I remember, a long time ago, someone telling me that when you are in a relationship, it's common to get what's called a seven year itch -- the desire for a change or the feeling that somewhere else lies greener grass. My partnership with Ann is by no means in jeopardy, but my relationship with my role as a teacher is once again creating a burning sensation under my skin.
Perhaps it's the loss of my teaching partner who, in her early thirties, has decided that she needs to stretch her occupational wings and give something other than teaching a try. Perhaps it's the end of the year exhaustion that I'm currently feeling on this last day of school. Perhaps it's the sun, which has decided to break through the recent rain, that calls me from a distance. Or perhaps there really is a cycle of seven years and a need to scratch at something different.
I've talked a million times about my work, about how teaching is meaningful, yes, but damn exhausting. My head feels so full today I know it will take me at least two weeks to push out all the details I meticulously hold all year long and make room for other thoughts or better yet, no thoughts at all. And a million times I've talked about finding some other work, about resting my "apples" in some other job that is less mentally and even physically demanding. But the restlessness of quitting teaching grows all the more mighty on the nose of seven years. It's no wonder that today, while I was signing the last yearbook and packing up the last supplies that I realized 21 years have gone by. For 21 years I've been taking attendance, negotiating with students (and their families), grading papers, smoothing out dilemmas, attending faculty meetings (the bane of any teacher's existence), and all the other microcosmic details required of every teacher and 21 IS divisible by 7.
But this turn of seven somehow feels different. Or maybe it isn't really at all. Maybe I'm always here, always at this crossroads of reflection and consideration. Do I leave and really make the leap into something other than teaching or do I stay and wait for another seven years to roll around and the flame under my skin to burn even hotter?
Friday, June 15, 2007
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
I Only Have Lice For You, Dear
We traveled in a caravan of seven cars containing 16 students, 8 parents, and 4 teachers. Packed into the nooks and crannies of each vehicle were backpacks, sleeping bags, props for a play, and enough candy and cookies to feed a herd of elephants. We were heading back to the North Cascades Institute for a reflective time in the mountains. As the school year ends, we thought a trip back to the place where we kicked off the year was a wonderful way to come full circle, to think back on all we'd done together inside and outside the classroom, but also a way to send this group of students off in a positive direction.
But...
...the best laid plans of lice and men...
We knew two students had been treated for lice before we left. We decided to go anyway, reassured that all the parents had inspected their children for the pesky pests. By the evening of the first night, the lice dam broke and we stood over seated girls checking each and every strand for eggs and bugs. By the afternoon of the second day, the trip was not about reflection, but inspection. The trip was not about saying goodbye, but about saying oh my!
And then we were asked to leave by the fine folks of NCI. We understood. We'd talked about leaving ourselves, but their request sealed the deal. The girls were disappointed. We were disappointed, too, but when 10 of the 16 girls ended up with lice and one of our faculty (not me!) we knew it was the best move on our part.
So we packed up those 7 cars again -- all the luggage, all the props, all the sleeping bags and pillows now stuffed in garbage sacks in hopes that the bugs would not migrate on our 4 hour drive home.
Today and tomorrow we have the day off. We're hoping parents will now take this infestation more seriously and inspect and pick and treat their kids more thoroughly and obsessively so we can rid ourselves of the lice.
It was an interesting trip, to say the least. Usually we don't take parents on overnights. I, in fact, hate taking the parents with us. The kids change. They lose their strength around their mothers or their fathers. They do not know how to persevere with a parent close by. They grow grumpy and sullen and manipulative. While it's interesting to watch the interactions, it becomes even more evident where the student obtained their particular habits.
For instance, when the infestation made itself evident, one mother flipped out, whirling herself into a panic. Her daughter assumed the role of the parent and the parent let her! This is a student who has struggled staying focused. She always asks a question we've just answered because she does not tune in and listen. Now I know why...she is focused on other things ... like a mother who is germ-obsessed and a father who is irrationally angry. She checks out at school because it's safer...it's how she's learned to be in the world. It all makes complete sense now after watching her attend to her mother's hysteria.
Another parent removed himself from all the activity. The mothers and teachers (all female) inspected heads, answered questions, massaged in treatment, cleaned sheets, and bagged up pillows. And then, moments before we left for home he asked, "Is there anything I can do to help?" His daughter checked out as well, sitting in a corner, her head wrapped in a towel reading a book for hours and hours. She was one of the worst cases -- the eggs and lice thick in her long strands of brown hair. "We treated her," said the father. "I don't understand why they're still there?"
"Did you pick them out the next day and the next?" a mother asked.
"No, why would I do that?"
All the mothers rolled their eyes. "You have to be vigilant," responded the mother. "You have to nit-pick for at least a week to really get rid of them all."
The father just stared at the mother in disbelief.
It's funny. He's an extremely well-educated man, but he lives in his head (just like his daughter) and while he may be familiar with tort-reform (he's an attorney), he has no understanding of anything earthly -- and I mean this in every sense of the word. He literally floats through life above it all, exerting his privilege (intellectual and financial) without any awareness of his impact on other people.
Meanwhile, we had mothers who dove in the moment the girls started scratching. One mother in particular spent hours upon hours meticulously working her way through each child's head. The first night, she stayed up until midnight, delousing the victims. We would have been lost without her.
In a way, I'm glad to be home. 48 hours with 11-year olds is exhausting. 48 hours with 11-year olds, their parents, and a thousand louse (lice?) deserves a day or two off.
The year is almost over. After years of experience I know the days will go unbearably slow. There are many demands outside the classroom as well -- budget requests, scheduling decisions, cleaning, etc. -- that only add to the stress of the final days. I'm trying not to focus on the number of days and hours left, but it's hard. For the next 6 days it will be me, 16 girls, and random louse (lice?) moving ahead...one step at a time.
But...
...the best laid plans of lice and men...
We knew two students had been treated for lice before we left. We decided to go anyway, reassured that all the parents had inspected their children for the pesky pests. By the evening of the first night, the lice dam broke and we stood over seated girls checking each and every strand for eggs and bugs. By the afternoon of the second day, the trip was not about reflection, but inspection. The trip was not about saying goodbye, but about saying oh my!
And then we were asked to leave by the fine folks of NCI. We understood. We'd talked about leaving ourselves, but their request sealed the deal. The girls were disappointed. We were disappointed, too, but when 10 of the 16 girls ended up with lice and one of our faculty (not me!) we knew it was the best move on our part.
So we packed up those 7 cars again -- all the luggage, all the props, all the sleeping bags and pillows now stuffed in garbage sacks in hopes that the bugs would not migrate on our 4 hour drive home.
Today and tomorrow we have the day off. We're hoping parents will now take this infestation more seriously and inspect and pick and treat their kids more thoroughly and obsessively so we can rid ourselves of the lice.
It was an interesting trip, to say the least. Usually we don't take parents on overnights. I, in fact, hate taking the parents with us. The kids change. They lose their strength around their mothers or their fathers. They do not know how to persevere with a parent close by. They grow grumpy and sullen and manipulative. While it's interesting to watch the interactions, it becomes even more evident where the student obtained their particular habits.
For instance, when the infestation made itself evident, one mother flipped out, whirling herself into a panic. Her daughter assumed the role of the parent and the parent let her! This is a student who has struggled staying focused. She always asks a question we've just answered because she does not tune in and listen. Now I know why...she is focused on other things ... like a mother who is germ-obsessed and a father who is irrationally angry. She checks out at school because it's safer...it's how she's learned to be in the world. It all makes complete sense now after watching her attend to her mother's hysteria.
Another parent removed himself from all the activity. The mothers and teachers (all female) inspected heads, answered questions, massaged in treatment, cleaned sheets, and bagged up pillows. And then, moments before we left for home he asked, "Is there anything I can do to help?" His daughter checked out as well, sitting in a corner, her head wrapped in a towel reading a book for hours and hours. She was one of the worst cases -- the eggs and lice thick in her long strands of brown hair. "We treated her," said the father. "I don't understand why they're still there?"
"Did you pick them out the next day and the next?" a mother asked.
"No, why would I do that?"
All the mothers rolled their eyes. "You have to be vigilant," responded the mother. "You have to nit-pick for at least a week to really get rid of them all."
The father just stared at the mother in disbelief.
It's funny. He's an extremely well-educated man, but he lives in his head (just like his daughter) and while he may be familiar with tort-reform (he's an attorney), he has no understanding of anything earthly -- and I mean this in every sense of the word. He literally floats through life above it all, exerting his privilege (intellectual and financial) without any awareness of his impact on other people.
Meanwhile, we had mothers who dove in the moment the girls started scratching. One mother in particular spent hours upon hours meticulously working her way through each child's head. The first night, she stayed up until midnight, delousing the victims. We would have been lost without her.
In a way, I'm glad to be home. 48 hours with 11-year olds is exhausting. 48 hours with 11-year olds, their parents, and a thousand louse (lice?) deserves a day or two off.
The year is almost over. After years of experience I know the days will go unbearably slow. There are many demands outside the classroom as well -- budget requests, scheduling decisions, cleaning, etc. -- that only add to the stress of the final days. I'm trying not to focus on the number of days and hours left, but it's hard. For the next 6 days it will be me, 16 girls, and random louse (lice?) moving ahead...one step at a time.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Swimming
Measuring my days by what's good has worked a helluva lot better than measuring them by what's awful. My students have been infected with lice. This isn't awful, though it's certainly not good as we're heading for a three-day camping retreat in the North Cascades. I keep receiving emails from parents informing me of their infestations.
It's good to have a dog in our lives again. Gives me needed perspective.
And then I scratch my head.
And try NOT to scratch my itchy eyes. My allergies are better. The medication appears to be working. Though I still itch a bit, my eyes are no longer weepy and that is what seemed to be the trigger for all the inflammation and swelling.
Of course, now I'm equipped with an Epi-pen, an emergency dose of steroids, and a Costco-sized supply of Benadryl. This is important as I am heading into the mountains with 16 students and with god knows how many bugs in their heads.
But on the measuring good side, Rubin went to the lake yesterday. It's been hot here. Not unbearably, but 80 degrees in Seattle is stiffling when we're accustomed to 60 degrees and cloudy. 
The boy will do anything for food. This was his fourth or fifth attempt. At first, he'd wade in, grab the food, and then back his way to the safety of the shore, but once he figured out he wasn't going to get swallowed up and that he actually floated, he was swimming in no time.
The boy will do anything for food. This was his fourth or fifth attempt. At first, he'd wade in, grab the food, and then back his way to the safety of the shore, but once he figured out he wasn't going to get swallowed up and that he actually floated, he was swimming in no time.
And then he looked like a drowned rat with a big fuzzy head.
It's good to have a dog in our lives again. Gives me needed perspective.Tuesday, May 29, 2007
The Walking Compass
Finding my way has been hard this past few months. My allergies have thrown me off course. They are unpredictable and devastating when they hit and I can't seem to find any kind of rhythm in my life -- not at home, not at work, not in my writing.
Tomorrow I go back to my doctor to plan a course of action. I suspect an allergist is in my near future, but until then, I must make it through a record-breaking heat wave and pollen so large and abundant I can watch it float past my window every morning, noon, and night.
I haven't exercised for over a month either. Sweat just irritates the inflammation around my eyes and now that the rash and swelling are tempered, I'm avoiding anything that might make them flare again.
But today, Rubin had his next booster shots and this gave him the freedom to walk around the neighborhood protected from all those puppy viruses. He is a proud walker. He holds his curled tail up high and lifts his feet in a steady prance. Of course the gangsters in their "thumper" cars and the planes flying overhead and, god forbid, the commuting cyclist sent him into a few spins at the end of the leash, but walking today with Rubin was like finding a compass I thought I'd lost.
I once knew an athlete I coached when I was the head coach of the high school track team. His name was Nick and his mother was a woo-woo massage therapist who wore too many crystals and fed Nick, in Nick's humble opinion, too much tofu. But when Nick was a child, his mother taught him how to meditate by walking, to move inward into himself and calm his itchy nerves. Nick was about 5'8" tall...not the height you'd expect of a high hurdler, but that didn't stop him. He made it all the way to the State competition where he landed second place by the slimest of margins. The winner was over 6 feet tall and his long legs pushed him past the finish line by a breath.
I never thought Nick had a chance to even make it to the State competition, but every race he astonished me with his focus and his tenacity. While all the other hurdlers towered over him, Nick would walk back and forth along the track warming up slowly on the balls of his feet, tapping out a meditation his mother taught him when he was just a toddler. From the stands, I'd watch him literally go into a trance. He couldn't hear the crowd, he didn't see his competitors, and he only saw the hurdles in front of him.
I think about that walking meditation from time to time and did again tonight as Rubin and I went out for his finally walk on his first day of official walking life. I need that meditation. It's a compass for me. If it weren't so late tonight and if Rubin could have made the trek, I would have walked for hours watching the full moon rise over the lake. There are 13 days left of school and walking Rubin early in the morning, then again in the afternoon, and then shortly in the evening will be my salvation. Salve-ation...I hope.
Rubin's sleeping now, spread out like furry rug under the computer desk, breathing heavily and peacefully. It's been a big day for both of us. He's found the world and I've found my compass.
Tomorrow I go back to my doctor to plan a course of action. I suspect an allergist is in my near future, but until then, I must make it through a record-breaking heat wave and pollen so large and abundant I can watch it float past my window every morning, noon, and night.
I haven't exercised for over a month either. Sweat just irritates the inflammation around my eyes and now that the rash and swelling are tempered, I'm avoiding anything that might make them flare again.
But today, Rubin had his next booster shots and this gave him the freedom to walk around the neighborhood protected from all those puppy viruses. He is a proud walker. He holds his curled tail up high and lifts his feet in a steady prance. Of course the gangsters in their "thumper" cars and the planes flying overhead and, god forbid, the commuting cyclist sent him into a few spins at the end of the leash, but walking today with Rubin was like finding a compass I thought I'd lost.
I once knew an athlete I coached when I was the head coach of the high school track team. His name was Nick and his mother was a woo-woo massage therapist who wore too many crystals and fed Nick, in Nick's humble opinion, too much tofu. But when Nick was a child, his mother taught him how to meditate by walking, to move inward into himself and calm his itchy nerves. Nick was about 5'8" tall...not the height you'd expect of a high hurdler, but that didn't stop him. He made it all the way to the State competition where he landed second place by the slimest of margins. The winner was over 6 feet tall and his long legs pushed him past the finish line by a breath.
I never thought Nick had a chance to even make it to the State competition, but every race he astonished me with his focus and his tenacity. While all the other hurdlers towered over him, Nick would walk back and forth along the track warming up slowly on the balls of his feet, tapping out a meditation his mother taught him when he was just a toddler. From the stands, I'd watch him literally go into a trance. He couldn't hear the crowd, he didn't see his competitors, and he only saw the hurdles in front of him.
I think about that walking meditation from time to time and did again tonight as Rubin and I went out for his finally walk on his first day of official walking life. I need that meditation. It's a compass for me. If it weren't so late tonight and if Rubin could have made the trek, I would have walked for hours watching the full moon rise over the lake. There are 13 days left of school and walking Rubin early in the morning, then again in the afternoon, and then shortly in the evening will be my salvation. Salve-ation...I hope.
Rubin's sleeping now, spread out like furry rug under the computer desk, breathing heavily and peacefully. It's been a big day for both of us. He's found the world and I've found my compass.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Bena-drylled
First...Mom and Dad, don't worry...I'm getting better.
Now, here's what allergy season has done to me...
Believe it or not, this is worlds better than I was last night and early this morning when Ann escorted me to the ER. I couldn't really open my eyes as they were prize-fighter swollen shut. Slits of their former selves.
We went to Cherry Hill Hospital (the old Providence Hospital), avoiding the ever popular big-time ER at Harborview (or as the funny nurse who treated me said, "Harbor-zoo") and I was glad we did. No one was in the ER and they whisked me into the back room to do "triage," which I found particularly funny since 1) I was the only patient and it seemed obvious I would therefore be the first priority and 2) it reminded me of M.A.S.H. and the theme song kept playing through my head..."suicide is painless..."
Cindy was our nurse. A big woman with a very dry sense of humor and a shuffle to her walk. During our time there we found out that she'd previously worked as a parachute jumper for the Coast Guard, a bronco and bull rider in the rodeo, and that she and her "wife" owned 25 acres in Lewis County where they owned numerous animals who all thought they were dogs. Cindy did the bulk of the work on me, though I did see the doctor for about a minute -- he stated the obvious (allergic reaction) and prescribed a list of drugs that Cindy then administered through an IV she "plumbed" into me -- "Im good at this," she reassured me, "I used to be a plumber." And then she laughed, just one single snort and shuffled over to the computer to input my vitals.
Within minutes I could feel the relief, though the back of my throat felt like a wind tunnel filled with dry ice. I coughed and coughed to which Cindy pronounced, "Good! It's working!"
Within 90 minutes I was walking back to the car steadying myself on Ann. They'd pumped me full of steroids and more benadryl even though I'd taken a full dose before I'd arrived at the ER. "Sleep," Cindy ordered. "Lay low for the whole day. You're gonna feel a bit woozy."
I've slept. I ate lunch. I downed some good chocolate followed by some cheap chocolate. I've doused myself in bottle after bottle of water and watched for hairs to grow on my chin. "Does this mean I can compete in the Tour de France?" I asked Cindy as I was leaving.
"You ain't competing in nothing today, my dear!" she quipped back and then shuffled into the next room to triage another patient.
I'm up now, but shakey. I've taken yet another dose of benadryl and am waiting for it to slip me into yet another rubbery sleep. Ann's off to the pharmacy to pick up more steroids and an extra box of benadryl so I don't run out. By tomorrow, I'm hoping, I'll look fairly normal. I had Ann take pictures so I can show my doctor who has yet to see how bad these allergies really get. Then a referral to an allergist who will hopefully nail down exactly what does this to me and prescribe a medication that can subdue the attacks.
Rubin has been a good nurse. He had puppy class this morning with Ann and I was uanble to attend, so when he returned, he laid by the couch where I slept and dreamed his own little puppy dreams.
Meanwhile I'm hoping for rain and a quick recovery though this time I think it might take a bit longer. I'm looking forward to the day when I won't have to curse the warm weather or spend my days shuffling around in a benadryl haze. But for now, it's the couch for me and more water and perhaps some more bad chocolate to pass the time.
Really, mom and dad, I'm okay. And sorry Bookworm and Fossilguy that I didn't make it to your house. We shall come...I promise...with gifts of rhubarb pie and a puppy at our sides to meet you. Besides, I wouldn't want to scare you looking like this, FG!
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Mud
When I was about 10 years old, I played on a soccer team. Because it was 1968 and there weren't any soccer teams for girls I played on a soccer team for boys. I was therefore the only girl though our coach was a mother of one of the boys.
Mrs. Clifton was, as her name doesn't quite imply, German. Her son's name was Klaus. That was German. Very German. Mrs. Clifton had reddish, thinning hair and a strong spitty accent and rough skin along her ropey arms. She had grown up in Europe and she knew how to play soccer. She organized our practices like a drill sargeant and at the end of every practice and game, she had a cooler filled with sliced up oranges for us to eat.
She also had a tattooed number on her wrist. I didn't really know what it meant until my mother said Mrs. Clifton had survived the Concentration Camps. Years later, when I spent hours after school on my belly in the school library looking at the books no one bothered to check out, I found a book on the Holocaust and read it quickly, painfully -- looking at the pictures in horror and with a bit of fascination. In that book they showed the same tattoos that Mrs. Clifton had on her wrist. It was difficult to put the pictures in the book together with the picture of Mrs. Clifton in her Addidas sweats and hooded sweatshirt on the soccer field. I think it was my first real understanding of the term "survivor."
I don't remember much about playing soccer though I know none of the boys wanted to guard me, afraid they'd somehow hurt me and so I often scored goals in games uncontested. Mrs. Clifton put me at a wing position because I was tall and fast and could sprint the length of the soccer pitch.
I also remember our first game. It rained the entire time. I was cold and wet and still Mrs. Clifton told us to "RRRuunnn, RRRuunnn, RRRuunn" and "Shooooot!" in her heavy German accent. Running was difficult. Mud came up to my shins and the ball rolled like a weight, heavy with clumps of turf. We slid. Not intentionally like you're supposed to in a soccer game, but by accident. Every time we tried to plant our feet , our heels lost any grip they had and we toppled onto our sides and backs. My uniform was covered in mud and dirt within the first five minutes of the game.
By the end of the match, we were encased in mud, our skin buried deep beneath a thick coat of cracked dirt. My teeth clattered together. I was so cold I couldn't untie my laces. I threw a sweatshirt over my jersey and shook with a chill that didn't go away until I sat in a hot, hot bath at home.
I hadn't thought of Mrs. Clifton for years until today when I watched Rubin play with his new best friend, Sadie, an older Labradoodle. They were soaked and muddy within five minutes of their romp, tossing each other around on the ground much like we did when we played soccer. By the time Sadie left, Rubin was chilled to the bone, shivering in rhythmic pulses. We gave him a warm bath, spraying him gently with water to wash out the mud caked in between every hair on his body. He shook even more and then Ann wrapped him in her sweatshirt and a blanket and rubbed him softly until he fell asleep in a warm wooly heap.
Now he's walking around like a fluffball, his fur soft and flowery scented. I don't think I ever walked around soft and flowery after a soccer game or after any game in my life, but today, watching Rubin romp around the wet backyard, I was flooded with memories of Mrs. Clifton, tattoos, soccer, and mud.
Sadie is on top here (light cream) while Rubin is the muddy darker pup underneath. You can see the curl of his tail to the right and if you look closely, his head is buried into the scruff of Sadie's neck.
Halftime...a forced timeout. Rubin is staring at Sadie who is on her own side of the field...
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
The Bracelet
A friend gave me a purple rubber bracelet the other day. Like all the other colored bracelets, it's a fundraiser of some sort though I'm not sure of the particulars. I've bought a few of the bands in my past -- orange for a fight against hunger and poverty, pink against breast cancer, and blue for something I can't recall.
What attracted me to the purple band was that it was free (a gift from my friend) and that the purpose was to create a complaint free world. My friend had watched the Oprah show where the creator of the purple bands explained the idea:
Wear the bracelet on one wrist.
When you complain or spread rumors, move the bracelet to the other wrist.
The goal: Try to keep the bracelet on the same wrist for 3 weeks.
Additionally, you can tell someone else wearing the band that they are complaining and should therefore change the band to the other wrist, but then that means you must move your band as well.
I don't complain that much, right? I could do this...no problem.
In any other situation I most likely would not have taken the purple band from my friend, but she wasn't just offering one to me. She was offering one to each one of my students and when they all took one and then looked to me to do the same, I felt a bit obligated.
So now my left wrist dons a purple rubbery band.
But don't think it's been on my left wrist since I received it. I was "gifted" the band on a Friday and over the weekend, I had to move it just once. I can't remember why, but I heard myself complaining about something and decided I needed to move the band if I was really going to commit to its purpose.
Then I went to work on Monday. By Wednesday I couldn't keep track of how many times the band switched wrists. At one point on Wednesday, in the middle of a meeting, I decided that there was no need to move the band -- I'd just toss out the whole day as a wash and start my 3 weeks over again on Thursday. At the same time I realized that I am not a "meeter." Rather, I am a "teacher" and I'd be a much happier person (less of a complainer) if I could just "teach" instead of "meet."
Am I complaining again? Is an excuse a complaint?
That's the other dilemma I'm having. There are complaints that are blaring. I can smell them before they exit my mouth. Therefore, they're easier to swallow and the purple band stays on the wrist.
But there are other "complaints" that I'm not certain really qualify as complaints. In fact, they are hard to distinguish from "truths" or statements of fact. For instance, I heard myself saying, "That's crap!" under my breath in the middle of the meeting I didn't want to be at and frankly, the announcement made to the faculty WAS crap. When the words came out of my mouth, only the teacher next to me heard and she smiled, but I realized I needed to say something because what was being stated was not true. "I have to say," I began, "I don't agree with that statement at all." I then went on to explain my "version" of the truth.
Is that complaining? Should I just have let the moment pass as a different interpretation of events? Or was it the "that's crap!" that made the whole "feeling" a complaint?
And what do you do when someone makes your life more difficult? Case in point: Some super bigwig was scheduled to come to our school. We were "told" to "jump on it" so we did offering up a time and day that Mr. BigWig could meet our students and get a tour of the school. We're not in charge of tours nor do we really have the time to "plan" anything special outside our classroom (because yes, we're supposed to be teaching not kibbitzing with bigwigs).
But the day before Mr. BigWig is set to arrive, we realize NO ONE HAS PLANNED ANYTHING and we are left holding the bag. So we scramble. We set up chairs and projectors and prep the kids and create a dog and pony show to rival the best of them and all the while we're feeling FURIOUS because THIS IS NOT OUR JOB!
Should I bite my tongue on this? My teaching partner (who is also wearing a purple band) went to the "powers that be" to explain what went wrong in this particular situation and then offered up very concrete solutions for the next time it happens. Everyone listened willingly, but no one said, "sorry about the confusion...sorry about the extra burden...oops, we really dropped the ball and it all fell into your laps and we feel really bad about that..." Nope...not a word, just kudos for getting our school yet again in the newspaper and making our kids and our Head of School look amazing (which the kids are, but I'm not so certain anymore about the HOS).
We felt devalued. We felt used. We felt put out and exhausted. We felt left out when all the accolades went to everyone else who should of planned the event, but didn't.
We felt like complaining.
And we did. To each other, to anyone who would listen, and then finally, to those supposedly in charge who had asked us "jump on this" and then never supported the happening of it.
The purple band did not move a wrist...we just let the whole day be a wash.
It's hard, too, when others around you complain. It's so easy to just jump right in or if you don't, to just nod your head and let others release some steam. Still, the temptation to jump in and validate their feelings with your own complaints is overwhelming and often I found myself giving into the urge not only to support the co-complainer, but to receive some support myself.
Yesterday, as the kids were cleaning up the room at the end of the day, I noticed about 6 purple bands left on chairs and tables. "Hey, who do these belong to?" I asked. Some kids claimed them, others told me I could keep them, that they'd given up on the whole no-complaining idea and others gave them to fellow students who collect the colored bands on their wrists.
"This is like dieting," I told my teaching partner. "You feel really committed to it, work hard at it, pay attention to all the details, and then about 5 days into it, you give up...the temptation is too great to eat calories or, in this case, complain."
She laughed.
I don't want to be a complainer. I don't want to be someone who grouses the whole time about details and mishaps, but after attempting to be true to the purpse of the purple wristband, I wonder if maybe I am that person.
But then I wonder if complaining is okay in some forms. Isn't it better, for instance, to not hold it all in? Throughout the week, as I heard the complaining rise up in my head and then worked to not let it out, I found myself rephrasing things. "Maybe if I say it this way," I thought, "it would sound more like constructive criticism than a complaint?" But the lines are blurry there, too, and after awhile, when I heard myself complain once, I just decided to start the whole purple band thing again tomorrow.
I'm still wearing the purple band. I'm not certain why. I think I have hope that I can somehow do this, though I have reduced my goal from 3 weeks to just 2 days in a row, but even that seems like a monumental challenge.
Friends have always told me I'm too hard on myself. Part of me knows this is true. I spend a lot of energy trying to get it "right" and then, when I fall short, bashing myself for not trying hard enough or for giving up.
Maybe this whole purple band is a set up for failure. It's hard to know. It's certainly made me more aware in addition to a bit more frustrated with myself, but maybe, like my weight, I'll somehow learn to accept it -- accept that I don't need to complain all the time or at least, choose my complaints sparingly just as I choose fattening calories sparingly. The trick is, just like with the piece of pie or the buttery cookie, I have to just "do it" and then let it go. Holding onto the guilt of it all just takes too much out of me.
Hey, maybe that's the topic of a new colored band -- The No-Guilt Band!
What attracted me to the purple band was that it was free (a gift from my friend) and that the purpose was to create a complaint free world. My friend had watched the Oprah show where the creator of the purple bands explained the idea:
Wear the bracelet on one wrist.
When you complain or spread rumors, move the bracelet to the other wrist.
The goal: Try to keep the bracelet on the same wrist for 3 weeks.
Additionally, you can tell someone else wearing the band that they are complaining and should therefore change the band to the other wrist, but then that means you must move your band as well.
I don't complain that much, right? I could do this...no problem.
In any other situation I most likely would not have taken the purple band from my friend, but she wasn't just offering one to me. She was offering one to each one of my students and when they all took one and then looked to me to do the same, I felt a bit obligated.
So now my left wrist dons a purple rubbery band.
But don't think it's been on my left wrist since I received it. I was "gifted" the band on a Friday and over the weekend, I had to move it just once. I can't remember why, but I heard myself complaining about something and decided I needed to move the band if I was really going to commit to its purpose.
Then I went to work on Monday. By Wednesday I couldn't keep track of how many times the band switched wrists. At one point on Wednesday, in the middle of a meeting, I decided that there was no need to move the band -- I'd just toss out the whole day as a wash and start my 3 weeks over again on Thursday. At the same time I realized that I am not a "meeter." Rather, I am a "teacher" and I'd be a much happier person (less of a complainer) if I could just "teach" instead of "meet."
Am I complaining again? Is an excuse a complaint?
That's the other dilemma I'm having. There are complaints that are blaring. I can smell them before they exit my mouth. Therefore, they're easier to swallow and the purple band stays on the wrist.
But there are other "complaints" that I'm not certain really qualify as complaints. In fact, they are hard to distinguish from "truths" or statements of fact. For instance, I heard myself saying, "That's crap!" under my breath in the middle of the meeting I didn't want to be at and frankly, the announcement made to the faculty WAS crap. When the words came out of my mouth, only the teacher next to me heard and she smiled, but I realized I needed to say something because what was being stated was not true. "I have to say," I began, "I don't agree with that statement at all." I then went on to explain my "version" of the truth.
Is that complaining? Should I just have let the moment pass as a different interpretation of events? Or was it the "that's crap!" that made the whole "feeling" a complaint?
And what do you do when someone makes your life more difficult? Case in point: Some super bigwig was scheduled to come to our school. We were "told" to "jump on it" so we did offering up a time and day that Mr. BigWig could meet our students and get a tour of the school. We're not in charge of tours nor do we really have the time to "plan" anything special outside our classroom (because yes, we're supposed to be teaching not kibbitzing with bigwigs).
But the day before Mr. BigWig is set to arrive, we realize NO ONE HAS PLANNED ANYTHING and we are left holding the bag. So we scramble. We set up chairs and projectors and prep the kids and create a dog and pony show to rival the best of them and all the while we're feeling FURIOUS because THIS IS NOT OUR JOB!
Should I bite my tongue on this? My teaching partner (who is also wearing a purple band) went to the "powers that be" to explain what went wrong in this particular situation and then offered up very concrete solutions for the next time it happens. Everyone listened willingly, but no one said, "sorry about the confusion...sorry about the extra burden...oops, we really dropped the ball and it all fell into your laps and we feel really bad about that..." Nope...not a word, just kudos for getting our school yet again in the newspaper and making our kids and our Head of School look amazing (which the kids are, but I'm not so certain anymore about the HOS).
We felt devalued. We felt used. We felt put out and exhausted. We felt left out when all the accolades went to everyone else who should of planned the event, but didn't.
We felt like complaining.
And we did. To each other, to anyone who would listen, and then finally, to those supposedly in charge who had asked us "jump on this" and then never supported the happening of it.
The purple band did not move a wrist...we just let the whole day be a wash.
It's hard, too, when others around you complain. It's so easy to just jump right in or if you don't, to just nod your head and let others release some steam. Still, the temptation to jump in and validate their feelings with your own complaints is overwhelming and often I found myself giving into the urge not only to support the co-complainer, but to receive some support myself.
Yesterday, as the kids were cleaning up the room at the end of the day, I noticed about 6 purple bands left on chairs and tables. "Hey, who do these belong to?" I asked. Some kids claimed them, others told me I could keep them, that they'd given up on the whole no-complaining idea and others gave them to fellow students who collect the colored bands on their wrists.
"This is like dieting," I told my teaching partner. "You feel really committed to it, work hard at it, pay attention to all the details, and then about 5 days into it, you give up...the temptation is too great to eat calories or, in this case, complain."
She laughed.
I don't want to be a complainer. I don't want to be someone who grouses the whole time about details and mishaps, but after attempting to be true to the purpse of the purple wristband, I wonder if maybe I am that person.
But then I wonder if complaining is okay in some forms. Isn't it better, for instance, to not hold it all in? Throughout the week, as I heard the complaining rise up in my head and then worked to not let it out, I found myself rephrasing things. "Maybe if I say it this way," I thought, "it would sound more like constructive criticism than a complaint?" But the lines are blurry there, too, and after awhile, when I heard myself complain once, I just decided to start the whole purple band thing again tomorrow.
I'm still wearing the purple band. I'm not certain why. I think I have hope that I can somehow do this, though I have reduced my goal from 3 weeks to just 2 days in a row, but even that seems like a monumental challenge.
Friends have always told me I'm too hard on myself. Part of me knows this is true. I spend a lot of energy trying to get it "right" and then, when I fall short, bashing myself for not trying hard enough or for giving up.
Maybe this whole purple band is a set up for failure. It's hard to know. It's certainly made me more aware in addition to a bit more frustrated with myself, but maybe, like my weight, I'll somehow learn to accept it -- accept that I don't need to complain all the time or at least, choose my complaints sparingly just as I choose fattening calories sparingly. The trick is, just like with the piece of pie or the buttery cookie, I have to just "do it" and then let it go. Holding onto the guilt of it all just takes too much out of me.
Hey, maybe that's the topic of a new colored band -- The No-Guilt Band!
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Relevance
The other day in puppy class the trainer talked about how owners need to be relevant to their dogs, that often, as pet owners, we just think about the dog being relevant to us and assume he (or she) will be as committed to us as we are to them.
Teaching relevance means eye contact in dog language...he must "look" at you before he gets permission to do what it is you are either asking him to do or what he would like to do. For instance, Rubin has learned to sit and wait for his food, but he must also look at me before I will say okay and release him from his patient position. We practice lots of exercises reinforcing this eye contact and slowly, he's catching on.
When Rubin is on a rampage (or what the trainer calls a FRAP -- Frenetic Random Act of Play) he does not look at either one of us at all. He grabs the rug and runs the other way. He chews on the spatula and turns his back to us. He chomps down on the toilet paper roll and then jauntily trots down the hallway with the toilet paper streaming behind him. Meanwhile, we're calling his name, telling him "no", shouting out "leave it, leave it, leave it" to no avail. During a FRAP we are not relevant in the least.
So, he now walks around the house with a leash on so we can make ourselves relevant. He now receives a spray of water to his backside as a random act of god. It's amazing how he reacts especially with the water. He has yet to figure out that it comes from us and he turns in circles trying to figure out what the hell just happened. Then, worried it will happen again, he finds our legs to hide behind and mellows a bit. With the leash, he isn't as responsive , but it's saved a roll of toilet paper time and time again.
Ann and I, both teachers, have talked a lot about relevance and how we see the same issues in our dog as we see in our students -- adults are not relevant in their lives. Yes, there are certainly some families who have established good "eye contact" and the kids respond by always checking in with a parent (or teacher) to see if they can make a desired move. But on the whole, most of the kids we see these days don't check in and in fact, give very little eye contact to any adult.
They have not, we've concluded, learned relevance. They have not grown up understanding that the parent matters or has value. Consequently, the parent has not learned the relevance of the child in their lives and have not passed on the feeling of "mattering" to their kids. It's a horrible cycle of subtle neglect and 90% of the time, it is the root cause of ugly behaviors in our students.
The trainer ended our last session talking about the difference between loving your dog and loving LOVING your dog. She said, "If we love our dogs we teach them so they will be safe and balanced. If we just love loving our dogs, then it's all about us and not about respect or safety or balance."
When she said this Ann and I looked at each other and knew exactly what she meant. We see this a lot with families. I call it the checklist mentality -- to be a successful adult I must have a spouse, a car, a job, a house, a boat, lots of friends, pets, and 2.3 kids. But there is no responsibility attached to the checklist. Nothing on it really matters. What's relevant is getting to the bottom of the checklist and then showing it to everyone else to prove your success. It's just a "To Do" list one must get through and then, once accomplished, they let it all go. There's no need to monitor any of it or pay attention to any of it, or if they do pay attention, often the car and the house and boat get more "love" than the beings.
Relevance. Connection. Mattering. Commitment. Follow through. Responsibility. Love.
Doggie classes have been very enlightening.
Teaching relevance means eye contact in dog language...he must "look" at you before he gets permission to do what it is you are either asking him to do or what he would like to do. For instance, Rubin has learned to sit and wait for his food, but he must also look at me before I will say okay and release him from his patient position. We practice lots of exercises reinforcing this eye contact and slowly, he's catching on.
When Rubin is on a rampage (or what the trainer calls a FRAP -- Frenetic Random Act of Play) he does not look at either one of us at all. He grabs the rug and runs the other way. He chews on the spatula and turns his back to us. He chomps down on the toilet paper roll and then jauntily trots down the hallway with the toilet paper streaming behind him. Meanwhile, we're calling his name, telling him "no", shouting out "leave it, leave it, leave it" to no avail. During a FRAP we are not relevant in the least.
So, he now walks around the house with a leash on so we can make ourselves relevant. He now receives a spray of water to his backside as a random act of god. It's amazing how he reacts especially with the water. He has yet to figure out that it comes from us and he turns in circles trying to figure out what the hell just happened. Then, worried it will happen again, he finds our legs to hide behind and mellows a bit. With the leash, he isn't as responsive , but it's saved a roll of toilet paper time and time again.
Ann and I, both teachers, have talked a lot about relevance and how we see the same issues in our dog as we see in our students -- adults are not relevant in their lives. Yes, there are certainly some families who have established good "eye contact" and the kids respond by always checking in with a parent (or teacher) to see if they can make a desired move. But on the whole, most of the kids we see these days don't check in and in fact, give very little eye contact to any adult.
They have not, we've concluded, learned relevance. They have not grown up understanding that the parent matters or has value. Consequently, the parent has not learned the relevance of the child in their lives and have not passed on the feeling of "mattering" to their kids. It's a horrible cycle of subtle neglect and 90% of the time, it is the root cause of ugly behaviors in our students.
The trainer ended our last session talking about the difference between loving your dog and loving LOVING your dog. She said, "If we love our dogs we teach them so they will be safe and balanced. If we just love loving our dogs, then it's all about us and not about respect or safety or balance."
When she said this Ann and I looked at each other and knew exactly what she meant. We see this a lot with families. I call it the checklist mentality -- to be a successful adult I must have a spouse, a car, a job, a house, a boat, lots of friends, pets, and 2.3 kids. But there is no responsibility attached to the checklist. Nothing on it really matters. What's relevant is getting to the bottom of the checklist and then showing it to everyone else to prove your success. It's just a "To Do" list one must get through and then, once accomplished, they let it all go. There's no need to monitor any of it or pay attention to any of it, or if they do pay attention, often the car and the house and boat get more "love" than the beings.
Relevance. Connection. Mattering. Commitment. Follow through. Responsibility. Love.
Doggie classes have been very enlightening.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Detritus
There's something appealing about a 10 year old saying the word "detritus." I'm not sure what it is, but there's a scientific brutal quality of the word that loses its edge when spoken by an innocent child.
Me: What do barnacles eat?
Student: Plankton and detritus.
Me: What's detritus?
Student: Dead stuff.
There's a lot of dead stuff in my life right now. My allergies have flared again and if I could, I would live my life with my eyes closed or underwater in a slightly cool pool. Work is hectic. No, work is work -- stressful and hurried, emotional and exhausting. And then there's the puppy. Cute, but a lot of energy. He charms me one minute and infuriates me the next.
I think about all of those "dog" books I've read and videos I've watched and all of them offer this advice: Be Consistent.
But the key isn't consistent, it's persistent. For what seems like hours I must be persistent.
"No bite. No bite. Good no bite." "Off. Off. Off. Good off." "No bark. No bark. No bark" followed by a torturous time out on one of his many beds and the painful look of puppy remorse, head cocked, ears up.
It feels much the same for all areas of my life. There is a month left of teaching to go. This class will move on. I'll miss them, but then again I won't. The kids are feverish with spring somehow thinking it isn't spring at all, rather summer and therefore vacation and all bets are off. All rules have been forgotten. All boundaries erased. No limits. "Silence. Silence. Silence. Good silence."
My co-workers are as exhausted as I am and everyone is holding on by a thin tendon of tension. "No meeting. No meeting. No meeting."
I need a time out.
I find myself complaining and this is not something I really want to do. I want to be positive and hopeful...to see the blue skies as something other than a trigger for pollen irritation. I want to see the nagging behaviors of my students as signs of growth and rapture. I want to see all the efforts throughout the year paying off. I want to be focused on end-of-the year meetings not feeling as if a sharp stick in the eye would be more fun.
I want the puppy to stop biting on all the things he shouldn't...like my hands or my ankles.
My life is a pile of "I wants." Fat, juicy, drippy I wants. Needy, whiny, and nasty I wants. Dreamy, slippery, and skinny I wants. Hurtful, demanding, impatient I wants. I wants that taste bitter and sour. I wants that make my glands in the back of my throat puff up and choke me with saliva.
Detritus "I wants" on which I can only feed.
And now the puppy has just curled up under my feet, content. This is what I want...a place to curl up and rest.
Soon.
Me: What do barnacles eat?
Student: Plankton and detritus.
Me: What's detritus?
Student: Dead stuff.
There's a lot of dead stuff in my life right now. My allergies have flared again and if I could, I would live my life with my eyes closed or underwater in a slightly cool pool. Work is hectic. No, work is work -- stressful and hurried, emotional and exhausting. And then there's the puppy. Cute, but a lot of energy. He charms me one minute and infuriates me the next.
I think about all of those "dog" books I've read and videos I've watched and all of them offer this advice: Be Consistent.
But the key isn't consistent, it's persistent. For what seems like hours I must be persistent.
"No bite. No bite. Good no bite." "Off. Off. Off. Good off." "No bark. No bark. No bark" followed by a torturous time out on one of his many beds and the painful look of puppy remorse, head cocked, ears up.
It feels much the same for all areas of my life. There is a month left of teaching to go. This class will move on. I'll miss them, but then again I won't. The kids are feverish with spring somehow thinking it isn't spring at all, rather summer and therefore vacation and all bets are off. All rules have been forgotten. All boundaries erased. No limits. "Silence. Silence. Silence. Good silence."
My co-workers are as exhausted as I am and everyone is holding on by a thin tendon of tension. "No meeting. No meeting. No meeting."
I need a time out.
I find myself complaining and this is not something I really want to do. I want to be positive and hopeful...to see the blue skies as something other than a trigger for pollen irritation. I want to see the nagging behaviors of my students as signs of growth and rapture. I want to see all the efforts throughout the year paying off. I want to be focused on end-of-the year meetings not feeling as if a sharp stick in the eye would be more fun.
I want the puppy to stop biting on all the things he shouldn't...like my hands or my ankles.
My life is a pile of "I wants." Fat, juicy, drippy I wants. Needy, whiny, and nasty I wants. Dreamy, slippery, and skinny I wants. Hurtful, demanding, impatient I wants. I wants that taste bitter and sour. I wants that make my glands in the back of my throat puff up and choke me with saliva.
Detritus "I wants" on which I can only feed.
And now the puppy has just curled up under my feet, content. This is what I want...a place to curl up and rest.
Soon.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Dervish
Going to the doctor is quite an experience. My doctor is in her mid-to-late 50s, she's tall, with flowing gray hair and always smells of some kind of herb or incense. She is a "traditional" MD, but she is also a naturopath and whenever I see her, she asks if I want a "traditional" approach or an "alternative" approach.
Today's visit was for my physical where she spends an hour with me not just examining my body (inside and out), but actually talking with me about "life issues" as she likes to call them.
Today's discussion centered around dervishes -- dancers who spin as a way to live their faith. From what I know, and from her informative explanation, dervish dancers always turn to the heart (or the left) and raise one arm up to welcome in the heavens and lower one arm
to connect to the earth. They spin, always turning their bodies to the left, but also the whole group of dancers circles to the left, and when they are "in balance" they close their eyes as they are "centered" between heaven and earth.
I am not a woo-woo person, but there's something about sitting in a traditional doctor's office -- blood pressure cuff, biohazardous garbage can, cotton swabs, and scale -- talking about dervish dancers with a woman I consider to be an earth goddess that makes me feel healthy and alive.
Dr: There's something so powerful, isn't there, about the pull of our lives outward and the pull of our lives inward. It's in that tension that, if we can find our balance, we live full lives.
It's amazing how she makes me believe this stuff. Certainly now, at this time of year when everything is whirling and swirling in the most unbalanced way. May is hell month -- so much to do and the kids feeling summer is here with every sunny day that pokes through the clouds. And on top of it all, we're raising a puppy who is cute, but demanding, sweet, but devilish, eager to learn and extremely impatient.
So, when the doctor took my blood pressure, I expected the usual 136/84 result. Instead, it was 108/64. I don't think it's been that low since I was 12.
Dr: You're doing really well maintaining your blood pressure, yes?
Me: I really haven't been doing anything expect these breathing exercises where I try to take 6 breaths in a minute.
Dr: That's not just an exercise. That's be proven scientifically to lower your blood pressure and help your circulation system. It's that simple.
Me: Like turning to your left with your eyes closed.
Dr: Yes, like turning to your left with your eyes closed.
Today's visit was for my physical where she spends an hour with me not just examining my body (inside and out), but actually talking with me about "life issues" as she likes to call them.
Today's discussion centered around dervishes -- dancers who spin as a way to live their faith. From what I know, and from her informative explanation, dervish dancers always turn to the heart (or the left) and raise one arm up to welcome in the heavens and lower one arm
to connect to the earth. They spin, always turning their bodies to the left, but also the whole group of dancers circles to the left, and when they are "in balance" they close their eyes as they are "centered" between heaven and earth.
I am not a woo-woo person, but there's something about sitting in a traditional doctor's office -- blood pressure cuff, biohazardous garbage can, cotton swabs, and scale -- talking about dervish dancers with a woman I consider to be an earth goddess that makes me feel healthy and alive.
Dr: There's something so powerful, isn't there, about the pull of our lives outward and the pull of our lives inward. It's in that tension that, if we can find our balance, we live full lives.
It's amazing how she makes me believe this stuff. Certainly now, at this time of year when everything is whirling and swirling in the most unbalanced way. May is hell month -- so much to do and the kids feeling summer is here with every sunny day that pokes through the clouds. And on top of it all, we're raising a puppy who is cute, but demanding, sweet, but devilish, eager to learn and extremely impatient.
So, when the doctor took my blood pressure, I expected the usual 136/84 result. Instead, it was 108/64. I don't think it's been that low since I was 12.
Dr: You're doing really well maintaining your blood pressure, yes?
Me: I really haven't been doing anything expect these breathing exercises where I try to take 6 breaths in a minute.
Dr: That's not just an exercise. That's be proven scientifically to lower your blood pressure and help your circulation system. It's that simple.
Me: Like turning to your left with your eyes closed.
Dr: Yes, like turning to your left with your eyes closed.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Dear Oprah
I must admit, I watch your show sometimes though usually I'm at the gym and while I can't hear what's being said, if I squint hard enough I can read the closed caption and catch the drift of the topic. I'll also admit that sometimes, I'm impressed.
And sometimes, I'm not.
Recently, while sweating it out on the treadmill, I watched your show on how we could all live a greener life. The new green phenomena fascinates me and while I'm glad that Americans are finally talking about the crisis of resources and detrimental impacts, I am skeptical that people will actually change.
Take you, for instance. You were excited about the compact fluorescent bulbs, but were adamant that you could not shorten your hot shower. The message of the show, of course, was the message of all American endeavors -- we have choices. We get to choose what we do, when we do it, and how much of it we do. No one's going to tell us what we can and cannot do. This is, what we affectionately call, our right and our freedom as Americans.
Throughout the show your guests kept stressing that there were "little" changes we could make, like changing just two of our lightbulbs or buying green products, and that none of us really had to make dramatic changes in our lives that might affect our current lifestyles. By this time, I was cranking up the speed on the treadmill attempting to curb my burning frustration that 1) while small changes might be a good beginning, in order for the world (and specifically Americans) to reverse our negative impact on the enviroment, enormous changes in behavior and attitude need to take place and 2) my inability to run on hard pavement because of a damaged back forced me to run on an electric powered treadmill while I watched one television in a bank of televisions lined up along the gym wall.
But what really got me running was the irony of you, the great Oprah Winfrey, wealthiest woman in the world, unwilling to make changes because you cannot give up certain pleasures. Case in point: Long, hot showers.
I could spend pages of time lambasting the number of homes you own, the amount of excess you laud upon yourself (and your guest), and the overabundance of consumerism you pursue and promote, but your unwillingness to reduce your hot water usage by 5 or 10 minutes really gauled me.
We have many valuable resources that allow us to live the way we do in America, but for me, water is one of the most valuable. It provides food. It provides habitat. It provides life, in every way we might think of it, on this planet. And water is in danger. Serious danger. It's demise is evident all over the world. Look at Israel. Look at Sudan. Look even to your beloved South Africa.
With each stride on the treadmill I could hear myself shouting -- what if change in your water consumption kept a pod of whales alive? What if change in your water consumption saved a rainforest? Saved salmon? What if it helped stop the genocide in Sudan? What if, dear Oprah, a shorter shower allowed the families of your precious South African students to walk one less mile with large water pitchers on their head in search of this valuable resource?
I admire you, Oprah, I really do. You've raised important questions. You've got us thinking. That you were willing to produce a show on green choices when your life is an example of "moderate" excess is brave and honest and necessary. But come on. Five minutes less in a shower? Ten minutes less? Are you really going to suffer irreparable damage?
Sometimes you really impress me. Sometimes you don't. I must admit it's rare both happen in the same show at the same time. Change isn't easy. I know that. I struggle with it every day. But change, if we really are concerned about the health of this planet and our exsistence on it, must not only be meaningful, it must be significant. Change must hurt. I don't like it and I'm certain most Americans don't either, but they may be more willing to make those difficult changes if people like you commit to those changes as well.
Come on, Oprah, just five minutes. You can do it. You just need to make the choice.
And sometimes, I'm not.
Recently, while sweating it out on the treadmill, I watched your show on how we could all live a greener life. The new green phenomena fascinates me and while I'm glad that Americans are finally talking about the crisis of resources and detrimental impacts, I am skeptical that people will actually change.
Take you, for instance. You were excited about the compact fluorescent bulbs, but were adamant that you could not shorten your hot shower. The message of the show, of course, was the message of all American endeavors -- we have choices. We get to choose what we do, when we do it, and how much of it we do. No one's going to tell us what we can and cannot do. This is, what we affectionately call, our right and our freedom as Americans.
Throughout the show your guests kept stressing that there were "little" changes we could make, like changing just two of our lightbulbs or buying green products, and that none of us really had to make dramatic changes in our lives that might affect our current lifestyles. By this time, I was cranking up the speed on the treadmill attempting to curb my burning frustration that 1) while small changes might be a good beginning, in order for the world (and specifically Americans) to reverse our negative impact on the enviroment, enormous changes in behavior and attitude need to take place and 2) my inability to run on hard pavement because of a damaged back forced me to run on an electric powered treadmill while I watched one television in a bank of televisions lined up along the gym wall.
But what really got me running was the irony of you, the great Oprah Winfrey, wealthiest woman in the world, unwilling to make changes because you cannot give up certain pleasures. Case in point: Long, hot showers.
I could spend pages of time lambasting the number of homes you own, the amount of excess you laud upon yourself (and your guest), and the overabundance of consumerism you pursue and promote, but your unwillingness to reduce your hot water usage by 5 or 10 minutes really gauled me.
We have many valuable resources that allow us to live the way we do in America, but for me, water is one of the most valuable. It provides food. It provides habitat. It provides life, in every way we might think of it, on this planet. And water is in danger. Serious danger. It's demise is evident all over the world. Look at Israel. Look at Sudan. Look even to your beloved South Africa.
With each stride on the treadmill I could hear myself shouting -- what if change in your water consumption kept a pod of whales alive? What if change in your water consumption saved a rainforest? Saved salmon? What if it helped stop the genocide in Sudan? What if, dear Oprah, a shorter shower allowed the families of your precious South African students to walk one less mile with large water pitchers on their head in search of this valuable resource?
I admire you, Oprah, I really do. You've raised important questions. You've got us thinking. That you were willing to produce a show on green choices when your life is an example of "moderate" excess is brave and honest and necessary. But come on. Five minutes less in a shower? Ten minutes less? Are you really going to suffer irreparable damage?
Sometimes you really impress me. Sometimes you don't. I must admit it's rare both happen in the same show at the same time. Change isn't easy. I know that. I struggle with it every day. But change, if we really are concerned about the health of this planet and our exsistence on it, must not only be meaningful, it must be significant. Change must hurt. I don't like it and I'm certain most Americans don't either, but they may be more willing to make those difficult changes if people like you commit to those changes as well.
Come on, Oprah, just five minutes. You can do it. You just need to make the choice.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Inside Outside
I dreamt of E. the other night, last year's student who is now struggling with cancer. She was at our house, standing in the kitchen all bent over from the toll her chemo is taking on her body, her bald head exposed and slightly fuzzy. Her hands were on her hips in that typical E. way and she was asking me a question.
E: Do you ever feel confused about your insides and your outsides?
Me: What do you mean?
E: Do your insides ever feel different than your outsides?
Me: I don't understand what you're asking me?
E: Sometimes what's on the inside of me feels so different from the outside of me and people only see the outside of me.
At this point in the dream, I'm only looking at her outside. I see a tired girl. I see an exhausted girl. I see a girl who struggles walking a straight line because her knees all bend at the wrong places. She slides her left foot. She shuffles. I see a girl with big eyes and dark circles around them. I see a girl whose skin is the color of cheap vanilla ice milk -- sallow and grey. I see a girl who has always hunched her shoulders and held her chin to the sky at a 35 degree angle. I see a girl who looks to the ceiling when she's thinking and who interrupts when she doesn't want to hear what's being said. I see a girl who feels angry and giddy, rebellious and contemplative, confused and stubborn.
But perhaps this is the inside. I don't see the line dividing the two.
Me: I'm sorry, I don't see it.
E: (Ignoring my ignorance) I like my insides. I'm at peace with my insides, but people don't see them. They only see my outsides and I don't like them at all. How do I get them to see my insides only?
At this point I wake up from the dream. I lie in bed and watch the windy morning clouds zoom across an indecisive sky. My therapist once told me that I am everything in my dream. I'm the kitchen. I'm the questions. I'm me. And I'm E.
But what I can't figure out is, am I the inside or am I the outside?
As the day wore on, I lost the fogging battle of the dream. I tried to recall it later, to pull up the deeper meaning, but it was gone. At lunch time I saw E., quiet in a corner reading a book. Not eating. Not interacting. Not throwing her arms around me when I walk into the room.
I talk to her teachers as we sit and eat lunch surrounded by the students.
Me: What's with E?
Teacher One: Bad day.
Me: Is she feeling okay? Did she have chemo this morning?
Teacher Two: No chemo, but she's reverting back to the nasty, angry, stubborn E before her illness.
Teacher One: Yeah, she's not doing her work, she's snapping at everyone, even her good friends, and she seems extremely tired.
Me: How are things at home?
Teacher Two: Not good. Her mom's sort of removed herself from the whole illness thing. Working long hours, not spending much time with E, really struggling with the cancer.
At the end of lunch I squat down next to E.
Me: How ya doin?
E: Fine.
Me: Really because to me you look kind of pissed off and tired.
E: Nope, I'm good.
I know by her short answers that she's not telling me the truth.
Me: Are you getting enough sleep?
E: Yep.
Me: Are you eating well?
E: Yep.
Me: Everything okay at home?
E: Jeez, why all the questions?
Me: Well, you didn't give me hug like you usually do, you're not talking to your friends, you've not looked up from your book once, and I have yet to hear you state your opinion. These are not normal E. behaviors.
I'm expecting a bit of a smile. I get nothing.
E: I'm fine.
She goes back to reading her book.
Me: Well, if you need to talk, you know where to find me.
She continues reading and only slightly gives a nod of her head.
Insides. Outsides.
Inside out.
Outsides in. For awhile, outsides will stay in, seated right next to the insides.
E: Do you ever feel confused about your insides and your outsides?
Me: What do you mean?
E: Do your insides ever feel different than your outsides?
Me: I don't understand what you're asking me?
E: Sometimes what's on the inside of me feels so different from the outside of me and people only see the outside of me.
At this point in the dream, I'm only looking at her outside. I see a tired girl. I see an exhausted girl. I see a girl who struggles walking a straight line because her knees all bend at the wrong places. She slides her left foot. She shuffles. I see a girl with big eyes and dark circles around them. I see a girl whose skin is the color of cheap vanilla ice milk -- sallow and grey. I see a girl who has always hunched her shoulders and held her chin to the sky at a 35 degree angle. I see a girl who looks to the ceiling when she's thinking and who interrupts when she doesn't want to hear what's being said. I see a girl who feels angry and giddy, rebellious and contemplative, confused and stubborn.
But perhaps this is the inside. I don't see the line dividing the two.
Me: I'm sorry, I don't see it.
E: (Ignoring my ignorance) I like my insides. I'm at peace with my insides, but people don't see them. They only see my outsides and I don't like them at all. How do I get them to see my insides only?
At this point I wake up from the dream. I lie in bed and watch the windy morning clouds zoom across an indecisive sky. My therapist once told me that I am everything in my dream. I'm the kitchen. I'm the questions. I'm me. And I'm E.
But what I can't figure out is, am I the inside or am I the outside?
As the day wore on, I lost the fogging battle of the dream. I tried to recall it later, to pull up the deeper meaning, but it was gone. At lunch time I saw E., quiet in a corner reading a book. Not eating. Not interacting. Not throwing her arms around me when I walk into the room.
I talk to her teachers as we sit and eat lunch surrounded by the students.
Me: What's with E?
Teacher One: Bad day.
Me: Is she feeling okay? Did she have chemo this morning?
Teacher Two: No chemo, but she's reverting back to the nasty, angry, stubborn E before her illness.
Teacher One: Yeah, she's not doing her work, she's snapping at everyone, even her good friends, and she seems extremely tired.
Me: How are things at home?
Teacher Two: Not good. Her mom's sort of removed herself from the whole illness thing. Working long hours, not spending much time with E, really struggling with the cancer.
At the end of lunch I squat down next to E.
Me: How ya doin?
E: Fine.
Me: Really because to me you look kind of pissed off and tired.
E: Nope, I'm good.
I know by her short answers that she's not telling me the truth.
Me: Are you getting enough sleep?
E: Yep.
Me: Are you eating well?
E: Yep.
Me: Everything okay at home?
E: Jeez, why all the questions?
Me: Well, you didn't give me hug like you usually do, you're not talking to your friends, you've not looked up from your book once, and I have yet to hear you state your opinion. These are not normal E. behaviors.
I'm expecting a bit of a smile. I get nothing.
E: I'm fine.
She goes back to reading her book.
Me: Well, if you need to talk, you know where to find me.
She continues reading and only slightly gives a nod of her head.
Insides. Outsides.
Inside out.
Outsides in. For awhile, outsides will stay in, seated right next to the insides.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Kissing
I read in the paper today that administrators at a local area high school used footage from a security camera to "catch" two girls kissing. They showed the video to the parents of one of the girls because they had expressed "concern" about their daughter and wanted the school officials to keep them "appraised" of their daughter's behavior.
Yikes.
I thought we were beyond this. I thought, even though people were bigots that they'd learned to keep their mouths shut. I thought they'd found out that homophobia was out of style.
Guess not.
"Catching" "concerns" requires stealth. One must be kept "appraised" of such horrors as kissing and it's not an easy task. One must employ covert operations to carry on this important infraction. An infraction far more important than any local, national, or world event apparently. More serious than car bombings in Iraq, this kissing. More serious than presidential lies. More important than girlfriends of World Bank leaders getting huge salaries and prestigious jobs. More important than assistants to the Secretary of State who hire prositutes to "massage" them.
Yes, two girls kissing is significantly more important than most things I can think of.
Let us install security cameras at every high school in America. Perhaps we'll even catch boys kissing and wouldn't that be a travisty. We should all be appraised of that most certainly.
Yikes.
I thought we were beyond this. I thought, even though people were bigots that they'd learned to keep their mouths shut. I thought they'd found out that homophobia was out of style.
Guess not.
"Catching" "concerns" requires stealth. One must be kept "appraised" of such horrors as kissing and it's not an easy task. One must employ covert operations to carry on this important infraction. An infraction far more important than any local, national, or world event apparently. More serious than car bombings in Iraq, this kissing. More serious than presidential lies. More important than girlfriends of World Bank leaders getting huge salaries and prestigious jobs. More important than assistants to the Secretary of State who hire prositutes to "massage" them.
Yes, two girls kissing is significantly more important than most things I can think of.
Let us install security cameras at every high school in America. Perhaps we'll even catch boys kissing and wouldn't that be a travisty. We should all be appraised of that most certainly.
Monday, April 30, 2007
A Few Changes
I changed my blog site a bit. Added some links, but chief among the changes, I added Rubin's own blog. Pathetic, I know. It just seemed that I didn't want to crowd my own blog with endless pictures of the new pup. So...he now has his own blog -- Rubinations.
I will now insert pictures of other things aside from the dog...like Ann before her first cup of coffee while on vacation in a little cabin by the Wenatchee River.
She's going to kill me for posting this hysterical photo!
I will now insert pictures of other things aside from the dog...like Ann before her first cup of coffee while on vacation in a little cabin by the Wenatchee River.
She's going to kill me for posting this hysterical photo!
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Home
It's been a journey, but Rubin is finally home!
We already have oodles of pictures, but I'm certain they'll be oodles more. Right now he's running up and down the hallway, sliding his way across the bamboo floors.
Our home feels complete.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
A Lisp
Rubin (the soon to be new puppy in our home) was neutered yesterday. After losing his manhood he ate a large meal, or so the breeder said, which may have been more difficult than it sounds for during the surgery they realized that Rubin has an underbite. To fix the problem, they removed one of his bottom canines in hopes that his teeth will move back a bit.
The breeder emailed us with the name of the vet, a phone number, and many assurances that this will not pose a health problem in the future.
I wasn't worried about health problems. Instead, I was trying to imagine what a dog sounds like when he barks with a lisp? Will he be teased on the playfield? Will he need to go to speech therapy to work on his "s" sounds? Will he be able to whistle? What will his smile look like? Will we notice the gap in his teeth? Will he need to see an orthodontist in his teenage years?
Chester was not a gay dog. He was a woman-identified man. He liked girls. No, he loved girls. Boys were okay, but girls were attractive. He liked to hump them. He liked to lick them. He liked to sidle up to them and smile.
I have no idea Rubin's preferences, but I worry that with a lisp, he may be pigeon-holed, that he may not be able to express his true identity. And if he turns out to be a gay dog, will he be stereotyped because of his lisp?
I remember David Sedaris's hysterical essay on having to go to speech therapy to learn to properly pronounce the "s" sound. Sedaris claimed that all the boys in speech therapy grew up to be gay.
I will accept Rubin no matter what his inclinations, but I don't want surgery to determine his fate in life.
Although, if he turns out to be a gay dog, then I may just have to teach him how to loosely hang one paw in a delicate hand shake.
If anything, it's certain that his underbite has given him quite a smirk. It's that smirk that made us choose him. Gay or not, he's our son. Or will that be "thson"...with a lisp?
Sunday, April 22, 2007
It Could Be Worse
Eight years ago I was struck by allergies. Tree pollen set me off and instead of a runny nose and sneezing, I looked as if someone had hauled off and hit me square in both eyes. Red, swollen and flakey, two circles formed around my eyes making me look like a sad raccoon. I went to my doctor at the time, she prescribed some medication and within a week, I was relatively back to normal.
That was eight years ago and I've never had any reaction to tree pollen since.
Except this month. Walloped. That's the only way to describe it. I knew what was happening even before it fully happened. My eyes teared up, my lids itched intensely, and before I knew it, I woke up in the morning unable to open my swollen eyes. I fumbled downstairs, found an ice pack, and pressed it onto my burning eyes. I had to work that day and getting a doctor's appointment was going to take time...time I didn't really have.
So I suffered for about three days before my teaching partner said...here are the keys to my car (I walk to work)...go!
My doctor is an earth-goddess. She's in her early 60's with wide hips and gloriously long, silver hair that glows like a halo whenever she walks into a room. She embraces me, her full arms taking me in for a warm hug that lasts long enough to make me feel comfortable and loved. She sits on her stool, her knees wide apart, and places her elbows on her thighs. "How are you?" she'll often start and then listen while I talk about my life. She even asks questions about work, about my eating habits, and about my nemisis -- stress. She takes her time. I never feel rushed. I feel as if she really cares so the struggle to get an appointment is well worth it.
This time, when I walked into her office, she took one look at me and said, "Oh honey, this doesn't look good." I cried immediately, adding salt to my already burning eyes.
We talked about stress. We talked about tree pollen. We talked about my need for a week in the desert. We talked about eight years ago when the same affliction struck and compared my life then with my life now.
Often, since she is both a naturopath and MD, she offers me a choice -- do I want a traditional treatment or should we try something more alternative? I'm more likely to choose the alternative first and then, if that doesn't work, get the drugs. This time, though, she said, "You don't get a choice. We're going for the drugs and then, if that doesn't clear up the irritation, we're going for a short burst of steroids."
The prescription worked with in 24 hours, but then we travelled to Santa Fe for a vacation (the desert, right?) and all hell broke loose again. The tree pollen was even thicker in the high altitudes of New Mexico and my medications had no effect. When we flew home, over the Cascades into the lowland valley of Seattle, the burning irritation reduced somewhat, but not until the first heavy rain did I actually feel any relief.
The medication, while it doesn't make me sleepy, clouds my thinking. Sentences form slowly. I forget things like my keys or appointments. This morning I lathered my hands with my special lotion, ready to apply it to my eyes when I found myself applying it to my hair as if it were gel and not lotion.
My eyes look much better. We've had a number of days of rain though today looks partly cloudy and feels a bit warmer. While I love trees, I look at them with caution, admiring their blooms from far away. My medication is taken every 24 hours and an hour before the clock makes its full turn, I can feel the need for the drug.
I am not a good patient for I am exactly what a patient shouldn't be -- impatient. I want it to be over. I want the pollen to disappear. I want to be able to walk outside without fear that I'll be a raccoon again.
Today, a friend called and when I asked how she was she said, "Miserable." She'd been suffering with a migraine for 3 days and the cause? Yes, allergies.
I thought I had it bad. For weeks I've prayed that I could just sneeze or wheeze or have a running nose, that the itchy eyes and swollen lids would end. But when Elizabeth reported her reaction, I was thankful the raccoon. "It's like a knitting needle in my eye," she said, "I feel as if my head is literally going to explode off my neck."
She's better today. The rain of last night has dampened her reaction just enough that she could get out of bed and make a call. "Jesus," she said, "I'm even laughing. Laughing last night would have killed me."
I'm not sure why I'm writing about this, but just like with Elizabeth's phone call this morning, it feels good to talk about it, to share your misery in an attempt to alleviate it. When I realized my pain was nothing compared to Elizabeth's plight, my eyes didn't itch so much. I suppose that's cold comfort for her, but I guess it just supports that old addage...it could be worse.
Please, if there is a god, NO!
That was eight years ago and I've never had any reaction to tree pollen since.
Except this month. Walloped. That's the only way to describe it. I knew what was happening even before it fully happened. My eyes teared up, my lids itched intensely, and before I knew it, I woke up in the morning unable to open my swollen eyes. I fumbled downstairs, found an ice pack, and pressed it onto my burning eyes. I had to work that day and getting a doctor's appointment was going to take time...time I didn't really have.
So I suffered for about three days before my teaching partner said...here are the keys to my car (I walk to work)...go!
My doctor is an earth-goddess. She's in her early 60's with wide hips and gloriously long, silver hair that glows like a halo whenever she walks into a room. She embraces me, her full arms taking me in for a warm hug that lasts long enough to make me feel comfortable and loved. She sits on her stool, her knees wide apart, and places her elbows on her thighs. "How are you?" she'll often start and then listen while I talk about my life. She even asks questions about work, about my eating habits, and about my nemisis -- stress. She takes her time. I never feel rushed. I feel as if she really cares so the struggle to get an appointment is well worth it.
This time, when I walked into her office, she took one look at me and said, "Oh honey, this doesn't look good." I cried immediately, adding salt to my already burning eyes.
We talked about stress. We talked about tree pollen. We talked about my need for a week in the desert. We talked about eight years ago when the same affliction struck and compared my life then with my life now.
Often, since she is both a naturopath and MD, she offers me a choice -- do I want a traditional treatment or should we try something more alternative? I'm more likely to choose the alternative first and then, if that doesn't work, get the drugs. This time, though, she said, "You don't get a choice. We're going for the drugs and then, if that doesn't clear up the irritation, we're going for a short burst of steroids."
The prescription worked with in 24 hours, but then we travelled to Santa Fe for a vacation (the desert, right?) and all hell broke loose again. The tree pollen was even thicker in the high altitudes of New Mexico and my medications had no effect. When we flew home, over the Cascades into the lowland valley of Seattle, the burning irritation reduced somewhat, but not until the first heavy rain did I actually feel any relief.
The medication, while it doesn't make me sleepy, clouds my thinking. Sentences form slowly. I forget things like my keys or appointments. This morning I lathered my hands with my special lotion, ready to apply it to my eyes when I found myself applying it to my hair as if it were gel and not lotion.
My eyes look much better. We've had a number of days of rain though today looks partly cloudy and feels a bit warmer. While I love trees, I look at them with caution, admiring their blooms from far away. My medication is taken every 24 hours and an hour before the clock makes its full turn, I can feel the need for the drug.
I am not a good patient for I am exactly what a patient shouldn't be -- impatient. I want it to be over. I want the pollen to disappear. I want to be able to walk outside without fear that I'll be a raccoon again.
Today, a friend called and when I asked how she was she said, "Miserable." She'd been suffering with a migraine for 3 days and the cause? Yes, allergies.
I thought I had it bad. For weeks I've prayed that I could just sneeze or wheeze or have a running nose, that the itchy eyes and swollen lids would end. But when Elizabeth reported her reaction, I was thankful the raccoon. "It's like a knitting needle in my eye," she said, "I feel as if my head is literally going to explode off my neck."
She's better today. The rain of last night has dampened her reaction just enough that she could get out of bed and make a call. "Jesus," she said, "I'm even laughing. Laughing last night would have killed me."
I'm not sure why I'm writing about this, but just like with Elizabeth's phone call this morning, it feels good to talk about it, to share your misery in an attempt to alleviate it. When I realized my pain was nothing compared to Elizabeth's plight, my eyes didn't itch so much. I suppose that's cold comfort for her, but I guess it just supports that old addage...it could be worse.
Please, if there is a god, NO!
Friday, April 20, 2007
Dead Virgins
She erupted. It was not uncommon. Three, four times a year she was known to spew. Usually about money, but often that morphed into feeling left out. No one ever saw it coming. How could you? No rumbling. No tremors. Not even little curls of steam emanating from her jagged ridge.
Sometimes it came in the form of a phone call. Endless minutes of circuitous prattle half of which wasn't understandable, as if she were talking through oatmeal, marbles stuffed tight into her cheeks. The pitch of her voice tip-toed up to the high ranges and dogs in the neighborhood could be heard howling in the background.
Other times, like this time, she'd write her eruptions in cryptic emails filled with small letters where there should be capitals and three magical dots to denote a change of subject. Wild changes of subject from "it's always all about you" to "how is the puppy?" to "do you even know what I'm going through?"
The clencher is the "i love you" at the end, which isn't really the end but only a warning that a PS is to follow, though she never writes the PS. Instead, she just keeps going, writing sentence after sentence about how "insensitive" we are, how we never "include" her in anything, how we have a "family and finances and don't have to make it on our own."
In the past, these eruptions felt like vomit. They'd seep through the phone or over the cyber wires and all you could do was wipe yourself off and then scrub yourself clean in a hot bath. In the past, responding to the vomit seemed important. Explain yourself. Engage in conversation. Be rational. Try to reason. Remind her that you love her too, but nothing she is feeling really comes from you.
But that strategy soon revealed itself futile. First, you couldn't get a word in edge-wise. There wasn't even a breath for "hey," or "Can I" or "Just one moment." Instead, you cradled the phone in the crook of your neck and said "uh-huh" or "okay" or "umm," and after awhile your grunts weren't even well-timed and she never noticed. She just kept talking and blaming and spewing.
Sometimes she'd even cry, but even after that, she'd giggle as if it were all a joke or as if she'd said something funny only you weren't really listening so you missed the joke and before you could ask, "What did I miss?" she'd cry again and get angry.
Did you know, that if you're really good at it, you can hear fists tighten over the phone? We could hear hers. If we listened carefully, we could hear them like a 7 year old, balled up and white, demanding the world change and address the crisis of the moment.
That's it, of course. You never know when the crisis will occur. You never know if it's something you said or something you didn't say so you throw the dice and make a wager -- speak up or don't speak up.
Roll the lucky seven.
Or lose the shirt off your back.
In between the eruptions is dormancy. Beautiful sunny days sparkling off her peaks and valleys. She calls and sounds reasonable. She sounds grounded and solid as if she's really worked things out, has found her center, is ready to learn from her past mistakes and move forward.
Or she emails and you see pictures of puppies dressed like humans or cats splayed out with big fat bellies waiting to be rubbed. At the bottom of every email a row of dancing smiley faces, kicking up their heels in unison. Like call girls in a chorus line.
And then the volcano erupts. You ask a question and pages or hours of response come flying your way. You dodge. You take cover. You wait for the debris to fall, the lava to harden or roll past in red hot streams.
Where before you responded, now you realize there is no point. Active volcanoes erupt. That's what they do. There's no avoiding it or trying to put a stopper in it. There's no monitoring the seismic activity since it's all over the map and never once changes course dramatically enough to provide you with a solid warning.
You can live your life just waiting for the explosion or you could just ignore it, let it pass and live your life without fear or resentment or in any kind of hateful anticipation.
This takes vigilance and patience. When others see the blow, they want you to react. They say, "Does this happen often?" or "Is she crazy?" or "By god, what in the hell just happened?" But you must not react because that's like tickling the rattle of a giant snake. That's like daring the volcano to explode, to wipe you out with ash or lava or a big, flat boulder -- a projectile flung by the force of the eruption.
Instead, you gather up the virgins in your neighborhood. You dress them regally with flowers in their hair. You annoint them with holy water. Then you toss them into the fire. A sacrifice, hoping this will calm the volcano.
And then you wait.
For the next email or phone call or maybe even the next visit.
They'll be no eruption then.
So you hope.
But even if there is, you just duck your head, cover your forearms over your neck, crouch down low and wait.
Soon, all will be normal again. The dead virgins, the wake of destruction will go unnoticed.
And you can once again live in peace.
Sometimes it came in the form of a phone call. Endless minutes of circuitous prattle half of which wasn't understandable, as if she were talking through oatmeal, marbles stuffed tight into her cheeks. The pitch of her voice tip-toed up to the high ranges and dogs in the neighborhood could be heard howling in the background.
Other times, like this time, she'd write her eruptions in cryptic emails filled with small letters where there should be capitals and three magical dots to denote a change of subject. Wild changes of subject from "it's always all about you" to "how is the puppy?" to "do you even know what I'm going through?"
The clencher is the "i love you" at the end, which isn't really the end but only a warning that a PS is to follow, though she never writes the PS. Instead, she just keeps going, writing sentence after sentence about how "insensitive" we are, how we never "include" her in anything, how we have a "family and finances and don't have to make it on our own."
In the past, these eruptions felt like vomit. They'd seep through the phone or over the cyber wires and all you could do was wipe yourself off and then scrub yourself clean in a hot bath. In the past, responding to the vomit seemed important. Explain yourself. Engage in conversation. Be rational. Try to reason. Remind her that you love her too, but nothing she is feeling really comes from you.
But that strategy soon revealed itself futile. First, you couldn't get a word in edge-wise. There wasn't even a breath for "hey," or "Can I" or "Just one moment." Instead, you cradled the phone in the crook of your neck and said "uh-huh" or "okay" or "umm," and after awhile your grunts weren't even well-timed and she never noticed. She just kept talking and blaming and spewing.
Sometimes she'd even cry, but even after that, she'd giggle as if it were all a joke or as if she'd said something funny only you weren't really listening so you missed the joke and before you could ask, "What did I miss?" she'd cry again and get angry.
Did you know, that if you're really good at it, you can hear fists tighten over the phone? We could hear hers. If we listened carefully, we could hear them like a 7 year old, balled up and white, demanding the world change and address the crisis of the moment.
That's it, of course. You never know when the crisis will occur. You never know if it's something you said or something you didn't say so you throw the dice and make a wager -- speak up or don't speak up.
Roll the lucky seven.
Or lose the shirt off your back.
In between the eruptions is dormancy. Beautiful sunny days sparkling off her peaks and valleys. She calls and sounds reasonable. She sounds grounded and solid as if she's really worked things out, has found her center, is ready to learn from her past mistakes and move forward.
Or she emails and you see pictures of puppies dressed like humans or cats splayed out with big fat bellies waiting to be rubbed. At the bottom of every email a row of dancing smiley faces, kicking up their heels in unison. Like call girls in a chorus line.
And then the volcano erupts. You ask a question and pages or hours of response come flying your way. You dodge. You take cover. You wait for the debris to fall, the lava to harden or roll past in red hot streams.
Where before you responded, now you realize there is no point. Active volcanoes erupt. That's what they do. There's no avoiding it or trying to put a stopper in it. There's no monitoring the seismic activity since it's all over the map and never once changes course dramatically enough to provide you with a solid warning.
You can live your life just waiting for the explosion or you could just ignore it, let it pass and live your life without fear or resentment or in any kind of hateful anticipation.
This takes vigilance and patience. When others see the blow, they want you to react. They say, "Does this happen often?" or "Is she crazy?" or "By god, what in the hell just happened?" But you must not react because that's like tickling the rattle of a giant snake. That's like daring the volcano to explode, to wipe you out with ash or lava or a big, flat boulder -- a projectile flung by the force of the eruption.
Instead, you gather up the virgins in your neighborhood. You dress them regally with flowers in their hair. You annoint them with holy water. Then you toss them into the fire. A sacrifice, hoping this will calm the volcano.
And then you wait.
For the next email or phone call or maybe even the next visit.
They'll be no eruption then.
So you hope.
But even if there is, you just duck your head, cover your forearms over your neck, crouch down low and wait.
Soon, all will be normal again. The dead virgins, the wake of destruction will go unnoticed.
And you can once again live in peace.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
11 Days
At lunch today, E stood by my desk and swayed back and forth in a little dance.
ME: What are you doing?
E (in a whisper): I don't know it's just sometimes I want to shout out loud, "I love you!"
ME: That you love me (I'm whispering back)?
E: Not just you, everyone.
ME: So, why don't you do it?
E: Oh no, I'm just too shy.
She has become one of my favorite students. At the beginning of the year she was quiet and thoughtful and took ages to finish an in-class assignment, contemplating the ceiling or her pencil until just the right thoughts came then slowly, meticulously writing them down, erasing a misspelled word and writing again. Now, 7 months later, she is silly and creative and beloved by all of her class members.
Her mother wrote to me and asked what we'd done to her shy child. This child, she said, is not the same one who she sent to school in September.
She's not and while I know the mother is pleased and teasing us, I hope she realizes what amazing kid she has.
I'm sure she knows. Her older daughter was much the same -- quirky and fun and brilliant in many ways. I just want E to not be in the shadow of her sister. I want everyone to see E for her beauty and her talent and her odd sense of humor.
Yesterday.
E: (We're at the park and she sits down beside me on the park bench from where I watch the kids play tag.) 12 days, you know?
ME: Really? 12 days.
E: Yep.
ME: Will that be your birthday?
E: Nope.
ME: Will that be the day you climb Mt. Everest?
E: Nope.
ME: Will that be the day you turn into an elephant?
E: Nope. I would not turn into an elephant, I would turn into a caterpillar.
ME: Why a caterpillar?
E: You're off the subject. 12 days.
We sit in the sun for awhile. I'm lightly tapping my foot and she's swinging her legs because they just barely touch the ground.
E: Do you need me to restate?
ME: No, I've got it. 12 days. I'm just trying to figure out the significance of 12 days.
I count in my head. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday...
ME: It's a Saturday.
E's eyebrows rise.
E: Yep.
ME: (I'm struck by lightning) Our puppy arrives in 12 days!
E: (beaming) Yep.
And then today. E walks up to me this morning and stretches herself to whisper in my ear.
E: 11 days.
ME: Yep.
And then she takes her seat, crossing her swaying legs, folding her hands on the table in front of her. I laugh. She's dancing in her seat. I offer my most loving smile.
She winks.
ME: What are you doing?
E (in a whisper): I don't know it's just sometimes I want to shout out loud, "I love you!"
ME: That you love me (I'm whispering back)?
E: Not just you, everyone.
ME: So, why don't you do it?
E: Oh no, I'm just too shy.
She has become one of my favorite students. At the beginning of the year she was quiet and thoughtful and took ages to finish an in-class assignment, contemplating the ceiling or her pencil until just the right thoughts came then slowly, meticulously writing them down, erasing a misspelled word and writing again. Now, 7 months later, she is silly and creative and beloved by all of her class members.
Her mother wrote to me and asked what we'd done to her shy child. This child, she said, is not the same one who she sent to school in September.
She's not and while I know the mother is pleased and teasing us, I hope she realizes what amazing kid she has.
I'm sure she knows. Her older daughter was much the same -- quirky and fun and brilliant in many ways. I just want E to not be in the shadow of her sister. I want everyone to see E for her beauty and her talent and her odd sense of humor.
Yesterday.
E: (We're at the park and she sits down beside me on the park bench from where I watch the kids play tag.) 12 days, you know?
ME: Really? 12 days.
E: Yep.
ME: Will that be your birthday?
E: Nope.
ME: Will that be the day you climb Mt. Everest?
E: Nope.
ME: Will that be the day you turn into an elephant?
E: Nope. I would not turn into an elephant, I would turn into a caterpillar.
ME: Why a caterpillar?
E: You're off the subject. 12 days.
We sit in the sun for awhile. I'm lightly tapping my foot and she's swinging her legs because they just barely touch the ground.
E: Do you need me to restate?
ME: No, I've got it. 12 days. I'm just trying to figure out the significance of 12 days.
I count in my head. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday...
ME: It's a Saturday.
E's eyebrows rise.
E: Yep.
ME: (I'm struck by lightning) Our puppy arrives in 12 days!
E: (beaming) Yep.
And then today. E walks up to me this morning and stretches herself to whisper in my ear.
E: 11 days.
ME: Yep.
And then she takes her seat, crossing her swaying legs, folding her hands on the table in front of her. I laugh. She's dancing in her seat. I offer my most loving smile.
She winks.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
The Choice
The mother of our soon-to-be new puppy gave birth to seven puppies six weeks ago. Five of those pups are female, two are male. Unlike most of the people wanting a Labradoodle puppy from the same breeder, we wanted a male (perhaps as a way to balance out the dominate female energy in our house). These are the two males, the picture sent to us by the breeder so we could choose which puppy we'd like to call our own.In the email she wrote: "The puppy on the left (in her right hand) is very sweet, but not as outgoing as the puppy on the right (in her left hand). If the puppy on the right were a student in your classroom, he would raise his hand to offer the answer, but be very polite as well. The puppy on the left would rarely raise his hand, but would know the answer if called upon."
She continued to explain that the more timid puppy would require softer discipline while the more assertive puppy would need a firmer hand.
It was a tough choice, but since we are both teachers familiar with a firm hand and clear boundaries, and both of a more outgoing spirit, we chose the puppy on the right. What sold us on the right-side puppy was not only his friendly confidence, but his smirk. Look closely at the picture. His smirk says, "Once you've taken this picture, can we go exploring? Can we play a little? Can we chase each other and roll around and then flop our front paws down on the carpet and wiggle our tails in the air? Can we, can we?"
It's been a difficult Spring. I've been socked with allergies that make me look like I've been in a bar fight. On our vacation in Santa Fe, I came down with a flu bug that made coughing as common as breathing. Ann has traveled thousands of miles, riding 14 planes in two weeks to first visit her father when he was still alive, then to return for his funeral, and finally to escape for a much-needed vacation to New Mexico. April is the one year anniversary of our beloved Chester pictured here at age 11 when we took him on an 11-mile hike where he romped in streams, chased butterflies, and relaxed in the sun of Spider Meadow.
We feel the heavy worry for my two former students now being treated for various forms of cancer as well as a deep love and concern for the years ahead for our beloved Fossilguy. And these are just the personal struggles -- the world offers us too many more. Last night we travelled to Bremerton to hear the Seattle Women's Chorus sing the songs of Sweet Honey in the Rock as well as other choral arrangements of many great African American women singers and composers. We sat at small tables surrounded by my parents, Bookworm, and many other friends to feel the power of the inspirational music. It reminded me of how history is filled with examples of struggle and strife, people overcoming tragedy and hardships.
We are one ripple in that great pond. Our lives are filled with sadness, at times, but also with joy. On one hand is the death of Ann's father, but on the other is her visit back to Madison where she reunited with distant family and neighbors she has not seen for 30 years. On the one hand is the anniversary of Chester's death; on the other hand the anticipation of a new man in our lives. On the one hand, there is illness and on the other, there is NOW, this now filled with day-to-day activities that bring a simple beauty to living. Today will shall go grocery shopping, mow the lawn, finish up the laundry, grade papers and prepare lessons for the coming weeks, bake bread, ride our bikes in the sun, and hold each other as we fall off to sleep.
What choices we make today will not change the course of history, they will not determine our life's destiny. We will either choose nonfat milk or 2%, to mop the floors or not, to change the sheets or stay with this choice for another week.
We will choose one smirk over the other and life will continue, not as it was before, but as it should be all the same.
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