary external adaptations.
Adaptation by other species is much more internal. There aren’t plants, for instance, that in response to the cold build elaborate external structures to protect themselves or their entire “family.” Instead, they internally adapt, they insulate or die back or store their energy in the roots. They figure out ways to survive the cold and then genetically pass that information onto the next generation of plants. If they don’t adapt, they die and like a cleaver to the artery, the ability to pass on that genetic genius dies with it.
But what happens if human external adaptations mess it up for everything else? For instance, what if our adaptation for traveling great distances – cars, planes, space shuttles – depletes the layers of the protective atmosphere or even worse, disturbs the once-believed constant of the oceans?
The mid-west is once again under water. Record flooding of the Mississippi River and its tributaries has buried small towns and large cities built with our external adaptations on the flood plains of the river. But the Mississippi has flooded for thousands of years, long before humans built their homes and farms and factories along its banks. In fact, the Mississippi’s path has been altered by human civilization so it can be argued that the flooding is simply the river’s attempt to run its natural course. It was our ego that thought that somehow we could construct safe-havens from the flooding waters. Through our external adaptations we have altered a relative constant – the flow of the Mississippi – with disastrous results (though mostly disastrous for humans, which in turn, may damage the surrounding ecosystems through human pollution swirling into the flood waters.)
I suppose none of this really has anything to do with the assignment for the week – Mangroves are one of the few true plants that live in the oceans. Why? – but after reading the assigned essays and the related pages in the textbook, I’ve been thinking about the purpose of adaptation and our inability as a species to understand the functions and benefits of it.
Simply stated, mangroves are one of the few true plants that live in the ocean because they have adapted to the conditions of ocean living in a variety of ways. First, they can live in both fresh and saltwater conditions simultaneously and exclusively. Next, they can extract fresh water from the seas and have a variety of ways to dispose of that salt – some filter it through their roots, others excrete it from their leaves, and still others store the salt in their older leaves or bark that sheds with them. Third, they have an elaborate root system that allows the plant to “breathe” during high tides and stabilize the tree in shallow, loose soil. Finally, they have seeds that germinate on the tree allowing them to “drop and grow” at a rapid rate, hardy enough to survive the harsh and fluctuating conditions in which they must thrive.
While I find all of this fascinating, what truly amazes me is how scientists have learned all of this and still humans refuse to live by these elaborate, complex, and multi-layered laws of nature. Instead, we have spent a great deal of time and energy circumventing them, separating ourselves from nature in hopes of mastering it somehow and avoiding its pitfalls. For instance, we spend a great deal of time and energy converting the deserts into a habitat viable for humans. The consequences of this conversion are dramatic and devastating to the environment.
I once taught a college Global Issues course in which I started the class with this assignment: How would your lives change if all that you consumed could only be obtained in a 10 mile radius of where you lived? The next week’s assignment was: How would living in such a way impact the environment – both on land and in the oceans? While many students struggled to wrap their brains around the idea that there would be no shopping malls, no grocery stores, and no cell phones most of them came to the understanding that their lives would be dramatically different and their impact on the earth and oceans significantly less. Most of them also argued that this “modification” to their lives was counter to their nature, counter to human nature that was genetically predisposed to explore, expand, and reproduce in the way that it had and would continue to do. The creation and marketing of bottled water was, in fact, our evolutionary genius at work.
I was pondering all of this while reading about water molecules and ocean salinity and even more so as I read about mangroves and their astonishing adaptations. It seems to me that, as a species we have fooled ourselves into believing one of two things. First, that we are exempt from the laws of nature by our own brilliance and ingenuity and second, that the principle tenets of evolution justify and condone our exemption from the laws of nature.
We have much to learn from the mangrove forests. On a practical level they are one of the many barometers of how detrimental human progress can be. As hurricanes and cyclones threaten coastal towns, as our oceans grow more and more polluted, and as other species that depend upon the sophisticated ecosystems live at the edge of extinction, we find ourselves questioning our destabilizing impact on the environment. On a more theoretical and perhaps more existential level, the destruction of the mangrove forests and the subsequent ripple effect this will have on the earth’s environment as a whole, the mangrove forests offer us countless and pertinent lessons in areas we are just now exploring – sustainability, climate change, and balance.
In the human world there appear to be few if any constants, but if we see ourselves as a part of larger body of life than perhaps we could come to understand the brilliance of evolutionary adaptability as a constant of sorts. Metaphorically, it might not be too late to rise to the evolutionary genius of the mangrove tree with our roots planted firmly and extensively in both the saltwater of the oceans and the freshwater of the earth – living with versus living in contradiction to that which surrounds and sustains us.
I’ve been trying to recall constants in my life – things that stay the same and only vary slightly over time. I can’t think of any. The only constant is change. I’m not sure who said that, but it strikes me as profound – until this morning when I read in my assigned reading for my Oceanography class that the chemical make up of the ocean is relatively constant. Relatively in the sense that it does change, but the changes are miniscule. The temperature, for instance, varies only 5-10 degrees in any given spot. So water at the polar icecaps stays the same temperature and though it may vary from the temperature of the tropics, the tropical oceans stay basically the same temperature as well.
So it is with their chemical composition. Of course, that constant seems to be in danger. That’s the great debate. How much are we changing this constant? If you think about it, we are the only species who significantly changes our environment versus adapting to it like most species on the planet. If it’s cold out, we make warm sweaters or better yet, build houses with central heating systems. Those heating systems require intricate networks of energy in order to work, but we’ve mastered that as well. Need heat? Flip a switch, push a button, and the whole system swings into action. While we have some remarkable internal adaptations, we have constructed for ourselves even more extraordinary external adaptations.
Adaptation by other species is much more internal. There aren’t plants, for instance, that in response to the cold build elaborate external structures to protect themselves or their entire “family.” Instead, they internally adapt, they insulate or die back or store their energy in the roots. They figure out ways to survive the cold and then genetically pass that information onto the next generation of plants. If they don’t adapt, they die and like a cleaver to the artery, the ability to pass on that genetic genius dies with it.
But what happens if human external adaptations mess it up for everything else? For instance, what if our adaptation for traveling great distances – cars, planes, space shuttles – depletes the layers of the protective atmosphere or even worse, disturbs the once-believed constant of the oceans?
The mid-west is once again under water. Record flooding of the Mississippi River and its tributaries has buried small towns and large cities built with our external adaptations on the flood plains of the river. But the Mississippi has flooded for thousands of years, long before humans built their homes and farms and factories along its banks. In fact, the Mississippi’s path has been altered by human civilization so it can be argued that the flooding is simply the river’s attempt to run its natural course. It was our ego that thought that somehow we could construct safe-havens from the flooding waters. Through our external adaptations we have altered a relative constant – the flow of the Mississippi – with disastrous results (though mostly disastrous for humans, which in turn, may damage the surrounding ecosystems through human pollution swirling into the flood waters.)
I suppose none of this really has anything to do with the assignment for the week – Mangroves are one of the few true plants that live in the oceans. Why? – but after reading the assigned essays and the related pages in the textbook, I’ve been thinking about the purpose of adaptation and our inability as a species to understand the functions and benefits of it.
Simply stated, mangroves are one of the few true plants that live in the ocean because they have adapted to the conditions of ocean living in a variety of ways. First, they can live in both fresh and saltwater conditions simultaneously and exclusively. Next, they can extract fresh water from the seas and have a variety of ways to dispose of that salt – some filter it through their roots, others excrete it from their leaves, and still others store the salt in their older leaves or bark that sheds with them. Third, they have an elaborate root system that allows the plant to “breathe” during high tides and stabilize the tree in shallow, loose soil. Finally, they have seeds that germinate on the tree allowing them to “drop and grow” at a rapid rate, hardy enough to survive the harsh and fluctuating conditions in which they must thrive.
While I find all of this fascinating, what truly amazes me is how scientists have learned all of this and still humans refuse to live by these elaborate, complex, and multi-layered laws of nature. Instead, we have spent a great deal of time and energy circumventing them, separating ourselves from nature in hopes of mastering it somehow and avoiding its pitfalls. For instance, we spend a great deal of time and energy converting the deserts into a habitat viable for humans. The consequences of this conversion are dramatic and devastating to the environment.
I once taught a college Global Issues course in which I started the class with this assignment: How would your lives change if all that you consumed could only be obtained in a 10 mile radius of where you lived? The next week’s assignment was: How would living in such a way impact the environment – both on land and in the oceans? While many students struggled to wrap their brains around the idea that there would be no shopping malls, no grocery stores, and no cell phones most of them came to the understanding that their lives would be dramatically different and their impact on the earth and oceans significantly less. Most of them also argued that this “modification” to their lives was counter to their nature, counter to human nature that was genetically predisposed to explore, expand, and reproduce in the way that it had and would continue to do. The creation and marketing of bottled water was, in fact, our evolutionary genius at work.
I was pondering all of this while reading about water molecules and ocean salinity and even more so as I read about mangroves and their astonishing adaptations. It seems to me that, as a species we have fooled ourselves into believing one of two things. First, that we are exempt from the laws of nature by our own brilliance and ingenuity and second, that the principle tenets of evolution justify and condone our exemption from the laws of nature.
We have much to learn from the mangrove forests. On a practical level they are one of the many barometers of how detrimental human progress can be. As hurricanes and cyclones threaten coastal towns, as our oceans grow more and more polluted, and as other species that depend upon the sophisticated ecosystems live at the edge of extinction, we find ourselves questioning our destabilizing impact on the environment. On a more theoretical and perhaps more existential level, the destruction of the mangrove forests and the subsequent ripple effect this will have on the earth’s environment as a whole, the mangrove forests offer us countless and pertinent lessons in areas we are just now exploring – sustainability, climate change, and balance.
In the human world there appear to be few if any constants, but if we see ourselves as a part of larger body of life than perhaps we could come to understand the brilliance of evolutionary adaptability as a constant of sorts. Metaphorically, it might not be too late to rise to the evolutionary genius of the mangrove tree with our roots planted firmly and extensively in both the saltwater of the oceans and the freshwater of the earth – living with versus living in contradiction to that which surrounds and sustains us.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The Shadow of Crows
The fruit of our cherry tree is ripening. It's an old tree, so old that the arborist we hired told us it should be cut down in the next 5 years or it will fall either on our house or our new fence. We hate to see it go. The wide expanse of the branches and the thick, green leaves offer the perfect shade in the heat of summer. It's the biggest tree in our yard and to replace it means we lose that balance it provides by taking up so much space. When we remove the tree, we will be left with a large hole not only in the ground, but in the sky as well.
Of course this morning I was ready to chop it down myself. The fruit the tree produces are cherries we never get to eat. Pie cherries. Ann once tried to make a pie out of them, but struggled gathering enough of them to fill a shallow pie crust. It's not that there aren't enough cherries, it's that everyone else gets access to them first. Squirrels, starlings, and crows bounce on the branches and peck and claw away at the just ripening fruit at all hours of the day. Their favorite feasting time is just as the sun pushes up on the horizon.
This morning, just past 4:30, the crows groaned, moaned, and complained. With my pillow on my head, I can generally sleep through their fruit orgy, but a new problem has surfaced.
Rubin.
During these warmer nights, he often leaves his soft nest on our bed to cool off on the floor, stretching out to his fullest length, his paws slightly crossed both front and back. As the sun rises, the shadow of the cherry tree fills and expands in our blinds creating a tree house effect throughout the room.
And then the crows arrive. Loudly. Their heavy bodies bouncing on the long limbs of the tree. They peck at the cherries and if awake, we can watch the fruit dangle from their beaks and their wings flutter in the morning sun. But the crows aren't normal crow size. They are three times larger. They are in Hitchcock numbers and as broad and black and wide as any bird on any horror movie ever made.
When Rubin, from his cool retreat on the floor opens his morning eyes, he does not see simple crows on a bent branches. He sees the shadow of monsters with weapons of fruit dangling from their beaks.
And he barks. Not a woof, not hint of caution, but a full-on warning and protective bark. If the crows have yet to wake us, Rubin's guardian stance -- back legs outstretched, his head thrown forward -- and his deep and dangerous bark rattle us from our slumber.
At first we laughed. From his perspective the shadow of crows is frightening. He is simply protecting us. If only Tippy Hedrin had such protection. But morning after morning of the early and fierce warning system is getting very old very quickly.
We call Rubin back up on the bed. We turn his body away from the window. We hold his head down and attempt, in our best Dog Whisperer voice, to enforce silence. But we do not have a blindfold and this is exactly what he needs. And earplugs, too. The shadow cast on the blinds enlarges itself on the wall opposite the window. And after repeated mornings of seeing the large, black monsters in the window and on the wall, Rubin quickly associated the sound of the crow with the threat of the shadows. The caw caw caw opens his eyes. The movie of monstrous crows sends him into a full-throttle attack, defending us from certain death.
And we are left to groan and moan and complain.
Of course this morning I was ready to chop it down myself. The fruit the tree produces are cherries we never get to eat. Pie cherries. Ann once tried to make a pie out of them, but struggled gathering enough of them to fill a shallow pie crust. It's not that there aren't enough cherries, it's that everyone else gets access to them first. Squirrels, starlings, and crows bounce on the branches and peck and claw away at the just ripening fruit at all hours of the day. Their favorite feasting time is just as the sun pushes up on the horizon.
This morning, just past 4:30, the crows groaned, moaned, and complained. With my pillow on my head, I can generally sleep through their fruit orgy, but a new problem has surfaced.
Rubin.
During these warmer nights, he often leaves his soft nest on our bed to cool off on the floor, stretching out to his fullest length, his paws slightly crossed both front and back. As the sun rises, the shadow of the cherry tree fills and expands in our blinds creating a tree house effect throughout the room.
And then the crows arrive. Loudly. Their heavy bodies bouncing on the long limbs of the tree. They peck at the cherries and if awake, we can watch the fruit dangle from their beaks and their wings flutter in the morning sun. But the crows aren't normal crow size. They are three times larger. They are in Hitchcock numbers and as broad and black and wide as any bird on any horror movie ever made.
When Rubin, from his cool retreat on the floor opens his morning eyes, he does not see simple crows on a bent branches. He sees the shadow of monsters with weapons of fruit dangling from their beaks.
And he barks. Not a woof, not hint of caution, but a full-on warning and protective bark. If the crows have yet to wake us, Rubin's guardian stance -- back legs outstretched, his head thrown forward -- and his deep and dangerous bark rattle us from our slumber.
At first we laughed. From his perspective the shadow of crows is frightening. He is simply protecting us. If only Tippy Hedrin had such protection. But morning after morning of the early and fierce warning system is getting very old very quickly.
We call Rubin back up on the bed. We turn his body away from the window. We hold his head down and attempt, in our best Dog Whisperer voice, to enforce silence. But we do not have a blindfold and this is exactly what he needs. And earplugs, too. The shadow cast on the blinds enlarges itself on the wall opposite the window. And after repeated mornings of seeing the large, black monsters in the window and on the wall, Rubin quickly associated the sound of the crow with the threat of the shadows. The caw caw caw opens his eyes. The movie of monstrous crows sends him into a full-throttle attack, defending us from certain death.
And we are left to groan and moan and complain.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Purging
My system is in flux. I have a cold that has moved from a very sore throat to stuffed and clogged sinuses. I can't believe how much comes out when I blow my nose. Too much information? Yes, well, aside from the gross factor, the body is pretty phenomenal.
I figure I'm just purging, getting rid of 22 years of teaching. Last night, in a drugged stupor of NightQuil and cough syrup, I dreamt about stacks of papers I needed to grade. I thought all this school stuff would be gone, but it's still rattling around in my head. My only hope is that I can blow it out with the accumulating snot over the next few days.
Meanwhile, Lucy the Boston/Rat Terrier mix arrived -- a buzz of activity -- having only settled down once when we went to bed last night. Then she burrowed her way under our legs and arms and behind our butts trying to find the warmest nook or cranny for her rest. She and Rubin have been spinning like dervishes through the house, around the yard playing keep away and tug-o-war. Ann is off cleaning up her classroom after finishing up with her school obligations yesterday.
And I am left blowing my nose.
My teaching partner (I guess she's a former teaching partner now) called this morning and said, "Remember how you always taught the girls that a good novel or film always ended the way it started? Well, I guess you're ending your career the way you started."
So true. My first year of teaching was one cold after another. It makes sense that I'd mark this transition with a whopper!
Okay, off to go lie on the couch, blow my nose, watch bad TV and work on getting well. This weekend is jam-packed with the big 80th birthday celebration for my parents. Yikes. I've got to be on my toes for this one (as opposed to being on my nose!).
I figure I'm just purging, getting rid of 22 years of teaching. Last night, in a drugged stupor of NightQuil and cough syrup, I dreamt about stacks of papers I needed to grade. I thought all this school stuff would be gone, but it's still rattling around in my head. My only hope is that I can blow it out with the accumulating snot over the next few days.
Meanwhile, Lucy the Boston/Rat Terrier mix arrived -- a buzz of activity -- having only settled down once when we went to bed last night. Then she burrowed her way under our legs and arms and behind our butts trying to find the warmest nook or cranny for her rest. She and Rubin have been spinning like dervishes through the house, around the yard playing keep away and tug-o-war. Ann is off cleaning up her classroom after finishing up with her school obligations yesterday.
And I am left blowing my nose.
My teaching partner (I guess she's a former teaching partner now) called this morning and said, "Remember how you always taught the girls that a good novel or film always ended the way it started? Well, I guess you're ending your career the way you started."
So true. My first year of teaching was one cold after another. It makes sense that I'd mark this transition with a whopper!
Okay, off to go lie on the couch, blow my nose, watch bad TV and work on getting well. This weekend is jam-packed with the big 80th birthday celebration for my parents. Yikes. I've got to be on my toes for this one (as opposed to being on my nose!).
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Moments of Clarity
Despite my cold, I'm having moments of clarity. Not today, but yesterday. Today I am in a fog and waiting to take a nap. I must wait because I agreed to watch a friend's dog (Lucy) overnight and a friend of the owner is supposed to drop her off soon. "Between 9 and 10," the owner said, but now it's almost 10 and no Lucy.
This has happened before with Lucy. I do not blame Lucy. She's just a dog unaccustomed to watches and time commitments, though Rubin knows when it's time for a walk or a romp with Monty and is the first to let us know. And it's not that I blame a specific person. Rather, I blame a generation.
Lucy's owner is a 20-something, almost a 30-something. She is responsible and wonderfully creative. She is kind and thoughtful and as genuine as they come. But she grew up in the time of computers and video gamess and like most of her generation, operates on a different sphere. She is busy, a bit scattered, and always moving -- working, running, on the phone (usually a cell phone), driving to and fro, moving through the world like a steel ball in an overactive pinball machine.
It's not astonishing then that her dog is much the same way.
And her friends, too.
The last time Lucy was to be picked up, another of the "friends" was to pick her up at noon. At 4:30 that afternoon I got a call, asking if it was okay to come by with Lucy. I had a 5 o' clock appointment and feeling a tad hurried and a bit miffed, I anxiously squealed, YES into the phone. And then, when they arrived, the "friend" wanted to chit-chat. "I'm sorry," I said, "but I need to go since I have an appointment at 5."
I apologized! I apologized!
Later, when the whole situation was explained, Lucy's mom apologized and so did the "friend." But in the moment, no one took the time to offering any apologies except for me, the one who was inconvenienced.
In this time of cell phones and digital communications, unclear communications was blamed.
That may be the case, but I think it's a generational sense of time. Time is bigger, somehow, then it is for my generation. It's more flexible. It's multi-dimensional. Being "late" is accepted. Talking on one's cell phone in the middle of another conversation is accepted. No one has obligations or commitments at specific times. Instead they have obligations and commitments all the time, so much so that the concept of "late" no longer exists.
There's plenty to do to augment what we once called "waiting." I could get on my cell phone (though I don't have one) and get some business done. I could email (or blog, as the case may be), surfing the net, or connect to a broader world in some electronic way. I could keep firmly grounded in one place and still be a million other places all at once.
Today I have a phone call I need to make, but I can't make the phone call until Lucy arrives as the "friend" isn't exactly sure how to find my house and may need to call for further directions. Therefore, the phone must stay free. My phone call is to help me fix a computer issue for a class I'm taking on Oceanography. To complete an assignment I must have a certain "plug-in" and despite my best efforts, I can't seem to get it to work. So I must call the tech-help at the University where I'm taking the on-line course. It's not a 1-800 number, so in addition to paying for the class, I must now problem solve on my dime.
The goal for today was to get that computer issue resolved so I could finish the assignment by Friday, when it is due in an electronic drop-box. There are, apparently, time restrictions in some areas of technology.
So, I wait for Lucy to arrive so my day will feel as if it can move forward. For now, it's stuck and I am left to ponder my moments of clarity.
This is what I'm clear about:
I am no longer a teacher. I do not have a job. At the end of June I will not have health insurance, but I do have the completed COBRA papers that need to be taken back to work in order to activate the coverage (can't do that, though, as I'm waiting for LUCY!).
I've organized the dog apprenticeship to begin in August for 3 days a week. I've filled out my REI application and will attend a "hiring event" tonight and hopefully that will start in August as well. Last night at dinner, I met a friend of a friend who works for a local magazine who, as it so happens, is soliciting for articles. I proposed an idea and she encouraged me to send it in. Just like that.
This is what I'm unclear about:
My cold is moving like plate tectonics (the topic of this week's oceanographic studies) and the aches and pains are erupting despite the DayQuil. I want to nap. I want to curl up on the couch with my book, my blanket, and doze. I know when I do, Lucy will arrive and she, like her mother, is not a calm or relaxed dog. She will wish to play and so we will go for a walk -- up to school to drop off the COBRA papers and then home again.
But I can do none of it until Lucy arrives.
Of this I am clear.
And just now the doorbell rings. Rubin is excited as I, but it turns out only to be Jehovah's soliciting my time. Which time shall I offer them? Those in which I am clear or those in which I am unclear?
"I'm sorry, I'm not interested," I smile at the lovely woman at the door.
I apologize again. This is my time and I apologize for it.
Still no Lucy.
Time stands still.
This has happened before with Lucy. I do not blame Lucy. She's just a dog unaccustomed to watches and time commitments, though Rubin knows when it's time for a walk or a romp with Monty and is the first to let us know. And it's not that I blame a specific person. Rather, I blame a generation.
Lucy's owner is a 20-something, almost a 30-something. She is responsible and wonderfully creative. She is kind and thoughtful and as genuine as they come. But she grew up in the time of computers and video gamess and like most of her generation, operates on a different sphere. She is busy, a bit scattered, and always moving -- working, running, on the phone (usually a cell phone), driving to and fro, moving through the world like a steel ball in an overactive pinball machine.
It's not astonishing then that her dog is much the same way.
And her friends, too.
The last time Lucy was to be picked up, another of the "friends" was to pick her up at noon. At 4:30 that afternoon I got a call, asking if it was okay to come by with Lucy. I had a 5 o' clock appointment and feeling a tad hurried and a bit miffed, I anxiously squealed, YES into the phone. And then, when they arrived, the "friend" wanted to chit-chat. "I'm sorry," I said, "but I need to go since I have an appointment at 5."
I apologized! I apologized!
Later, when the whole situation was explained, Lucy's mom apologized and so did the "friend." But in the moment, no one took the time to offering any apologies except for me, the one who was inconvenienced.
In this time of cell phones and digital communications, unclear communications was blamed.
That may be the case, but I think it's a generational sense of time. Time is bigger, somehow, then it is for my generation. It's more flexible. It's multi-dimensional. Being "late" is accepted. Talking on one's cell phone in the middle of another conversation is accepted. No one has obligations or commitments at specific times. Instead they have obligations and commitments all the time, so much so that the concept of "late" no longer exists.
There's plenty to do to augment what we once called "waiting." I could get on my cell phone (though I don't have one) and get some business done. I could email (or blog, as the case may be), surfing the net, or connect to a broader world in some electronic way. I could keep firmly grounded in one place and still be a million other places all at once.
Today I have a phone call I need to make, but I can't make the phone call until Lucy arrives as the "friend" isn't exactly sure how to find my house and may need to call for further directions. Therefore, the phone must stay free. My phone call is to help me fix a computer issue for a class I'm taking on Oceanography. To complete an assignment I must have a certain "plug-in" and despite my best efforts, I can't seem to get it to work. So I must call the tech-help at the University where I'm taking the on-line course. It's not a 1-800 number, so in addition to paying for the class, I must now problem solve on my dime.
The goal for today was to get that computer issue resolved so I could finish the assignment by Friday, when it is due in an electronic drop-box. There are, apparently, time restrictions in some areas of technology.
So, I wait for Lucy to arrive so my day will feel as if it can move forward. For now, it's stuck and I am left to ponder my moments of clarity.
This is what I'm clear about:
I am no longer a teacher. I do not have a job. At the end of June I will not have health insurance, but I do have the completed COBRA papers that need to be taken back to work in order to activate the coverage (can't do that, though, as I'm waiting for LUCY!).
I've organized the dog apprenticeship to begin in August for 3 days a week. I've filled out my REI application and will attend a "hiring event" tonight and hopefully that will start in August as well. Last night at dinner, I met a friend of a friend who works for a local magazine who, as it so happens, is soliciting for articles. I proposed an idea and she encouraged me to send it in. Just like that.
This is what I'm unclear about:
My cold is moving like plate tectonics (the topic of this week's oceanographic studies) and the aches and pains are erupting despite the DayQuil. I want to nap. I want to curl up on the couch with my book, my blanket, and doze. I know when I do, Lucy will arrive and she, like her mother, is not a calm or relaxed dog. She will wish to play and so we will go for a walk -- up to school to drop off the COBRA papers and then home again.
But I can do none of it until Lucy arrives.
Of this I am clear.
And just now the doorbell rings. Rubin is excited as I, but it turns out only to be Jehovah's soliciting my time. Which time shall I offer them? Those in which I am clear or those in which I am unclear?
"I'm sorry, I'm not interested," I smile at the lovely woman at the door.
I apologize again. This is my time and I apologize for it.
Still no Lucy.
Time stands still.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Just Like the Old Days
My first year of teaching was the worst year of teaching in my entire career. Aside from the devil-children I had for students, I knew nothing about how to manage large groups of people let alone large groups of 13 year olds. I knew nothing about American History, my assigned position, and I knew nothing about living in a small town, which is where I landed my first job.
In my first year of teaching I developed an ulcer, lost a ton of weight (something I could use now, but not then), and contracted every virus that came through my classroom. I walked through the year with a sore throat, runny nose, and upset stomach. During vacation breaks I got sicker spending whole weeks in bed trying to gear up for my return to the classroom where I was destined to catch another virus.
My immune system took a beating that first year, but by my fifth year, I wore that system like an armor and rarely got sick. Not that I never got sick, but I dodged many a virus over the years and aside from one mild cold a year, I rarely got sick over vacations, something for which I was very thankful.
I shouldn't have been surprised when, this morning, I woke with a sore throat, scratchy eyes, and that achy feeling that something yucky was building inside of me. After 22 years of teaching, I shouldn't have been surprised at all that some cold or flu is developing to wallop me just like the old days, the beginning days of my teaching.
It doesn't help that the warm 70s of yesterday have given way to a cool breeze, misty showers, and cold temperatures. Between the developing cold and the caca weather, I'm feeling a tad bit unmotivated. And I had big plans for today.
First, I was going to pull out the elbow grease and clean the house in a way it hasn't been cleaned in a long, long time. Next, I'm taking a course to earn credits to maintain my teaching certification (just in case I go back) and there are mountains of pages to read about plate tectonics, marine sediments, deep-sea vents, and planktonic life forms. Rubin goes to the groomer today and he needs a long walk to calm his energy. And there's the job application for REI that needs to be completed.
But right now I just want to crawl back into bed and sleep away the crud coursing through my veins.
A doctor friend of mine said that when you're sick, the best thing to do is to just move slowly through the day. Drink lots of fluids and know that "this too shall pass." She said, "Nothing you do is going to make the yuckies go away any faster, so you just have to ride it out and not let it floor you."
Besides. It's only fitting that after 22 years of hard work, I'm letting down in typical fashion. Like a punctuation mark at the end of a career this cold marks the final "letting go." Hell, I should just sit on the couch and enjoy it!
In my first year of teaching I developed an ulcer, lost a ton of weight (something I could use now, but not then), and contracted every virus that came through my classroom. I walked through the year with a sore throat, runny nose, and upset stomach. During vacation breaks I got sicker spending whole weeks in bed trying to gear up for my return to the classroom where I was destined to catch another virus.
My immune system took a beating that first year, but by my fifth year, I wore that system like an armor and rarely got sick. Not that I never got sick, but I dodged many a virus over the years and aside from one mild cold a year, I rarely got sick over vacations, something for which I was very thankful.
I shouldn't have been surprised when, this morning, I woke with a sore throat, scratchy eyes, and that achy feeling that something yucky was building inside of me. After 22 years of teaching, I shouldn't have been surprised at all that some cold or flu is developing to wallop me just like the old days, the beginning days of my teaching.
It doesn't help that the warm 70s of yesterday have given way to a cool breeze, misty showers, and cold temperatures. Between the developing cold and the caca weather, I'm feeling a tad bit unmotivated. And I had big plans for today.
First, I was going to pull out the elbow grease and clean the house in a way it hasn't been cleaned in a long, long time. Next, I'm taking a course to earn credits to maintain my teaching certification (just in case I go back) and there are mountains of pages to read about plate tectonics, marine sediments, deep-sea vents, and planktonic life forms. Rubin goes to the groomer today and he needs a long walk to calm his energy. And there's the job application for REI that needs to be completed.
But right now I just want to crawl back into bed and sleep away the crud coursing through my veins.
A doctor friend of mine said that when you're sick, the best thing to do is to just move slowly through the day. Drink lots of fluids and know that "this too shall pass." She said, "Nothing you do is going to make the yuckies go away any faster, so you just have to ride it out and not let it floor you."
Besides. It's only fitting that after 22 years of hard work, I'm letting down in typical fashion. Like a punctuation mark at the end of a career this cold marks the final "letting go." Hell, I should just sit on the couch and enjoy it!
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Sunday Morning
We ate breakfast on the deck this morning. Most people in America wouldn't have liked the 58 degree temperature, but the sun was out and we couldn't resist. It's been so cold that I have yet to put away my down vest or wool sweaters.
Today there is the promise of 70 degrees. Again, not the scorching temperatures of the Southwest or the muggy suffocation of the Northeast, but 70 degrees is warm around these parts and far better than the 40 degrees of last weekend.
Yesterday was warmer too. Once the sun made its appearance in the afternoon, it was warm enough to walk by the lake in shorts and a t-shirt. Rubin got so warm he dove into the lake the second I took off his leash. He swam for his toy again and again and came home looking like a Rastafarian poodle.
We went to dinner last night with Jeanne and Lisa to celebrate the shift away from my 22 years of teaching. I have yet to figure out what to call this transition -- retirement? -- and as I explained to everyone at dinner, I'm not sure it's quite hit me yet. I hear myself using the wrong language for it with all my sentences still in the present tense -- in my classroom we...or...my students are happy because... I speak as if I still am a teacher and as Ann told me last night, "You are and that will never really change."
Occasionally, I feel both the relief of letting go and the panic. Friday night I woke at 2 in the morning and thought I was having a heart attack only to realize I was in a slight panic attack. I practiced my breathing exercises and tried to figure out why I was panicking. I have enough money to live for a year without finding work if I so choose. I have the whole summer ahead of me and lots of opportunities for pursuing the things I love -- dogs, writing, exercise.
I haven't yet found an answer to the panic, but I think some of it has to do with my definition of myself. For 22 years I have answered that question -- "What work do you do?" -- with four simple words -- "I am a teacher" -- and then stood back to watch the reaction. From "Good for you" to "That's a job I could never do" I had an identity, a box around my life that gave me some kind of purchase in the world.
I'm not sure how I'll answer now. I'm kind of found of saying, "I'm a retired teacher" but Ann says that I'm not really retired as I'll still be working in some capacity. Lisa told me to try on "I'm a former teacher" but even that feels too undefined. I'm too uncertain to say, "I'm a writer" for many, many reasons, but chief among them is that I have yet to earn any money from my writing. And I'm certainly not yet a dog trainer.
I'm sort of partial to "I'm a student" though technically not true, in some ways it fits more aptly. I will soon learn to be a dog trainer, I will soon spend time writing (always a learning process) and like all poor students, I will hopefully have a part-time job to pay for some of my living expenses.
Aside from naming myself, I find that I am still uncertain about time and what to do with it. True, it's only the first weekend of my shift and tomorrow I must wrap things up at school so I'm not technically done, but the idea of having time that is not filled with papers to grade or lessons to plan feels...well, not overwhelming, but clumsy. I bump into myself trying to figure out how to maneuver through the hours of each day.
The other day, when I was still a "teacher" I had to take the bus downtown (to attend the court proceedings for Jeanne and Lisa's formal adoption of their two daughters). On the bus, I realized my mind was free of schedules and lists and all the thousands of little details that have consumed my life as a teacher for the past 22 years. It was only a moment of realization and then the flood of minutia overwhelmed my brain, but in that moment I thought, I like this. I like this feeling a lot.
We're about to head out the door to take Rubin for his morning walk. The sun is out, the temperature is warming up and it's Sunday...a day of relaxation and transitions.
I could get used to this.
Today there is the promise of 70 degrees. Again, not the scorching temperatures of the Southwest or the muggy suffocation of the Northeast, but 70 degrees is warm around these parts and far better than the 40 degrees of last weekend.
Yesterday was warmer too. Once the sun made its appearance in the afternoon, it was warm enough to walk by the lake in shorts and a t-shirt. Rubin got so warm he dove into the lake the second I took off his leash. He swam for his toy again and again and came home looking like a Rastafarian poodle.
We went to dinner last night with Jeanne and Lisa to celebrate the shift away from my 22 years of teaching. I have yet to figure out what to call this transition -- retirement? -- and as I explained to everyone at dinner, I'm not sure it's quite hit me yet. I hear myself using the wrong language for it with all my sentences still in the present tense -- in my classroom we...or...my students are happy because... I speak as if I still am a teacher and as Ann told me last night, "You are and that will never really change."
Occasionally, I feel both the relief of letting go and the panic. Friday night I woke at 2 in the morning and thought I was having a heart attack only to realize I was in a slight panic attack. I practiced my breathing exercises and tried to figure out why I was panicking. I have enough money to live for a year without finding work if I so choose. I have the whole summer ahead of me and lots of opportunities for pursuing the things I love -- dogs, writing, exercise.
I haven't yet found an answer to the panic, but I think some of it has to do with my definition of myself. For 22 years I have answered that question -- "What work do you do?" -- with four simple words -- "I am a teacher" -- and then stood back to watch the reaction. From "Good for you" to "That's a job I could never do" I had an identity, a box around my life that gave me some kind of purchase in the world.
I'm not sure how I'll answer now. I'm kind of found of saying, "I'm a retired teacher" but Ann says that I'm not really retired as I'll still be working in some capacity. Lisa told me to try on "I'm a former teacher" but even that feels too undefined. I'm too uncertain to say, "I'm a writer" for many, many reasons, but chief among them is that I have yet to earn any money from my writing. And I'm certainly not yet a dog trainer.
I'm sort of partial to "I'm a student" though technically not true, in some ways it fits more aptly. I will soon learn to be a dog trainer, I will soon spend time writing (always a learning process) and like all poor students, I will hopefully have a part-time job to pay for some of my living expenses.
Aside from naming myself, I find that I am still uncertain about time and what to do with it. True, it's only the first weekend of my shift and tomorrow I must wrap things up at school so I'm not technically done, but the idea of having time that is not filled with papers to grade or lessons to plan feels...well, not overwhelming, but clumsy. I bump into myself trying to figure out how to maneuver through the hours of each day.
The other day, when I was still a "teacher" I had to take the bus downtown (to attend the court proceedings for Jeanne and Lisa's formal adoption of their two daughters). On the bus, I realized my mind was free of schedules and lists and all the thousands of little details that have consumed my life as a teacher for the past 22 years. It was only a moment of realization and then the flood of minutia overwhelmed my brain, but in that moment I thought, I like this. I like this feeling a lot.
We're about to head out the door to take Rubin for his morning walk. The sun is out, the temperature is warming up and it's Sunday...a day of relaxation and transitions.
I could get used to this.
Sunday, June 08, 2008
The Weight of Report Cards
I just finished my last full report card. I have small paragraphs to write, but the big chunk of the work is done. Forever. Once I turn them in on Monday, once I correct the edits someone else makes on them I am done with report cards for the rest of my life.
Each report card weighs at least a pound. Not in actuality, but in the number of calories I consumed writing them. Yesterday I ate two cupcakes, a cup of hot chocolate, and a bowl of tortilla chips. That was a short day of writing. Today I ate more voraciously -- 2 cupcakes, though I'm contemplating a third, a huge bowl of homemade buttered popcorn, three tamales, two Riesen candies, and an orange. The orange doesn't really count as it was the healthiest thing I've eaten in the past two days except for the salad I just had for dinner.
When anxious, I eat. Good thing I don't smoke or drink. Instead, I snack my way through the endeavor, bouncing my knee up and down the entire time. Too bad the bouncing knee can't counter the intake of calories. It seems silly now, after the fact. I'm not sure why report cards make me so obsessively hungry or why they feel like an enormous mountain to climb before I start writing them, but there you have it. One pound per report card.
These aren't normal report cards either. In public school, the report cards went from laborious events to computer codes that I punched in under a half hour. Code #3 = Student is a pleasure to have in class. Code #36 -- Student is missing too much work to adequately reflect progress. Code #57 -- Student's behavior impeded academic progress.
Now report cards are a minimum of two-pages, single spaced, typed narratives, a flood of platitudes and criticism all couched in coded words, not coded numbers. By the time I'm done, I am out of words and a pile of cupcake wrappers and dirty dishes spreads out before me.
There are two good things about finishing these report cards. First, as previously stated, they are the last I will ever have to write, but more importantly, I won't be there in the fall to hear any criticism from the parents this year. They can't email me and complain about my wording or my critique or ask for clarification. They can't call me up and give me an earful. They just have to swallow the words and spit them out at someone else at school. I won't be there. Oh, I might be there out of curiosity, but I won't be there officially and that is the sweetest feeling of all.
Meanwhile, my summer of exercise and eating better sits before me. That's the commitment of course. That's been the commitment every summer since I started teaching 22 years ago -- I will exercise more, eat better and less, and take time to really be good to myself. Some summers I was quite successful at it, but the summers of late have not been so accomplished. I've put on extra pounds and always the bulk of them at the end of the year while I'm pounding out report cards.
A month or so ago, while searching for some photos for my mother, I found all my report cards she'd saved and sent to me. I read them with trepidation. I was not that second grader anymore. I was not that fifth grader nor even tenth grader. Even my college grades did not reflect all I'd learned in life, yet here I was today, grinding away at finding just the right words to properly assess the selective mute in my class, the squirrel with a severe case of ADHD and the angry girl who is venturing back to public school where she's going to get devoured in seconds flat.
I want to think my words matter, but looking back on my report cards it wasn't the words that matter at all. It was my relationships -- with friends, with teachers, with fellow students. I've known that about my teaching. I've known that the "A" grade, the well-crafted platitudes and concerns didn't matter in the least. What mattered was mattering in and of itself. The kid needed to matter to me and frankly, not all of them did. I tried. I tried to keep my opinions about them to myself and treat them all like they were special and unique, but there were some who made teaching beyond difficult.
I won't name them. I won't even describe them, but I have a full head of gray hair to attest to my animosity and aversion to some of them.
I tried. God knows I tried and I know despite my rancor they went on with their lives -- some of them more successfully than others. I was blip on their screen. That's how I thought of myself. Hold in my irritations and I'll just be a blip on their life's screen.
I know I was more of blip on the screen for most of them, but I'm not going to kid myself -- I was not more than that for some of them.
And so I move through the next five days, anxious and a tad bit hungry. There's fresh strawberry rhubarb crisp cooling on the stove. With a bit of vanilla ice cream I'm certain it can pull me through the next week. One more pound of coping. One more pound and then I'm done with the weight of report cards.
Each report card weighs at least a pound. Not in actuality, but in the number of calories I consumed writing them. Yesterday I ate two cupcakes, a cup of hot chocolate, and a bowl of tortilla chips. That was a short day of writing. Today I ate more voraciously -- 2 cupcakes, though I'm contemplating a third, a huge bowl of homemade buttered popcorn, three tamales, two Riesen candies, and an orange. The orange doesn't really count as it was the healthiest thing I've eaten in the past two days except for the salad I just had for dinner.
When anxious, I eat. Good thing I don't smoke or drink. Instead, I snack my way through the endeavor, bouncing my knee up and down the entire time. Too bad the bouncing knee can't counter the intake of calories. It seems silly now, after the fact. I'm not sure why report cards make me so obsessively hungry or why they feel like an enormous mountain to climb before I start writing them, but there you have it. One pound per report card.
These aren't normal report cards either. In public school, the report cards went from laborious events to computer codes that I punched in under a half hour. Code #3 = Student is a pleasure to have in class. Code #36 -- Student is missing too much work to adequately reflect progress. Code #57 -- Student's behavior impeded academic progress.
Now report cards are a minimum of two-pages, single spaced, typed narratives, a flood of platitudes and criticism all couched in coded words, not coded numbers. By the time I'm done, I am out of words and a pile of cupcake wrappers and dirty dishes spreads out before me.
There are two good things about finishing these report cards. First, as previously stated, they are the last I will ever have to write, but more importantly, I won't be there in the fall to hear any criticism from the parents this year. They can't email me and complain about my wording or my critique or ask for clarification. They can't call me up and give me an earful. They just have to swallow the words and spit them out at someone else at school. I won't be there. Oh, I might be there out of curiosity, but I won't be there officially and that is the sweetest feeling of all.
Meanwhile, my summer of exercise and eating better sits before me. That's the commitment of course. That's been the commitment every summer since I started teaching 22 years ago -- I will exercise more, eat better and less, and take time to really be good to myself. Some summers I was quite successful at it, but the summers of late have not been so accomplished. I've put on extra pounds and always the bulk of them at the end of the year while I'm pounding out report cards.
A month or so ago, while searching for some photos for my mother, I found all my report cards she'd saved and sent to me. I read them with trepidation. I was not that second grader anymore. I was not that fifth grader nor even tenth grader. Even my college grades did not reflect all I'd learned in life, yet here I was today, grinding away at finding just the right words to properly assess the selective mute in my class, the squirrel with a severe case of ADHD and the angry girl who is venturing back to public school where she's going to get devoured in seconds flat.
I want to think my words matter, but looking back on my report cards it wasn't the words that matter at all. It was my relationships -- with friends, with teachers, with fellow students. I've known that about my teaching. I've known that the "A" grade, the well-crafted platitudes and concerns didn't matter in the least. What mattered was mattering in and of itself. The kid needed to matter to me and frankly, not all of them did. I tried. I tried to keep my opinions about them to myself and treat them all like they were special and unique, but there were some who made teaching beyond difficult.
I won't name them. I won't even describe them, but I have a full head of gray hair to attest to my animosity and aversion to some of them.
I tried. God knows I tried and I know despite my rancor they went on with their lives -- some of them more successfully than others. I was blip on their screen. That's how I thought of myself. Hold in my irritations and I'll just be a blip on their life's screen.
I know I was more of blip on the screen for most of them, but I'm not going to kid myself -- I was not more than that for some of them.
And so I move through the next five days, anxious and a tad bit hungry. There's fresh strawberry rhubarb crisp cooling on the stove. With a bit of vanilla ice cream I'm certain it can pull me through the next week. One more pound of coping. One more pound and then I'm done with the weight of report cards.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Smell Fake
Ann got up early to watch the women's French Open Final. Ann never gets up early unless she has an appointment, but tennis for Ann is an appointment. "The French Open feels like summer," she said to me from her bundled position on the couch. I'm not sure if it's because Ann's mother is French that she feels this marks summer or the city of Paris in the background of the wide shots makes it feel like summer, but it sure as hell doesn't feel like summer to me.
I'm cold. Yesterday morning when I walked the dog in yet another rainstorm I was so cold I shivered. I wore my down vest all through work on Friday and still didn't feel adequately warm. When I took the dog out for a walk this morning, I was pleasantly surprised that the rain had stopped, but the sky was still ominously gray and the wind offered up yet another kind of chill -- the wet-air, damp kind of chill of October.
Summer has gotten lost, I thought to myself as Rubin nudged me toward the park, it's stuck on the other side of the world without a compass.
When we got to the park, the plan was to walk our usual loop through then up and over the big hill, but romping on the wide open field was Ginger, a German short-haired pointer and an enormous boxer we'd never meant before. Ginger is talkative and playful and despite her 9 years of age, she loves to chase Rubin. I was uncertain about the boxer, but as he approached I heard his owner yell out, "Ya'll just relax, Jimmy!"
Jimmy was huge. Jimmy was thick. Jimmy was so thick and huge he looked more like a cow than a dog, but Jimmy was also a pushover -- very relaxed and very gentle. Rubin was in heaven especially when I released him from his leash. Rubin chased the ball, Ginger chased Rubin, and Jimmy galloped around the field like an elephant.
Jimmy's owner just arrived from Texas -- Dallas to be exact and in the span of 30 minutes, Ginger's owner and I heard her story. Married now divorced, she had no idea she'd live in Seattle. "Honey, I am from the deep south and this here ain't no place I thought I'd be livin'." She sold her house in Dallas and bought a condo up here in the Northwest..."on that hill where all those cute gay boys live."
Her husband was a lying, cheating pig and she knew she needed a change, a "big, fat change" and when she read about Seattle on the internet, it looked like just the place. When I heard her say "big, fat change" I thought she was referring to the purchase of her dog, but what she meant, after further interrogation by Ginger's owner (one of the cute gay boys who live on the hill) was "something green and clean and fresh."
"Too bad the weather's been so lousy," I offered.
"Honey," she oozed, "I'll take this any day over 110 degrees in January."
"How'd you end up at this park," Ginger's owner asked. "It's quite a journey from Capitol Hill."
"Oh, I've been driving myself all over this city checking out every green park I can find. This is by far the best yet and there ain't nobody ever here."
"Not a lot of people venture to the Central District," I confirmed.
"Why's that?" she squealed. "I don't see nothin' wrong with it?"
"It's kind of a high crime area," offered Ginger's owner. "It's kind of gentrifying, but it's slow going and not many people think to come here for a park."
"Shoot, they're fools then, ain't they." We laughed. I've lived in many places all over the city and there are few parks I like more than this one and one even farther south.
"So, you like it here in Seattle?" I asked.
"Hell yes," she answered without hesitation.
"A lot of people who come here from other parts of the country find Seattlites to be cold and unwelcoming," I said.
"You know what I think, honey?" The dogs did a fly by through our knees and back around the soccer goal at our end of the field and then sped off after each other smiling. "I think ya'll can smell fake a mile a way. Lots of phony people smell like fake. Ya'll's real, is what ya is and ain't a lot of folk who can take real. I can take. I can take it real good."
A silence followed. We didn't look at each other, we just watched the dogs frolic and play.
"And it's so much cheaper to live here," she added.
"You think so?" Ginger's owner asked.
"Hell yes! I walked into my new condo and asked the Realtor where the air conditioner was. He said there wasn't any and all I thought was 'thank god, that'll save me $400!"
I had to walk home then. After the French Open Ann did have her first massage appointment scheduled to help heal her torn rotator cuff. She's hesitant to drive so it's up to me to taxi her around for the weekend. I walked Jimmy and his owner to their car and then headed home. The rain started. Not a heavy rain, but a misty spray and I thought that living in Seattle was a lot like living in the Arctic. The Inuit have many words for snow. We have many names for rain.
To the west, a sucker hole of blue winked at me and I saw summer waving. She's still off in the distance, but even in the misty wetness I could smell her and she smelled real -- green, clean, and fresh.
Hell yes this rain is good for something, I thought. We can smell fake a mile away.
I'm cold. Yesterday morning when I walked the dog in yet another rainstorm I was so cold I shivered. I wore my down vest all through work on Friday and still didn't feel adequately warm. When I took the dog out for a walk this morning, I was pleasantly surprised that the rain had stopped, but the sky was still ominously gray and the wind offered up yet another kind of chill -- the wet-air, damp kind of chill of October.
Summer has gotten lost, I thought to myself as Rubin nudged me toward the park, it's stuck on the other side of the world without a compass.
When we got to the park, the plan was to walk our usual loop through then up and over the big hill, but romping on the wide open field was Ginger, a German short-haired pointer and an enormous boxer we'd never meant before. Ginger is talkative and playful and despite her 9 years of age, she loves to chase Rubin. I was uncertain about the boxer, but as he approached I heard his owner yell out, "Ya'll just relax, Jimmy!"
Jimmy was huge. Jimmy was thick. Jimmy was so thick and huge he looked more like a cow than a dog, but Jimmy was also a pushover -- very relaxed and very gentle. Rubin was in heaven especially when I released him from his leash. Rubin chased the ball, Ginger chased Rubin, and Jimmy galloped around the field like an elephant.
Jimmy's owner just arrived from Texas -- Dallas to be exact and in the span of 30 minutes, Ginger's owner and I heard her story. Married now divorced, she had no idea she'd live in Seattle. "Honey, I am from the deep south and this here ain't no place I thought I'd be livin'." She sold her house in Dallas and bought a condo up here in the Northwest..."on that hill where all those cute gay boys live."
Her husband was a lying, cheating pig and she knew she needed a change, a "big, fat change" and when she read about Seattle on the internet, it looked like just the place. When I heard her say "big, fat change" I thought she was referring to the purchase of her dog, but what she meant, after further interrogation by Ginger's owner (one of the cute gay boys who live on the hill) was "something green and clean and fresh."
"Too bad the weather's been so lousy," I offered.
"Honey," she oozed, "I'll take this any day over 110 degrees in January."
"How'd you end up at this park," Ginger's owner asked. "It's quite a journey from Capitol Hill."
"Oh, I've been driving myself all over this city checking out every green park I can find. This is by far the best yet and there ain't nobody ever here."
"Not a lot of people venture to the Central District," I confirmed.
"Why's that?" she squealed. "I don't see nothin' wrong with it?"
"It's kind of a high crime area," offered Ginger's owner. "It's kind of gentrifying, but it's slow going and not many people think to come here for a park."
"Shoot, they're fools then, ain't they." We laughed. I've lived in many places all over the city and there are few parks I like more than this one and one even farther south.
"So, you like it here in Seattle?" I asked.
"Hell yes," she answered without hesitation.
"A lot of people who come here from other parts of the country find Seattlites to be cold and unwelcoming," I said.
"You know what I think, honey?" The dogs did a fly by through our knees and back around the soccer goal at our end of the field and then sped off after each other smiling. "I think ya'll can smell fake a mile a way. Lots of phony people smell like fake. Ya'll's real, is what ya is and ain't a lot of folk who can take real. I can take. I can take it real good."
A silence followed. We didn't look at each other, we just watched the dogs frolic and play.
"And it's so much cheaper to live here," she added.
"You think so?" Ginger's owner asked.
"Hell yes! I walked into my new condo and asked the Realtor where the air conditioner was. He said there wasn't any and all I thought was 'thank god, that'll save me $400!"
I had to walk home then. After the French Open Ann did have her first massage appointment scheduled to help heal her torn rotator cuff. She's hesitant to drive so it's up to me to taxi her around for the weekend. I walked Jimmy and his owner to their car and then headed home. The rain started. Not a heavy rain, but a misty spray and I thought that living in Seattle was a lot like living in the Arctic. The Inuit have many words for snow. We have many names for rain.
To the west, a sucker hole of blue winked at me and I saw summer waving. She's still off in the distance, but even in the misty wetness I could smell her and she smelled real -- green, clean, and fresh.
Hell yes this rain is good for something, I thought. We can smell fake a mile away.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Bruiser Goes to Vagas
This is not artwork. This is not a tattoo. This is not an exotic animal. This is Ann's arm.She woke this morning to find this blossom bursting in full color. Unexpected. Holy shit!
You can imagine.
It wasn't there yesterday, but it's certainly there today.
She has now earned the nickname "Bruiser," an apt description of her folly ofthe week. From Vagal response to syncope (fancy word for fainting) and now to this -- Contusions in Bloom...is the name of the latest masterpiece.
She asks, "Is this where you grabbed me when I passed out?"
No dear. No no no.
Diagnosis? Most likely a torn rotator cuff.
Ya think?
Who knows what tomorrow holds for her!
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
What happens in Vagas?
When Ann and I first moved in together, she got very ill. Queasy, in a lot of pain, and unable to move. (No, it wasn't because I moved in!) At the time we thought she'd injured her back so we made an appointment to see the doctor the next day. During the night, she got up to go to the bathroom and the next thing I knew she was passed out on the bathroom floor. After a long and bizarre visit to the ER, she was diagnosed with shingles and the passing out was her vagal or vagas response to pain.
A one time deal? Not quite.
Yesterday, I left work early to pick Ann up from her school because she'd somehow injured her shoulder. We went straight to the doctor who diagnosed a "rotator cuff" injury, the severity of which cannot be determined quite yet. I brought her back home, laid her on the couch with an ice pack and liquids, and then took Rubin to his dog obedience class. When I got home, Ann was already in bed, but awake enough to tell me her shoulder pain was excruciating and that she had the chills.
She slept well, but this morning woke a bit groggy, sat down for her coffee and then announced she felt queasy. I should have seen it coming, but not until she started shaking, not until her eyes rolled back and fully dilated, not until she went rigid did I realize what was happening.
"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," was my response and then I placed my hand behind her neck and lowered her to the floor where she lay unconscious. Rubin barked at me. When I ran to get the phone, Rubin chased after me and barked frantically some more. I called 911, told them our address and explained that "my partner was having a seizure." In the middle of the call, Ann regained consciousness and Rubin licked her face.
The EMT's and firefighters arrived within minutes and Rubin barked protectively while they asked us questions.
"Are you on any medications?"
"Has this ever happened before?"
"Do you know where you are?"
"Are you still nauseated?"
By the time they left, she was fully conscious and ready to pile into our car for a POV trip -- EMT terminology for Privately Owned Vehicle. At the ER, they ran tests, but as far as they are concerned, Ann is as fit as a fiddle. The only caution is her very low blood pressure, which gives her little room for error, as they said. This means that when her blood pressure drops in response to pain (which apparently everyone's does) her body goes into this "need to be horizontal" to stabilize her blood pressure.
Jesus...why can't she just say "ouch?" Why must she pass out in a mock seizure?
Has this happened before the ER doctor asked? Why I guess it has back when Ann had that painful bout with shingles.
"I guess I have a low tolerance for pain," Ann said sheepishly from her ER bed.
"No shit," was my only response.
The doctor laughed.
Ann's resting comfortably upstairs, pissed as hell that she must limit her activity this summer as she heals her shoulder, but thankful she did not have a seizure as I had feared.
"Kind of let down, isn't it? 'I fainted' just doesn't seem as dramatic as 'I had a seizure.'"
But maybe it's a good thing because now she's taking this shoulder injury a bit more seriously than she was yesterday.
I even surprised myself knowing exactly what to do by laying her down, moving furniture away and calling 911.
"How did you lift me?" Ann asked.
"I haven't a clue. I can't even remember the weight of you. I just knew I had to cradle your neck and head and not twist your shoulder. Before I knew it, you were on the kitchen floor and I had the phone in my hand."
Ann used to lord over me her incredibly "healthy" blood pressure numbers since my blood pressure is "under watch." No more lording now, but lots of great puns..."what happens in vagas, stays in vagas!"
A one time deal? Not quite.
Yesterday, I left work early to pick Ann up from her school because she'd somehow injured her shoulder. We went straight to the doctor who diagnosed a "rotator cuff" injury, the severity of which cannot be determined quite yet. I brought her back home, laid her on the couch with an ice pack and liquids, and then took Rubin to his dog obedience class. When I got home, Ann was already in bed, but awake enough to tell me her shoulder pain was excruciating and that she had the chills.
She slept well, but this morning woke a bit groggy, sat down for her coffee and then announced she felt queasy. I should have seen it coming, but not until she started shaking, not until her eyes rolled back and fully dilated, not until she went rigid did I realize what was happening.
"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," was my response and then I placed my hand behind her neck and lowered her to the floor where she lay unconscious. Rubin barked at me. When I ran to get the phone, Rubin chased after me and barked frantically some more. I called 911, told them our address and explained that "my partner was having a seizure." In the middle of the call, Ann regained consciousness and Rubin licked her face.
The EMT's and firefighters arrived within minutes and Rubin barked protectively while they asked us questions.
"Are you on any medications?"
"Has this ever happened before?"
"Do you know where you are?"
"Are you still nauseated?"
By the time they left, she was fully conscious and ready to pile into our car for a POV trip -- EMT terminology for Privately Owned Vehicle. At the ER, they ran tests, but as far as they are concerned, Ann is as fit as a fiddle. The only caution is her very low blood pressure, which gives her little room for error, as they said. This means that when her blood pressure drops in response to pain (which apparently everyone's does) her body goes into this "need to be horizontal" to stabilize her blood pressure.
Jesus...why can't she just say "ouch?" Why must she pass out in a mock seizure?
Has this happened before the ER doctor asked? Why I guess it has back when Ann had that painful bout with shingles.
"I guess I have a low tolerance for pain," Ann said sheepishly from her ER bed.
"No shit," was my only response.
The doctor laughed.
Ann's resting comfortably upstairs, pissed as hell that she must limit her activity this summer as she heals her shoulder, but thankful she did not have a seizure as I had feared.
"Kind of let down, isn't it? 'I fainted' just doesn't seem as dramatic as 'I had a seizure.'"
But maybe it's a good thing because now she's taking this shoulder injury a bit more seriously than she was yesterday.
I even surprised myself knowing exactly what to do by laying her down, moving furniture away and calling 911.
"How did you lift me?" Ann asked.
"I haven't a clue. I can't even remember the weight of you. I just knew I had to cradle your neck and head and not twist your shoulder. Before I knew it, you were on the kitchen floor and I had the phone in my hand."
Ann used to lord over me her incredibly "healthy" blood pressure numbers since my blood pressure is "under watch." No more lording now, but lots of great puns..."what happens in vagas, stays in vagas!"
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Leaving Perspectives
"I just can't imagine doing this work without you."
This is a comment I've heard a lot these past few weeks as the end of my teaching career approaches. I haven't figured out how to respond to such a comment. Inside I'm thinking, "I can imagine it!" but I know this would be perceived as harsh, as a slam against the person who said it. In actuality, my comment is more about my ability to see myself somewhere else, doing something else and has no reflection whatsoever on the person who is stating how much they will miss me.
Often I stumble out with something clumsy like "You'll be fine" or "It's not like we won't see each other." An awkward silence lands in the middle of the conversation after such comments, and I never know what to do with that silence either.
It happened again yesterday. We took the students on our annual end-of-the-year visit to Peggy at her horse farm. This field trip is a part of the reflection we ask the girls to do before we send them off to summer vacation and eventually to their 6th grade year.
The weather was perfect yesterday and the girls had a great time grooming horses, braiding their manes, and working with the horses in the arena with Peggy. At lunch, I snuck into the kitchen to grab another homemade cookie and to visit with Peggy who was sipping soup separate from the energy of the giddy girls. Nini, my teaching partner was there as well as Trina the art teacher who comes on the trip every year.
Peggy started, "I can't imagine your not being here next year."
"Me either," chimed in Nini who is very nervous about making her own way at the school without me.
"Yeah, it just won't be the same at school either," added Trina.
I stood mute, unable to say anything to soothe them. We moved on in our conversation, but on the way home I was uncertain why this comment is so difficult for me.
Today we went for a walk with our good friends Jeanne and Lisa and their two girls. Jeanne, like me, is often restless and has changed her job more in the six years that I've known her than I have in my lifetime. In the past, we've talked a lot about how people react to our leaving and so I told Jeanne about my conundrum.
"How would you respond?" I asked.
"It's tough, isn't it," she said. "No one who says it really sees that it's all about them and not about you."
"Exactly," I agreed. "I'd rather they say, 'That's so exciting!' but instead I'm left feeling guilty for making them feel bad."
"My favorite comment was 'We're going to miss you.' I would have preferred 'I'm going to miss you.' It would feel more genuine."
I know people are just letting me know they like me and that they respect me. I know people are really going to miss my daily presence in their lives, but I don't see myself as leaving them. I see myself as moving onto something different, something away from a school and the teaching of children. When I think of leaving I don't mourn who I won't see. In fact, it never really occurs to me because I'm assuming we'll stay in touch or at least, I'll stay in touch with those people who've meant a lot to me.
"I guess you just have to say," Jeanne continued, "'I imagine it will be different for you' and just acknowledge their difficulty with it."
It's not that I won't miss teaching. It's not that I won't miss most of my co-workers (dare I say not all of them) or the students or the school, but I'm at a point where when I think of them -- when I think of Trina or Peggy or Nini -- I think about all the work it takes to do what I've done for the past 22 years. My well is dry. To move on, to re-energize with a new direction feels exciting and exhilarating. To stay, to even think about staying, feels exhausting and overwhelming. All those people represent that for me and so leaving that, not them, but THAT feels like a relief not a sadness.
Maybe that should be my response: "Yeah, I imagine it will be difficult at first, but I'm really excited to know all of you in a different way. Not as co-workers and colleagues, but as friends."
The other thing I find interesting about leaving something I've done for so long, something everyone associates me with is that now everyone wants to fill my time.
"You could go with us to the Cedar River Watershed," Nini announced the other day. "We have lots of field trips you could help with and then we could have access to your expertise."
Peggy even invited me to come out to the farm and work with her during the days the schools are there working with the horses.
Ann even has me cleaning and cooking next year.
Carrie, a professor we work with at school from the University of Washington already contracted me for 40 hours worth of work this summer.
Not only do I have to learn how to respond to people saying they can't imagine not working with me, but I must also learn to say "no, thank you, my schedule is full."
Ann's been hinting that something will be "happening" at the end of the year -- a goodbye party or something -- and that it is a surprise. She's terrible with surprises, but she keeps trying to pin down my schedule in a way that she normally never would. "What time do you finish on Friday? What are you doing Thursday night?"
I know it's all a compliment. I know I've had a positive influence on peoples' lives. And I know I should learn to let them voice their loss, let them celebrate the goodbye how they need to celebrate it, but it's not the leaving I'll be celebrating. Rather it will be the beginning, the arriving of the next adventure in my life.
I guess others don't want to celebrate that yet, so I shall clumsily move through these next few weeks and practice the art of validating the feelings of others and keeping my schedule uncrowded enough to pursue my own interests and not the interests of others.
Every day is a lesson, isn't it?
This is a comment I've heard a lot these past few weeks as the end of my teaching career approaches. I haven't figured out how to respond to such a comment. Inside I'm thinking, "I can imagine it!" but I know this would be perceived as harsh, as a slam against the person who said it. In actuality, my comment is more about my ability to see myself somewhere else, doing something else and has no reflection whatsoever on the person who is stating how much they will miss me.
Often I stumble out with something clumsy like "You'll be fine" or "It's not like we won't see each other." An awkward silence lands in the middle of the conversation after such comments, and I never know what to do with that silence either.
It happened again yesterday. We took the students on our annual end-of-the-year visit to Peggy at her horse farm. This field trip is a part of the reflection we ask the girls to do before we send them off to summer vacation and eventually to their 6th grade year.
The weather was perfect yesterday and the girls had a great time grooming horses, braiding their manes, and working with the horses in the arena with Peggy. At lunch, I snuck into the kitchen to grab another homemade cookie and to visit with Peggy who was sipping soup separate from the energy of the giddy girls. Nini, my teaching partner was there as well as Trina the art teacher who comes on the trip every year.
Peggy started, "I can't imagine your not being here next year."
"Me either," chimed in Nini who is very nervous about making her own way at the school without me.
"Yeah, it just won't be the same at school either," added Trina.
I stood mute, unable to say anything to soothe them. We moved on in our conversation, but on the way home I was uncertain why this comment is so difficult for me.
Today we went for a walk with our good friends Jeanne and Lisa and their two girls. Jeanne, like me, is often restless and has changed her job more in the six years that I've known her than I have in my lifetime. In the past, we've talked a lot about how people react to our leaving and so I told Jeanne about my conundrum.
"How would you respond?" I asked.
"It's tough, isn't it," she said. "No one who says it really sees that it's all about them and not about you."
"Exactly," I agreed. "I'd rather they say, 'That's so exciting!' but instead I'm left feeling guilty for making them feel bad."
"My favorite comment was 'We're going to miss you.' I would have preferred 'I'm going to miss you.' It would feel more genuine."
I know people are just letting me know they like me and that they respect me. I know people are really going to miss my daily presence in their lives, but I don't see myself as leaving them. I see myself as moving onto something different, something away from a school and the teaching of children. When I think of leaving I don't mourn who I won't see. In fact, it never really occurs to me because I'm assuming we'll stay in touch or at least, I'll stay in touch with those people who've meant a lot to me.
"I guess you just have to say," Jeanne continued, "'I imagine it will be different for you' and just acknowledge their difficulty with it."
It's not that I won't miss teaching. It's not that I won't miss most of my co-workers (dare I say not all of them) or the students or the school, but I'm at a point where when I think of them -- when I think of Trina or Peggy or Nini -- I think about all the work it takes to do what I've done for the past 22 years. My well is dry. To move on, to re-energize with a new direction feels exciting and exhilarating. To stay, to even think about staying, feels exhausting and overwhelming. All those people represent that for me and so leaving that, not them, but THAT feels like a relief not a sadness.
Maybe that should be my response: "Yeah, I imagine it will be difficult at first, but I'm really excited to know all of you in a different way. Not as co-workers and colleagues, but as friends."
The other thing I find interesting about leaving something I've done for so long, something everyone associates me with is that now everyone wants to fill my time.
"You could go with us to the Cedar River Watershed," Nini announced the other day. "We have lots of field trips you could help with and then we could have access to your expertise."
Peggy even invited me to come out to the farm and work with her during the days the schools are there working with the horses.
Ann even has me cleaning and cooking next year.
Carrie, a professor we work with at school from the University of Washington already contracted me for 40 hours worth of work this summer.
Not only do I have to learn how to respond to people saying they can't imagine not working with me, but I must also learn to say "no, thank you, my schedule is full."
Ann's been hinting that something will be "happening" at the end of the year -- a goodbye party or something -- and that it is a surprise. She's terrible with surprises, but she keeps trying to pin down my schedule in a way that she normally never would. "What time do you finish on Friday? What are you doing Thursday night?"
I know it's all a compliment. I know I've had a positive influence on peoples' lives. And I know I should learn to let them voice their loss, let them celebrate the goodbye how they need to celebrate it, but it's not the leaving I'll be celebrating. Rather it will be the beginning, the arriving of the next adventure in my life.
I guess others don't want to celebrate that yet, so I shall clumsily move through these next few weeks and practice the art of validating the feelings of others and keeping my schedule uncrowded enough to pursue my own interests and not the interests of others.
Every day is a lesson, isn't it?
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Therapy Dog
I've known all along that my choosing to work with dogs was going to mean I had to face some dark corners of my psyche. I've known that dogs are therapist in a furry coat and to really understand them, to really learn how to "lead" them, I would have to understand myself in a way I've only glimpsed in my work with a human therapist.
Thus is the case with Rubin. Don't let the goofy demeanor fool you. Don't let that cocked head and awkward under bite make you think he is not wise or challenging. He may look at you like he is simply waiting to learn from your fount of knowledge when in actuality, like any great Buddha, he is simply asking you a question so you might find an answer you didn't know you needed.
For the past year, I've been "training" Rubin for his therapy dog test. Passing the test allows Rubin to visit hospital patients, schools, and nursing homes clad in his trim-fitting blue vest. The test requires Rubin to perform many tasks. Simple ones like sit and down and stay. And odd ones like a hug from a stranger, awkward petting from another stranger, and the ability to walk into a "large angry crowd" and allow himself to be petted.
Rubin can do many of the tasks required, but he is not a dog who allows strangers to touch him. He backs away. Once he knows you, once he's spent time with you, he'll let you do everything from petting the top of his head to scratching his speckled belly. But if you are a "stranger" forget about it.
Therefore, despite all the work, Rubin scored a "not ready" on his first attempt at passing his therapy dog test yesterday.
But don't think he is not a therapy dog. Far from it. He may never offer elders therapy nor children a reading companion, but he certainly has provided me with the kind of therapy I've had to pay a lot of money for in the past.
And all of it without words.
These are five (though there may be more) of the "issues" I'm working on in my therapy work with Rubin (I don't feel comfortable saying this is what I've learned because, like any good therapist, working with Rubin is a process not a goal):
1. Worry and stress do not lead to a calm life nor do they light a clear path. On the contrary, they just make everyone else around you worried and stressed. Worry and stress serve no other purpose than to cement you to an immovable position. You cannot "progress" when you walk through life with worry and stress. People don't like it, dogs really don't like it. And they will remind you of your worried/stressed energy every chance they get by disobeying you, running just out of reach from you, and barking hysterically. It may feel counterintuitive, but at the moment when your worry and stress are controlling every aspect of your life, a good therapy dog will ask you to breathe, to sit down, to let go, to simply stop and check in with yourself.
2. The word "failure" should be banished from our vocabulary, specifically the vocabulary of teachers and schools. Instead, we should be seen as "ready" or "not ready." Once you hold onto failure as an option, if you do not succeed, your sense of worthlessness can grow at an exponential rate. Failure digs holes that feel impossible to grow out of. Failure burdens while "not ready" offers hope of a next time. You aren't there yet. You aren't there yet, but you can still get there. To be ready requires work, hard work. It will require skills you may not think you have and some that you think you have, but aren't developed yet. Being "not ready" is not a detriment, it just means there's more work to do. Being "ready" is different for everyone. For some it may come naturally and within a few months, you're there. For others, "ready" may take years and many attempts, but once you slip into that feeling of failure, of seeing yourself as someone who can't, then no matter how much hard work you do, you're done for. You've defeated yourself and it's a defeat of the most debilitating kind.
3. Patience is an important virtue IN a teacher, but patience is also an important virtue FOR a teacher. I've known all of my teaching career that the more patient I am with my students, the more they learn, the more they grow. But I've often been unable to apply that kind of patience to my own life, to my own learning. I am hard on myself. I grow impatient with myself. When working with Rubin those dual needs for patience -- patience with him and patience with myself -- are a must. If I am impatient in only one of those areas, then Rubin struggles to learn. I struggle too. I know what I want Rubin to do and I know the unspoken time limits I have in my head for Rubin to do it. When he doesn't do it or doesn't do it within those time limits, I lose patience not just with him, but with myself. He is not a failure, I am and that kind of self-flagellation can kill you... slowly. When I am forgiving, when I am patient with myself, Rubin responds with that knowing smile, like the yogi whose known the answer all along but needed you to arrive at the answer by yourself.
4. The more you control a situation, the less control you really have. For me, this is an internal struggle. I lay out in my head exactly how I see a moment, an hour, a day progressing and any deviation from this plan raises my level of anxiety. Rubin is my constant reminder to live in the moment. It's a cliche, I know, but Rubin notices the world in a way that I have lost. The bird over his head, the smell of the grass, the desire to jump on a moth -- he notices it all and in his attentiveness he does not think about the next moment, the next hour, the next day. If I am not in that moment with him, we lose our connection. He does not respond to my commands. Often he will not even look at me when I say his name. At these moments he wants me to be in his moment and only then will he acknowledge my existence. How often have I been so wrapped up in what's next, my mind spinning around one worry or another and unaware of someone else's existence or even my own existence? He is of the body first, the mind second. I am often just a head, detached from my body and that body's existence in the sensory world. In my head, I swim in worry, thinking myself into the future and not living, full-bodied in the now.
5. In my quest to learn more about dogs, I've watched a lot of dog trainers via television and video, I've read a lot of articles and books, but nothing prepares me more than working with an actual dog. They are all different. In their differences I must be different. I can do this well with my human students -- they all require a different kind of teaching since they all learn in different ways -- but with a dog, my intuition is all off. I'm not sure what one dog needs versus another and in not knowing, I doubt myself. We watch a lot of Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer, and he claims that doubt is perceived as weakness by a dog. Dogs do not respond positively to weakness. Instead, they search for a strong pack leader and if they do not perceive that strength, they take the role themselves. But how do I shed my weakness when it has been the skin I've worn most of my life? Sure, I can walk into a classroom filled with kids and exude leadership and strength because I've done it for over 20 years. Kids listen simply because I understand the lay of the land far better than they do, but dogs...well, dogs are in a different country. While taking the therapy dog test, Rubin instantly went into his insecure place. He tucked his tail, his ears folded back, the whites of his eyes got larger, and he walked with nervous hesitancy. He was a reflection of me. Even though I stood tall and walked confidently, inside I was everything Rubin was on the outside. I was nervous. I was hesitant. I was doubtful. I was without a shred of confidence. He needed me to be more than a mask of my fears, but I couldn't shake it. I couldn't breathe my way into self-assuredness and he knew it. When I look back on that moment, I realize that for much of my life, I have lived in that kind of fear -- a fear that I am not good enough to pull this off. The fear that if you pull on my facade, the whole of me would crumble into a ball of rubble. I'm a lot better than I was years ago, but that insecurity is still there, still running in my veins. Rubin is like a mirror. No, even more in-depth, he is an x-ray who reflects back to me not the facade, but the underlying image of my insecurity.
This may all seem ridiculous. This may all seem like new age hooey, but when I allow myself to believe it, when I allow myself to see myself through Rubin's eyes, I know he is one of the most gifted therapists I've ever worked with. At this point, we are working on our partnership. We're working on being in the moment together, walking confidently, and learning to be ready for the now. I was not ready the other day and therefore Rubin was not ready. He may never be a therapy dog for others. In fact, if I listen to him closely he would say, "I'd rather play than work," and so I'll pull out his agility equipment and learn better leadership skills by directing him through the tunnels and the jumps, the weave poles and the see-saws. "Play therapy," he'd say, "That's what will work best for you. Play therapy."
He's right, of course, I just need to listen not only to him, but to myself. In therapy I think they call that transference -- he lives the lessons until I can learn them myself.
I'm very lucky to have such a patient therapist. And one who can wiggle his tail with such love, I am slowly learning to love myself.
Thus is the case with Rubin. Don't let the goofy demeanor fool you. Don't let that cocked head and awkward under bite make you think he is not wise or challenging. He may look at you like he is simply waiting to learn from your fount of knowledge when in actuality, like any great Buddha, he is simply asking you a question so you might find an answer you didn't know you needed.
For the past year, I've been "training" Rubin for his therapy dog test. Passing the test allows Rubin to visit hospital patients, schools, and nursing homes clad in his trim-fitting blue vest. The test requires Rubin to perform many tasks. Simple ones like sit and down and stay. And odd ones like a hug from a stranger, awkward petting from another stranger, and the ability to walk into a "large angry crowd" and allow himself to be petted.
Rubin can do many of the tasks required, but he is not a dog who allows strangers to touch him. He backs away. Once he knows you, once he's spent time with you, he'll let you do everything from petting the top of his head to scratching his speckled belly. But if you are a "stranger" forget about it.
Therefore, despite all the work, Rubin scored a "not ready" on his first attempt at passing his therapy dog test yesterday.
But don't think he is not a therapy dog. Far from it. He may never offer elders therapy nor children a reading companion, but he certainly has provided me with the kind of therapy I've had to pay a lot of money for in the past.
And all of it without words.
These are five (though there may be more) of the "issues" I'm working on in my therapy work with Rubin (I don't feel comfortable saying this is what I've learned because, like any good therapist, working with Rubin is a process not a goal):
1. Worry and stress do not lead to a calm life nor do they light a clear path. On the contrary, they just make everyone else around you worried and stressed. Worry and stress serve no other purpose than to cement you to an immovable position. You cannot "progress" when you walk through life with worry and stress. People don't like it, dogs really don't like it. And they will remind you of your worried/stressed energy every chance they get by disobeying you, running just out of reach from you, and barking hysterically. It may feel counterintuitive, but at the moment when your worry and stress are controlling every aspect of your life, a good therapy dog will ask you to breathe, to sit down, to let go, to simply stop and check in with yourself.
2. The word "failure" should be banished from our vocabulary, specifically the vocabulary of teachers and schools. Instead, we should be seen as "ready" or "not ready." Once you hold onto failure as an option, if you do not succeed, your sense of worthlessness can grow at an exponential rate. Failure digs holes that feel impossible to grow out of. Failure burdens while "not ready" offers hope of a next time. You aren't there yet. You aren't there yet, but you can still get there. To be ready requires work, hard work. It will require skills you may not think you have and some that you think you have, but aren't developed yet. Being "not ready" is not a detriment, it just means there's more work to do. Being "ready" is different for everyone. For some it may come naturally and within a few months, you're there. For others, "ready" may take years and many attempts, but once you slip into that feeling of failure, of seeing yourself as someone who can't, then no matter how much hard work you do, you're done for. You've defeated yourself and it's a defeat of the most debilitating kind.
3. Patience is an important virtue IN a teacher, but patience is also an important virtue FOR a teacher. I've known all of my teaching career that the more patient I am with my students, the more they learn, the more they grow. But I've often been unable to apply that kind of patience to my own life, to my own learning. I am hard on myself. I grow impatient with myself. When working with Rubin those dual needs for patience -- patience with him and patience with myself -- are a must. If I am impatient in only one of those areas, then Rubin struggles to learn. I struggle too. I know what I want Rubin to do and I know the unspoken time limits I have in my head for Rubin to do it. When he doesn't do it or doesn't do it within those time limits, I lose patience not just with him, but with myself. He is not a failure, I am and that kind of self-flagellation can kill you... slowly. When I am forgiving, when I am patient with myself, Rubin responds with that knowing smile, like the yogi whose known the answer all along but needed you to arrive at the answer by yourself.
4. The more you control a situation, the less control you really have. For me, this is an internal struggle. I lay out in my head exactly how I see a moment, an hour, a day progressing and any deviation from this plan raises my level of anxiety. Rubin is my constant reminder to live in the moment. It's a cliche, I know, but Rubin notices the world in a way that I have lost. The bird over his head, the smell of the grass, the desire to jump on a moth -- he notices it all and in his attentiveness he does not think about the next moment, the next hour, the next day. If I am not in that moment with him, we lose our connection. He does not respond to my commands. Often he will not even look at me when I say his name. At these moments he wants me to be in his moment and only then will he acknowledge my existence. How often have I been so wrapped up in what's next, my mind spinning around one worry or another and unaware of someone else's existence or even my own existence? He is of the body first, the mind second. I am often just a head, detached from my body and that body's existence in the sensory world. In my head, I swim in worry, thinking myself into the future and not living, full-bodied in the now.
5. In my quest to learn more about dogs, I've watched a lot of dog trainers via television and video, I've read a lot of articles and books, but nothing prepares me more than working with an actual dog. They are all different. In their differences I must be different. I can do this well with my human students -- they all require a different kind of teaching since they all learn in different ways -- but with a dog, my intuition is all off. I'm not sure what one dog needs versus another and in not knowing, I doubt myself. We watch a lot of Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer, and he claims that doubt is perceived as weakness by a dog. Dogs do not respond positively to weakness. Instead, they search for a strong pack leader and if they do not perceive that strength, they take the role themselves. But how do I shed my weakness when it has been the skin I've worn most of my life? Sure, I can walk into a classroom filled with kids and exude leadership and strength because I've done it for over 20 years. Kids listen simply because I understand the lay of the land far better than they do, but dogs...well, dogs are in a different country. While taking the therapy dog test, Rubin instantly went into his insecure place. He tucked his tail, his ears folded back, the whites of his eyes got larger, and he walked with nervous hesitancy. He was a reflection of me. Even though I stood tall and walked confidently, inside I was everything Rubin was on the outside. I was nervous. I was hesitant. I was doubtful. I was without a shred of confidence. He needed me to be more than a mask of my fears, but I couldn't shake it. I couldn't breathe my way into self-assuredness and he knew it. When I look back on that moment, I realize that for much of my life, I have lived in that kind of fear -- a fear that I am not good enough to pull this off. The fear that if you pull on my facade, the whole of me would crumble into a ball of rubble. I'm a lot better than I was years ago, but that insecurity is still there, still running in my veins. Rubin is like a mirror. No, even more in-depth, he is an x-ray who reflects back to me not the facade, but the underlying image of my insecurity.
This may all seem ridiculous. This may all seem like new age hooey, but when I allow myself to believe it, when I allow myself to see myself through Rubin's eyes, I know he is one of the most gifted therapists I've ever worked with. At this point, we are working on our partnership. We're working on being in the moment together, walking confidently, and learning to be ready for the now. I was not ready the other day and therefore Rubin was not ready. He may never be a therapy dog for others. In fact, if I listen to him closely he would say, "I'd rather play than work," and so I'll pull out his agility equipment and learn better leadership skills by directing him through the tunnels and the jumps, the weave poles and the see-saws. "Play therapy," he'd say, "That's what will work best for you. Play therapy."
He's right, of course, I just need to listen not only to him, but to myself. In therapy I think they call that transference -- he lives the lessons until I can learn them myself.
I'm very lucky to have such a patient therapist. And one who can wiggle his tail with such love, I am slowly learning to love myself.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Where's My Pillow?
I have spent the past two days at a conference on Environmental Education. I have much to say, but tonight I am so tired even my typing fingers feel as if they are typing through oatmeal. My body feels as if it's moving through oatmeal. Slow and gooey, that's how I feel and there is still one more work day before a 3-day weekend.
The end of the school year is always like this. I hold on. I feel exhaustion in every breath. I neglect family and friends. I get up in the morning, pull myself through the day, and then crash at night. I thought that by having two days where I didn't work with kids would be relaxing, but instead it just added to my exhaustion.
And when I sleep, I sleep like the dead. It doesn't help that the weather is all wonky. 90 degrees on Saturday and 41 degrees yesterday. Now it's cloudy and windy and a tad warmer than yesterday, but still, that endlessly gray sky with an occasional patch of blue does little to lift my spirits or the blanket of weariness that hangs heavy on my shoulders.
One reason I signed up for this workshop was to receive 2 credits toward renewing my teaching certificate. The 2 credits require me to write a paper and right now, that's the last thing I want on my plate. Luckily, the "teacher" isn't too pushy about when the paper is due or the length the so-called paper needs to be. "A unit plan," he said, but there was no criteria, no specified requirements, no instructions beyond that.
I can BS with the best of them. I can pull a fantastic lesson plan out of my ass in no time, but the problem is that I have very little time and not so much motivation. This is my last year of teaching and while I'm trying to maintain my certification for another 5 years, I'm doing so only as a safety net in case I need to sign up as a substitute teacher to pay my portion of the bills.
But I'm kind of done with teaching and being in this workshop solidified my decision to leave. The presenter is an award-winning environmentalist with schools all around the world. He is an anthropologist by training, but has spent his life setting up environmental programs in Thailand, Bali, and the Queen Charlotte Islands (just to name a few). He was a walking factoid, spewing out statistics and dilemmas like a computer.
While some of his information was new, most of it I was familiar with since I've spent a lot of my career studying the implications of human impact on the planet. Most of the other teachers were quite young and many of them hadn't heard nor had they played many of the games the presenter shared with us. It felt simplistic in many ways until I realized that what we do in our classroom is not the norm for most classrooms around the state or even in the country.
So, while I didn't feel stretched in terms of my own learning, I did feel proud that the kind of work I've been doing is the kind of work that needs to be done in classrooms all around the world. Not to sound too arrogant, I realized that I was good at the work I've been doing for over 20 years and now it was time to pass the torch to others who have more energy than I seem to be able to muster these days.
There have been times on this journey to leave teaching when I've felt a twinge of regret. "Oh maybe I am good at this and should just keep going..." but today it felt great to leave knowing I was a good teacher. I'm not sure why it offered me so much peace, but today, while we mucked around in a stream and talked about the properties of willow trees, I said to myself, "Wow, I don't have to retain all this information and carry it back to my classroom to create a lesson. I can just revel in the knowledge and choose to live my own life differently, but the burden/responsibility of teaching others now falls to these young people." Right there in that stream I could feel the weight of my 22 year teaching burden fall off my shoulders.
Hey, maybe that's why I'm so tired...I've been carrying quite a load for quite some time. Not as long as others, but certainly longer than most and even in my weariness, I felt rather proud today to be at the end of something pretty astonishing.
Still, I have to write a "unit plan" as well as wrap up the last year of my career, which includes so many "last tasks" I can hardly think straight let alone keep my head from finding the nearest pillow and sleeping for 20 hours.
The end of the school year is always like this. I hold on. I feel exhaustion in every breath. I neglect family and friends. I get up in the morning, pull myself through the day, and then crash at night. I thought that by having two days where I didn't work with kids would be relaxing, but instead it just added to my exhaustion.
And when I sleep, I sleep like the dead. It doesn't help that the weather is all wonky. 90 degrees on Saturday and 41 degrees yesterday. Now it's cloudy and windy and a tad warmer than yesterday, but still, that endlessly gray sky with an occasional patch of blue does little to lift my spirits or the blanket of weariness that hangs heavy on my shoulders.
One reason I signed up for this workshop was to receive 2 credits toward renewing my teaching certificate. The 2 credits require me to write a paper and right now, that's the last thing I want on my plate. Luckily, the "teacher" isn't too pushy about when the paper is due or the length the so-called paper needs to be. "A unit plan," he said, but there was no criteria, no specified requirements, no instructions beyond that.
I can BS with the best of them. I can pull a fantastic lesson plan out of my ass in no time, but the problem is that I have very little time and not so much motivation. This is my last year of teaching and while I'm trying to maintain my certification for another 5 years, I'm doing so only as a safety net in case I need to sign up as a substitute teacher to pay my portion of the bills.
But I'm kind of done with teaching and being in this workshop solidified my decision to leave. The presenter is an award-winning environmentalist with schools all around the world. He is an anthropologist by training, but has spent his life setting up environmental programs in Thailand, Bali, and the Queen Charlotte Islands (just to name a few). He was a walking factoid, spewing out statistics and dilemmas like a computer.
While some of his information was new, most of it I was familiar with since I've spent a lot of my career studying the implications of human impact on the planet. Most of the other teachers were quite young and many of them hadn't heard nor had they played many of the games the presenter shared with us. It felt simplistic in many ways until I realized that what we do in our classroom is not the norm for most classrooms around the state or even in the country.
So, while I didn't feel stretched in terms of my own learning, I did feel proud that the kind of work I've been doing is the kind of work that needs to be done in classrooms all around the world. Not to sound too arrogant, I realized that I was good at the work I've been doing for over 20 years and now it was time to pass the torch to others who have more energy than I seem to be able to muster these days.
There have been times on this journey to leave teaching when I've felt a twinge of regret. "Oh maybe I am good at this and should just keep going..." but today it felt great to leave knowing I was a good teacher. I'm not sure why it offered me so much peace, but today, while we mucked around in a stream and talked about the properties of willow trees, I said to myself, "Wow, I don't have to retain all this information and carry it back to my classroom to create a lesson. I can just revel in the knowledge and choose to live my own life differently, but the burden/responsibility of teaching others now falls to these young people." Right there in that stream I could feel the weight of my 22 year teaching burden fall off my shoulders.
Hey, maybe that's why I'm so tired...I've been carrying quite a load for quite some time. Not as long as others, but certainly longer than most and even in my weariness, I felt rather proud today to be at the end of something pretty astonishing.
Still, I have to write a "unit plan" as well as wrap up the last year of my career, which includes so many "last tasks" I can hardly think straight let alone keep my head from finding the nearest pillow and sleeping for 20 hours.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
The Speed At Which
Yesterday was Saturday. It doesn't seem so long ago, but when I look at the clock this evening, Saturday is a whisper of memory. The speed at which this weekend has passed by me makes me dizzy. The week days walk to the weekend's flight. The week days crawl to the weekend's run.
When I try to count my accomplishments this weekend, I'm hard pressed to reach 10 items on my list. In fact, trying to remember all that I did yesterday feels like distant memory.
I am therefore wasting my time on this blog since every minute zooms by me and there must be more to do than what I'm doing.
There must...
When I try to count my accomplishments this weekend, I'm hard pressed to reach 10 items on my list. In fact, trying to remember all that I did yesterday feels like distant memory.
I am therefore wasting my time on this blog since every minute zooms by me and there must be more to do than what I'm doing.
There must...
Friday, May 16, 2008
A Dog Can Save Your Life
I was dreading many things today -- going into work, the heat of the first true summer day, my students and their need to be flakey on these last few weeks of school -- but the day provided me with some unexpected joy.First, a girl in my class whose sister died last December finally shared the news with her two best friends AND wrote about it in a reflection letter on how she's grown and changed during the year. This is big because normally she avoids any mention of her sister's death, runs as far from us as she can if we show even the slightest affection (appropriate affection that is) towards her, and has yet to share her sorrow with anyone close to her including family. Her letter brought me to tears. "I have grown in this past year, but I can't exactly explain how. My sister died and that just put all these emotions in my belly and now I can't get them out."
Second, the play the kids are working on is finally, FINALLY coming together and their performance may actually be a success instead of the failure I kept envisioning in the wee morning hours.
Lastly, Mr. Rubin, the dog who teaches me something every day, frolicked raucously this afternoon, happy as a clam (though actually happy as a puppy) and made me smile with his many poses for the camera.
Silly dog.
Silly dog who saves my life in a million ways every five minutes.
Now I shall settle down into this Friday evening by watching "Juno," which Ann insists will lift my spirits even more.
More photos of Rubin on the Rubinations link...
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Smatterings
For the past few days I've been "sequestered" in a jury room waiting to be called "to duty." Actually, I was called once to be in a jury pool and twice to be a potential juror, only I was excused both times. The first because I have a workshop I've paid to attend next week this particular trial required at least a week's service. The second because it was a child abuse case and I cannot, will not be impartial. If 22 years of teaching has provided any lessons it is that the kids, no matter how horrible they may behave, never deserve to be hit. And they never deserve to be hit with an "object" as the court reporter described it.
"I cannot be impartial," I told the judge. He asked me to elaborate. How could I begin to tell him of the numerous cases I've had to report, the 3 times I've served as a witness in three different cases and the bastards still walked away with their abused kids in tow, or the kids I've known who were terrified to testify against their abuser.
"It sounds like you've lost faith in the jury system," the rather arrogant judge told me.
"Absolutely not," I replied. "It's this system that will weed me out because I am biased."
I was excused.
But being excused just throws you back into the jury pool for the possibility of being selected again for a different judge and a different trial. It's like some form of modern-day medieval torture. "Back to the dungeon!"
It wasn't that bad. I enjoyed the silence of it. No classroom clamor, no end of the year stress, lots of time to go to the bathroom, an hour+ lunch...it was civilized. I practiced imagining having that kind of time to think, that kind of space in my head not to have to hold 7000 "to dos" in the air at once. I could get used to this, I thought.
But it's made it difficult to go back to work for these last 15 days.
15 days. It seems so short when I say it or write it, but I know that the next 15 days are their own form of medieval torture.
And this has been a difficult class. Very difficult. They have very little depth. Some of them do, but as a whole, they are meager of soul. I haven't had a class like this in a long time. It makes leaving odd. Kind of like a professional athlete going out on a bad year versus say Brett Farve who went out on a relatively good year.
With a bad year you kind of feel like it's time to go because you've overshot your effectiveness. With a good year you kind of leave it all out on the field.
I think I left it out on the field last year and this year is my professional embarrassment.
Well, it's not that bad, but let's just say I'm not going to win any award. Not that I ever have, but I have a sour taste in my mouth or at least I feel one coming on.
So 15 days feels in many regards like an eternity and in that eternity there is a lot to get done, none of which I feel motivated to do. It didn't help to spend the past 2 days watching how the rest of the world operates. Even at lunch, out in the courtyard of City Hall with busy traffic and lots of people and planes overhead and construction in the background, it was peaceful. The classroom is never that peaceful. No one ever takes their time like the judges did in their courtrooms.
Tomorrow is supposed to be in the mid-80s. I'm not sure what to do with that. It's been in the 30s and 40s for months now. Rainy, cloudy, chilly...even frosty. My bones have been damp for days and days. And now heat. It will make those last 15 days feel literally and figuratively like hell. No one can focus in that unexpected and sudden heat, least of all the kids.
These smatterings seem bleak. I'm not feeling bleak. I'm feeling...what's the word? I'm feeling...resigned. Like going to the dentist to have teeth drilled and filled. It's going to take as long as it takes and I must endure the drills and the shots and the forever opening of my mouth clogged with someone else's fingers and hands.
"I cannot be impartial," I told the judge. He asked me to elaborate. How could I begin to tell him of the numerous cases I've had to report, the 3 times I've served as a witness in three different cases and the bastards still walked away with their abused kids in tow, or the kids I've known who were terrified to testify against their abuser.
"It sounds like you've lost faith in the jury system," the rather arrogant judge told me.
"Absolutely not," I replied. "It's this system that will weed me out because I am biased."
I was excused.
But being excused just throws you back into the jury pool for the possibility of being selected again for a different judge and a different trial. It's like some form of modern-day medieval torture. "Back to the dungeon!"
It wasn't that bad. I enjoyed the silence of it. No classroom clamor, no end of the year stress, lots of time to go to the bathroom, an hour+ lunch...it was civilized. I practiced imagining having that kind of time to think, that kind of space in my head not to have to hold 7000 "to dos" in the air at once. I could get used to this, I thought.
But it's made it difficult to go back to work for these last 15 days.
15 days. It seems so short when I say it or write it, but I know that the next 15 days are their own form of medieval torture.
And this has been a difficult class. Very difficult. They have very little depth. Some of them do, but as a whole, they are meager of soul. I haven't had a class like this in a long time. It makes leaving odd. Kind of like a professional athlete going out on a bad year versus say Brett Farve who went out on a relatively good year.
With a bad year you kind of feel like it's time to go because you've overshot your effectiveness. With a good year you kind of leave it all out on the field.
I think I left it out on the field last year and this year is my professional embarrassment.
Well, it's not that bad, but let's just say I'm not going to win any award. Not that I ever have, but I have a sour taste in my mouth or at least I feel one coming on.
So 15 days feels in many regards like an eternity and in that eternity there is a lot to get done, none of which I feel motivated to do. It didn't help to spend the past 2 days watching how the rest of the world operates. Even at lunch, out in the courtyard of City Hall with busy traffic and lots of people and planes overhead and construction in the background, it was peaceful. The classroom is never that peaceful. No one ever takes their time like the judges did in their courtrooms.
Tomorrow is supposed to be in the mid-80s. I'm not sure what to do with that. It's been in the 30s and 40s for months now. Rainy, cloudy, chilly...even frosty. My bones have been damp for days and days. And now heat. It will make those last 15 days feel literally and figuratively like hell. No one can focus in that unexpected and sudden heat, least of all the kids.
These smatterings seem bleak. I'm not feeling bleak. I'm feeling...what's the word? I'm feeling...resigned. Like going to the dentist to have teeth drilled and filled. It's going to take as long as it takes and I must endure the drills and the shots and the forever opening of my mouth clogged with someone else's fingers and hands.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Space and Doubt
Our internet has been down for the past week. We needed a new modem, or so said the cable guy who replaced our old (6 years) one with a sleek new one. Now life is speedier and some bit of technology is off to a landfill.
I have 18 days left as a teacher. Actually, almost 17 days as this day is close to over. I am filled with a desire, an obsession to find space both in my head and in my life for doing nothing. Now my life is filled with too much. The end of the year is always like this -- projects, presentations, organizing, report cards -- but it feels particularly anxious as I know that after 18 days I will really not want to be here finishing up all the minutiae of this career.
I long for the day when I do not have to carry 7000 items in my head -- did I take attendance? Did I copy those assignments? Did I enter grades? Where did I put that file? Did I write that email to those parents? -- and on and on and on. I want to clear away the clutter in my brain and stretch out in the open space of nothing. Well, not of nothing really, but of less.
Last night, on my drive back from a dog training class, I thought about all the names in my head. There are the names of my 19 students and the names of all the past students who still walk these halls. There are the names of all my co-workers and the names of all the parents. There are the names of all the marine invertebrates we're studying and the names of their phyla -- arthropods and cnidarians and mollusks and echinoderms and on and on. There are the names of all our community partners who I must remember to put on the program for our final performance. My head is filled with names related to work and still there are names of my friends and family that must squeeze their way in there between the folds of my memory.
But it's not just names that elbow each other like an angry crowd. There are schedules and events, errands and appointments. There are lists for groceries and projects and little things I must remember, reminders I must hold for myself, or pass on to others. I should marvel at the capacity and brilliance of my brain, but instead my head feels heavy and tired and longing of wide open spaces.
Ironically though, when I am able to clear my mind for a moment -- like last night at the dog obedience class when I could solely focus on getting the dog to lie down, to stay, to walk right at my side without a leash -- the open spaces fill with doubt. Am I doing the right thing? Am I capable of making a shift from teaching to something else -- a dog trainer? A writer? A part-time employee?
Everyone around me says "yes." Everyone around me is supportive and understanding. Everyone around me is encouraging and positive.
It doesn't appease the doubts. They creep in, mostly at night, but occasionally when I least expect them.
I love the nights when I must take Rubin to dog class, but last night the doubts even crept in there. He was a monster. He was a clown. He was a goof-off. He was everything but obedient. At one point, we were to trot by all the other dogs in class leashless. All the other dogs were leashless, too. The first pass went great. Rubin trotting merrily by my side gazing up at me in that obedient, loyal way of his. The second pass was a disaster. With a huge smile on his face, he raced to the middle of the field and looked over his shoulder, an invitation to all the other leashless dogs to follow. The four German shepherds in class leaned in unison, tempted but obedient. The young black lab who never stops wiggling broke for the chase. The King Charles spaniel hid under his mother's legs. The aggressive mix lunged for Rubin. And I was left calling for my dog who would not come.
And I want to be a dog trainer?
"You're too hard on yourself," Ann laughs at the training story. "Think about all the mistakes you made in your first years of teaching."
And immediately I thought about all the mistakes I make every day while teaching.
How do I vanquish doubt? How do I walk with confidence into this next phase, set aside worry and allow myself to make mistakes and learn from them? If I am to make space in my life and in my head, how do I make certain that doubt doesn't flood the open spaces drowning me in ulcers?
I know I can't rid myself completely of doubt, but I do want to be "less" hard on myself, a bit more forgiving of myself and my dog as he romps out of control oblivious to my commands. I want to have patience and not allow worry to drive me away from these new life choices and back into the comfort of doing something I know how to do or requires little effort or thought.
I have 18 days left. I wonder what will happen on that 19th day when I can let it all go? Maybe I won't even feel the difference. Maybe the open space won't become apparent until late summer when I generally have to gear up for the new school year. Maybe then I'll notice a void. Maybe then I'll notice a pause in my life. Maybe then I'll breathe deeply not as a way to make it through the next few days or next few hours, but as a way to truly relax and revel in the emptiness of my mind.
I have 18 days left as a teacher. Actually, almost 17 days as this day is close to over. I am filled with a desire, an obsession to find space both in my head and in my life for doing nothing. Now my life is filled with too much. The end of the year is always like this -- projects, presentations, organizing, report cards -- but it feels particularly anxious as I know that after 18 days I will really not want to be here finishing up all the minutiae of this career.
I long for the day when I do not have to carry 7000 items in my head -- did I take attendance? Did I copy those assignments? Did I enter grades? Where did I put that file? Did I write that email to those parents? -- and on and on and on. I want to clear away the clutter in my brain and stretch out in the open space of nothing. Well, not of nothing really, but of less.
Last night, on my drive back from a dog training class, I thought about all the names in my head. There are the names of my 19 students and the names of all the past students who still walk these halls. There are the names of all my co-workers and the names of all the parents. There are the names of all the marine invertebrates we're studying and the names of their phyla -- arthropods and cnidarians and mollusks and echinoderms and on and on. There are the names of all our community partners who I must remember to put on the program for our final performance. My head is filled with names related to work and still there are names of my friends and family that must squeeze their way in there between the folds of my memory.
But it's not just names that elbow each other like an angry crowd. There are schedules and events, errands and appointments. There are lists for groceries and projects and little things I must remember, reminders I must hold for myself, or pass on to others. I should marvel at the capacity and brilliance of my brain, but instead my head feels heavy and tired and longing of wide open spaces.
Ironically though, when I am able to clear my mind for a moment -- like last night at the dog obedience class when I could solely focus on getting the dog to lie down, to stay, to walk right at my side without a leash -- the open spaces fill with doubt. Am I doing the right thing? Am I capable of making a shift from teaching to something else -- a dog trainer? A writer? A part-time employee?
Everyone around me says "yes." Everyone around me is supportive and understanding. Everyone around me is encouraging and positive.
It doesn't appease the doubts. They creep in, mostly at night, but occasionally when I least expect them.
I love the nights when I must take Rubin to dog class, but last night the doubts even crept in there. He was a monster. He was a clown. He was a goof-off. He was everything but obedient. At one point, we were to trot by all the other dogs in class leashless. All the other dogs were leashless, too. The first pass went great. Rubin trotting merrily by my side gazing up at me in that obedient, loyal way of his. The second pass was a disaster. With a huge smile on his face, he raced to the middle of the field and looked over his shoulder, an invitation to all the other leashless dogs to follow. The four German shepherds in class leaned in unison, tempted but obedient. The young black lab who never stops wiggling broke for the chase. The King Charles spaniel hid under his mother's legs. The aggressive mix lunged for Rubin. And I was left calling for my dog who would not come.
And I want to be a dog trainer?
"You're too hard on yourself," Ann laughs at the training story. "Think about all the mistakes you made in your first years of teaching."
And immediately I thought about all the mistakes I make every day while teaching.
How do I vanquish doubt? How do I walk with confidence into this next phase, set aside worry and allow myself to make mistakes and learn from them? If I am to make space in my life and in my head, how do I make certain that doubt doesn't flood the open spaces drowning me in ulcers?
I know I can't rid myself completely of doubt, but I do want to be "less" hard on myself, a bit more forgiving of myself and my dog as he romps out of control oblivious to my commands. I want to have patience and not allow worry to drive me away from these new life choices and back into the comfort of doing something I know how to do or requires little effort or thought.
I have 18 days left. I wonder what will happen on that 19th day when I can let it all go? Maybe I won't even feel the difference. Maybe the open space won't become apparent until late summer when I generally have to gear up for the new school year. Maybe then I'll notice a void. Maybe then I'll notice a pause in my life. Maybe then I'll breathe deeply not as a way to make it through the next few days or next few hours, but as a way to truly relax and revel in the emptiness of my mind.
Monday, May 05, 2008
The Gray as Matter
Okay, after reading Bookworm's list of what could happen, things I never thought of, I'm a little leery of getting behind the driver's seat. So...
...Rubin's in the driver's seat from now on!
Of course, he whined the whole time I was taking the picture, so maybe I should just leave it parked and ride my bike with a trailer on the back for Rubin.
While everyone LOVES a new car, I'm in the getting to know you phase at this point.
What I like:
1) The color. I've never had a charcoal gray car before. Ann wanted blue, but the blues were not the right kind of blue.
2) The size. It looks small, but it's got a lot of room inside for such a small outside. I also like driving on the highway passed the big SUVs, like the kind we owned and even though I worry a bit about getting crushed, I don't feel (as) guilty driving something small and fuel-efficient.
3) As for fuel efficient, I drove to Woodinville yesterday (about 25 miles away) and home again and the gas gauge didn't move. IT DIDN'T MOVE...like it was full and it was still on full this morning. Love that!
4) Rubin in the back seat. He's really close now and when I'm resting at a stop sign I can reach back and scratch his chin. I like that. He likes that.
5) Controls for the radio/CD player are on the steering wheel. I'm sure other cars have this feature, but it sure makes my life a lot easier and safer.
6) The versatility. Back seats go down and the back of them are a hard plastic. Not carpet. That is soooo much easier to clean especially with a dog. BUT the kicker is that the front passenger seat goes all the way down (forward) too and there's a lot more room if needed.
What I'm getting used to:
1) The size. Our SUV was a truck. It drove like a truck and felt like a truck. I've owned trucks more than I've owned cars and I'm not quite used to the car driving feeling. It's not completely natural for me. Yet.
2) Not sure how we're going to mount racks on the car. It's a 2009 and they actually don't make racks for it, though we can get some from Toyota, which might be the route we take. I'll have to research all of that before we figure it out.
3) The dashboard. It's RIGHT THERE, unlike the SUV that seemed farther away and well, how do I explain, reasonably sized. Things feel a bit oversized on this car, but I think I'll get used to that, too.
So, Bookworm, I shall now drive more cautiously and remember that it is just a car...but it still carries some prized possessions...Ann, Rubin, and yes, me.
...Rubin's in the driver's seat from now on!Of course, he whined the whole time I was taking the picture, so maybe I should just leave it parked and ride my bike with a trailer on the back for Rubin.
While everyone LOVES a new car, I'm in the getting to know you phase at this point.
What I like:
1) The color. I've never had a charcoal gray car before. Ann wanted blue, but the blues were not the right kind of blue.
2) The size. It looks small, but it's got a lot of room inside for such a small outside. I also like driving on the highway passed the big SUVs, like the kind we owned and even though I worry a bit about getting crushed, I don't feel (as) guilty driving something small and fuel-efficient.
3) As for fuel efficient, I drove to Woodinville yesterday (about 25 miles away) and home again and the gas gauge didn't move. IT DIDN'T MOVE...like it was full and it was still on full this morning. Love that!
4) Rubin in the back seat. He's really close now and when I'm resting at a stop sign I can reach back and scratch his chin. I like that. He likes that.
5) Controls for the radio/CD player are on the steering wheel. I'm sure other cars have this feature, but it sure makes my life a lot easier and safer.
6) The versatility. Back seats go down and the back of them are a hard plastic. Not carpet. That is soooo much easier to clean especially with a dog. BUT the kicker is that the front passenger seat goes all the way down (forward) too and there's a lot more room if needed.
What I'm getting used to:
1) The size. Our SUV was a truck. It drove like a truck and felt like a truck. I've owned trucks more than I've owned cars and I'm not quite used to the car driving feeling. It's not completely natural for me. Yet.
2) Not sure how we're going to mount racks on the car. It's a 2009 and they actually don't make racks for it, though we can get some from Toyota, which might be the route we take. I'll have to research all of that before we figure it out.
3) The dashboard. It's RIGHT THERE, unlike the SUV that seemed farther away and well, how do I explain, reasonably sized. Things feel a bit oversized on this car, but I think I'll get used to that, too.
So, Bookworm, I shall now drive more cautiously and remember that it is just a car...but it still carries some prized possessions...Ann, Rubin, and yes, me.
Saturday, May 03, 2008
More Grey Matter
It's too late now to take a picture, but sitting outside our house is our new car. Finally. And, of course, it isn't at all what we thought it would be.
It went like this:
Ann: We don't really need an SUV anymore.
Me: Really? Why not? (I'm stunned because Ann has always been the proponent of a larger car so we can "haul stuff" though mostly we just haul the dog.)
Ann: Well, we already have the furniture we need for the house and the deck and all the landscaping is in place. There's nothing big we really need to buy anymore.
Me: So, what do we want to buy?
Ann: I don't know let's just see.
First we went to the Toyota dealer as our SUV needed service. We dropped it off and decided to look at Toyotas primarily because we like the dealership and also we love the reliability of the car. We asked for a non-smoking car salesperson, as if they would be any less slimy, and ended up with Lawrence, a former NFL linebacker for the New England Patriots.
What we wanted: Mid-priced, fuel efficient wagonish car that could hold "stuff" and be versatile.
Lawrence showed us a Scion Xb. It looks like a toaster if that helps at all. Then he showed us a Toyota Matrix. Ann liked it, which made me laugh because a few weeks back, when our friend Laurie drove up in one, Ann said she thought it was ugly.
Go figure.
We drove the Matrix. Zippy, roomy, and a good mileage. Plus, all the Toyota's and Scion's have low emissions meeting the new standards, even California standards, for how much they pollute. I liked that.
Then we drove the Scion. Did I mention that it looks like toaster on wheels? Well, it drives like one too. Ann's first words, as she pulled out of the parking lot were, "I feel like a little person." Ann's not all that tall, so I just chuckled at her comment. Then I drove it and said, "God, I feel like a little person too!" I am a tall person so this meant something!
Toaster on wheels. Need I say more.
Then we discussed with Lawrence the difference between a hybrid and a regular gas guzzler. He was informative. Both cars put out the same emissions when emissions flow out. The advantages of the hybrid are that emissions don't flow out when it's running on electric, which only happens when you're going 25 mph or less OR when you run solely on electric, which you can do for about 30 miles and then you have to switch back to gas. The difference, according to Lawrence, is minimal. The price, according to Lawrence, is not.
$10,000-15,000 more for a hybrid.
That was the clencher. Yes, we want to be environmentally friendly, but since both cars get relatively the same gas mileage (the hybrid does a better job, but not substantially so) and they both "pollute" at the same rate (though that rate is substantially less than our 4Runner), we opted for paying less and going with the smaller car.
Two cars, two test drives, and there was no need to go anywhere else to look for a car.
And just like that, we came home with a 2009 (how do they do that?) Toyota Matrix S (one up from the standard model) in a charcoal gray (Ann wanted the dark blue, but the car has a dark interior and I wasn't into dark on dark as I'm prone to depression =-) so we went with a cheery gray...go figure!)
When we went to pick up the car we brought Rubin along. He was hesitant at first...the car is, after all, smaller than his 4-wheel drive truck/SUV and therefore not as roomy in the back, but soon he adjusted and now hops in and out of the car (a much more sustainable jump) like a champ.
Pictures tomorrow...
It went like this:
Ann: We don't really need an SUV anymore.
Me: Really? Why not? (I'm stunned because Ann has always been the proponent of a larger car so we can "haul stuff" though mostly we just haul the dog.)
Ann: Well, we already have the furniture we need for the house and the deck and all the landscaping is in place. There's nothing big we really need to buy anymore.
Me: So, what do we want to buy?
Ann: I don't know let's just see.
First we went to the Toyota dealer as our SUV needed service. We dropped it off and decided to look at Toyotas primarily because we like the dealership and also we love the reliability of the car. We asked for a non-smoking car salesperson, as if they would be any less slimy, and ended up with Lawrence, a former NFL linebacker for the New England Patriots.
What we wanted: Mid-priced, fuel efficient wagonish car that could hold "stuff" and be versatile.
Lawrence showed us a Scion Xb. It looks like a toaster if that helps at all. Then he showed us a Toyota Matrix. Ann liked it, which made me laugh because a few weeks back, when our friend Laurie drove up in one, Ann said she thought it was ugly.
Go figure.
We drove the Matrix. Zippy, roomy, and a good mileage. Plus, all the Toyota's and Scion's have low emissions meeting the new standards, even California standards, for how much they pollute. I liked that.
Then we drove the Scion. Did I mention that it looks like toaster on wheels? Well, it drives like one too. Ann's first words, as she pulled out of the parking lot were, "I feel like a little person." Ann's not all that tall, so I just chuckled at her comment. Then I drove it and said, "God, I feel like a little person too!" I am a tall person so this meant something!
Toaster on wheels. Need I say more.
Then we discussed with Lawrence the difference between a hybrid and a regular gas guzzler. He was informative. Both cars put out the same emissions when emissions flow out. The advantages of the hybrid are that emissions don't flow out when it's running on electric, which only happens when you're going 25 mph or less OR when you run solely on electric, which you can do for about 30 miles and then you have to switch back to gas. The difference, according to Lawrence, is minimal. The price, according to Lawrence, is not.
$10,000-15,000 more for a hybrid.
That was the clencher. Yes, we want to be environmentally friendly, but since both cars get relatively the same gas mileage (the hybrid does a better job, but not substantially so) and they both "pollute" at the same rate (though that rate is substantially less than our 4Runner), we opted for paying less and going with the smaller car.
Two cars, two test drives, and there was no need to go anywhere else to look for a car.
And just like that, we came home with a 2009 (how do they do that?) Toyota Matrix S (one up from the standard model) in a charcoal gray (Ann wanted the dark blue, but the car has a dark interior and I wasn't into dark on dark as I'm prone to depression =-) so we went with a cheery gray...go figure!)
When we went to pick up the car we brought Rubin along. He was hesitant at first...the car is, after all, smaller than his 4-wheel drive truck/SUV and therefore not as roomy in the back, but soon he adjusted and now hops in and out of the car (a much more sustainable jump) like a champ.
Pictures tomorrow...
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