Hail Spring!

Can you see it? Just at the edges in the bark and on the deck. It's hail. Cold, hard hail. It fell in sheets yesterday afternoon.

At first we thought it was snowing, but upon further inspection, we realized it was hail.

March 31 and the temperature was still in the 30s early in the morning. April 1, we woke to fog and 36 degrees, but then the fog moved away to reveal beautiful sunshine and blue skies. Good thing. A very good thing.

Today begins the end of our landscaping. Madeline, the landscaper, is here with her crew rototilling all around the yard, digging holes for the multitude of plants purchased to fill in the blank spaces. This is only a sampling as the truck arrived this morning hauling buckets more of not only foliage, but dirt. It smells marvelous outside.

Ann's busy helping them and I'm on doggie watch as Rubin would LOVE nothing more than to get out there and help dig. Instead, we're inside making brownies for the crew and painting the main floor doors that have needed a coat of trim color since we remodeled over 2 years ago.

Chores. Lots and lots of chores. I guess this is what spring cleaning is all about. Sprucing up the dingy and revitalizing the old. The sun does much the same thing to me. I'm feeling spruced and revitalized a bit. Perhaps that's due to spring break, but mostly it's because of the sunshine. And the accompanying warmth.

I have a few more doors to paint, but the stack of paid bills/receipts keeps calling to me -- file me, file me. But what a daunting job. It's like the thread of a sweater -- once pulled, things tend to unravel before they repair themselves.

So, I shall attack the door and hope Rubin keeps his tail out of the way.

Old Dog, New Tricks

I could begin this just about anywhere, but in having so many choices, I find it impossible to begin.

Perhaps it began as a young girl growing up in a mid-sized town, and choosing my first pet. A cat. Gray and white and black with an equally multi-colored nose.

Or perhaps it started years later when my father brought home a dog though not just any dog. A Saluki. He knew nothing about dogs, but this one was exotic so in my father's mind, the dog was important. At first, in deference to my cat, I rejected the dog, but soon, after slithering up on my bed, cautiously lying next to my snarling cat, I was as bonded to the dog as I was to my cat.

Or maybe it started years and years after that when I was in my mid-twenties and chose my own dog from the animal shelter, the dog that saved my life.

Or perhaps it was even the 10 years on a small farm with dogs and cats and birds and sheep and llamas.

Somehow, somewhere I realized I'd rather spend time with animals than most people. It's not an uncommon desire. Anyone who has loved a pet has contemplated the meaning of unconditional love. Anyone who has cuddled up with a cat or a dog or even a guinea pig has experienced that feeling that is impossible to describe though we still admirably try.

For me, the connection is not just love, but something more primal. It's sensual in that it incorporates not only sights and sounds, but smells and textures that cannot help but enliven the taste buds on some level. When cuddling with my current dog or years earlier burying my nose into the long neck of a dusty llama, I am forced out of my head and into my body -- a place where I do not spend nearly enough time.

So, it is no wonder, when my head hurts after a particularly cruel day of teaching children, I find myself hungry for an animal's companionship. Currently that companionship comes in the shape of a young dog who we've raised from a puppy. In the past the hunger made me race home from my classroom to muck out a sheep stall or curl up on the couch with purring cat or two.

It's probably no surprise then that my mid-life crisis comes not in the form of tattoos or expensive motorcycles, but in the desire to deepen that relationship with the animal world. Specifically, to deepen my relationship with dogs.

And despite my history with animals, I'm scared as hell to leave my 22 year career as a teacher and venture into the world of dog training. Talk about old dog and new tricks. This leap, while it feels both compelling and perfect on my levels still lifts me from my bed at night in a cold, panicked sweat.

There's so much to learn. There's so much I don't know I even need to learn. There's a level a fear I think one can only develop at 49 years old that as a 23 year old you weren't even capable of knowing existed.

Case in point: Recently, we've needed to hire a dog walker a few days a month. Through various connections we met Hannah, a 25 year old Divinity student who, on the side, began her own dog walking business. In her short life, Hannah has been a U.S. Marine working as a cryptologist and linguist, a corporate telecommunications specialist, and is currently enrolled in graduate school with the hope of becoming a hospital chaplain.

She's 25.

At 25 I was an underpaid bicycle mechanic earning my teaching certificate. I never contemplated owning my own business. I simply thought I wanted a job teaching and after my first tumultuous year as a teacher, I greatly doubted that choice.

Perhaps what separates the 25 year old Hannah and the formerly 25 year old me is that I lived my life in fear. Fear of failure, fear of doing the wrong thing because somehow I believed there was a right thing to do, fear of not really knowing what I wanted to do with my life, and fear of somehow living the words of caution my second grade teacher warned my parents about so many years ago: She struggles with completing projects.

On my good days, I tell myself this: 22 years of teaching IS completing a long project. While a talented teacher, I'm worn out and unlike many of my colleagues, I have the good sense to know that quitting teaching is best for everyone involved. Following a passion -- the desire to work with dogs, to work on my writing -- is what mid-life crises are all about. Some fulfill that crisis with a trip to Nepal or a cruise to Alaska or a stint in the Peace Corps or, as a recent psychologist friend informed me, an application to Doctors Without Borders. Others purchase things -- another house, a boat, and yes, the obligatory Harley Davidson motorcycle.

A mid-life crisis is not necessarily a crisis at all. I like to think of it more as an attempt to hone in on something you've put off for whatever the reasons. For me, the reasons were all based in fear.

Of course, this is what I tell myself on a good day.

On the bad days, well that's when I find it hard to begin dissecting how I ended up right here, right now...and old dog trying to learn a new trick.

Small Patch of Common Ground

As a woman, white and lesbian, I have never found a candidate, be it for president, senator, governor, or mayor, with whom I agree fully. Instead I have voted and I imagine will continue to vote for the candidate with whom I disagree the least. This is perhaps why I found Senator Obama's recent speech on race not only thought-provoking, but inspiring.

Senator Obama eloquently articulated many of the racial conundrum's we've stuffed away in our closets for hundreds of years, but he also addressed one of the key ideals of what I believe to be a true democracy -- the ability to disagree and still share common ground.

When Obama compared his love of his grandmother and his affection for Reverend Wright despite his disagreement with them, he made me think of how many of us live with such contradictions. For me, this contradiction centers around my sexual orientation as well as being a woman in the dominant culture of men. I have worked with people and continue to work with people who neither support my sexual orientation nor who wholly understand what life is like as a woman in a male world. Some of these people are not my friends. They are and will remain to be simply my co-workers with whom I will have a respectful albeit distanced relationship.

Others I call friends and in doing so must see beyond their political belief system and look more deeply into their humanity. This is not always easy to do, not just for me, but for them as well. Still, when we can set aside the political bickering, when we can sit across from each other and share what we believe without fear of judgment or worse, then who we support as a candidate matters less and less.

For instance, when my partner and I chose to marry during the time Portland, Oregon offered such a window of opportunity, a co-worker/friend wrote us the most heart-felt congratulations card we ever received. "While I am still struggling with my religious beliefs over the issue of marriage," she wrote, "I cannot think of two people more perfect for each other than the two of you." Religious and conservative, this co-worker/friend opened her arms in congratulations because she knew us and accepted us as best she could. By acknowledging the chasm of our differences she took responsibility for her different position while not letting those differences divide us.

Years ago I had a heated yet respectful conversation with one of my co-workers who felt that homosexuality was an abomination. At the end of our discussion, which many other co-workers witnessed, another co-worker came up to me and said, "How can you talk with such civility to a bigot who wants to see you dead?"

"Whether I acknowledge her or ignore her," I responded, "Her position remains the same. But if I listen to her, if I show her respect as an individual and a human being, I'm hoping that when the religious fanatics come to take me away, she'll see my face and remember that I am as much a human being as she is."

I applaud Senator Obama's speech not only because he offered an articulate and astute analysis of race in this country, but he offered something essentially human -- a space in which we can disagree and still move forward. He asked us to see him as a human being with flaws and struggles. He asked us to look into our own selves and find the similar person inside of us. We are all flawed and struggling. We are all opinionated and judgmental. But we are also human and at the core of our humanity is the ability to recognize our daily contradictions, acknowledge the contradictions of others, and still see the good in each other.

While I may disagree on some of the Senator's ideas or politics, that he is able to acknowledge this fact of life -- that we love and are loved by people with whom we do not always agree -- gives me faith that as a president he will help us move forward and not grind to a halt in the political quagmire of us versus them or red states versus blue. For too long now, we've lived in such a state of fear and disdain. It's refreshing to find a candidate who is willing to step outside that construct and inspire us to talk with each other not from a place of disagreement, but from that sometimes small patch of common ground on which we find ourselves standing.

Worms

We walk and the worms
squirm in puddles at our feet
They're trying to swim
The dog looks at me as if
in agreement
Curious
his lips curl as he speaks
with head cocked
ever so slightly to the left
I continue,
but they're actually drowning...

Rain has been smothering us
for days now
the gray sky has sunk his teeth
in and
all around our feet
worms are flooding up
from the winter grass

Children
waiting for the school bus
stand pink with Dora the Explorer
umbrellas like mushrooms with
booted legs
Cars spin around wet corners
and fleshy curls unfurl themselves
in puddle after puddle

So much for evolutionary adaptation
This is the dog -- dreadlock wet --
He shakes starting with his
nose, ending with the tip of his tail
Refreshed we continue walking
counting worms at our feet
Some have given up
Others lift one end or the other
confused about head
and tail
Breath and death

We turn the corner for
home and black crows perch
at the edges of our house
digging their black beaks
into the deep compost of
our gutters
searching for
worms

Down here I jest pointing
a swollen finger at the
pool of water just this side of our gate
Instinct says the dog and I
cock my head
slightly to the right
curious

-----------------------------------------------------

Today I do not have to teach. I'm supposed to be working from home, but I'm waiting for my teaching partner to arrive. I'm hoping she's late. Avoiding work feels right today. Rubin agrees. He's sighing under the desk, curled up in a ball still damp from this morning's walk.

I haven't had much time to write these past weeks. Work is burdened with too much paperwork and kids who can't get along with one another. "They've watched too many episodes of Survivor," my teaching partner says, "And they're trying to figure out who to vote off the island."

Maybe it's just me. With my decision to leave teaching, maybe now the ugly warts of this job are more apparent. Or maybe it's just this class. There are some sweet kids, but there are some real pieces of work. Psychological work. I can't decide if this is a good way to end it -- to leave with such a challenging group or wait it out for a "good season" like Brett Favre.

Hard to say.

Meanwhile, I'm keeping my panic at bay. The bigness of this move haunts me at times. I wake up and suck in cold air early in the morning. "What the hell am I doing?" and then Ann calms me down and let's me know it will be alright.

"We won't starve," she tells me and then, as she falls asleep adds, "And losing a little weight won't hurt either of us."

Then, when my head is wrapped around one worry or the other, weird things happen. Last night, for instance, I took Lucy (the Boston Terrier) to her training class and brought her home to her mom's house later in the evening. Dani, Lucy's owner, had some friends over. One of the friends is a dog walker. "Wow, I've been looking for a dog walker!" I explain how the high school student up the street is unreliable and unpredictable. Hannah, this new dog walker, is excited about walking our dog. We talk about dates and she gives me her number. "I've just gone out on my own," she tells me.

"Is it working out?" I ask.

"Amazingly," she smiles. "I panicked about the move for months, but it's turning out to be perfect."

Trust the universe is what my woo-woo friend would say, but I'm not that woo-woo. Still, there's something to be said for leaping.

We won't starve.

Three Reasons

Another post I wrote over vacation...

Three Reasons
From Winthrop, Washington
2/22/08


I had a hard time making up my mind at first. For a long time I thought I’d just vote for whomever the Democrats nominated, but now it doesn’t seem that easy. The Democrats might screw it up and fight over whom they’ll nominate so I feel compelled to take a stand.

Others around me have been certain. Our neighbor, for one. She said, “I want to go with my heart, but I’m going to vote with my head.” This was her logic behind casting her caucus vote for Hillary. “She’s more experienced and I think she can win the election over any Republican they put up against her.” The other neighbor is for Obama. “Hillary’s old news,” she said. “I want someone new, fresh. Hillary scares me.” Not so much a vote for Obama, but definitely one against Hillary.

I like both candidates. Okay, like isn’t quite the word, but as I said earlier, I’d vote for either.

Well, until recently. Recently I’ve collected three reasons why I’ll vote for Obama. Here they are, though not in any particular order.

Reason #1: Bill Clinton.

My parents are affirmed, dyed in the wool Democrats. They both work for the Democratic Party on the local level. They are liberal and all my life spouted their disdain for Republicans. So they’ll be shocked to know that when Bill Clinton first ran for president I didn’t vote for him. I was standing in line at the polling center convinced I had no other choice but to vote for him when a report came over the loudspeaker that Clinton was the projected winner. Everyone in the polling place cheered though a few disgruntled Republicans clucked their tongues and marched into the booth with their ballots blazing.

I was relieved. Now I could vote for Ralph Nadar and not have to worry that my vote didn’t make or break a Democratic victory.

The second time around, I did vote for him though I was still not convinced. Rather I was casting my vote against the Republican and bedding myself down with a candidate I felt to be a bit too slimy for my tastes. And now, looking back, I think I was right to be wary. Who signed into law Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell? Who signed the NAFTA treaty? Who squeezed any life out of the welfare system?

Bill Clinton.

I’m not naïve to think that any candidate elected won’t be pushed more toward the middle than to the extremes once they get to the White House, but now that we’ve suffered through the ridiculous and deadly circus of the right-wing, I have a bit more hope that a liberal candidate like Barack Obama will be able to swing that pendulum back past center and more in line with a progressive momentum.

If Hillary were any other thing than a Clinton, if Hillary were just Hillary and not married to someone who obviously is beyond arrogant, then I would vote for her. But she chose to stay with the man even after the Monica affair and though I don’t really care about the president’s private life, I remember saying very clearly when the news broke, “What the hell is he thinking?”

Hillary would have more of a chance with me today if she’d divorced the bastard, but apparently I’m in the minority in that poll.

Barak is not a Clinton. Barack doesn’t have ties to Bill. Barack’s wife, while incredibly intelligent and yes, stunningly gorgeous, won’t assume second in command as Bill would if Hillary were elected. Michelle Obama will be involved, but she strikes me as much more level-headed than the man with a penchant for cigars and young berets.

I could be wrong, but my initial instinct back in 1990 and then again in 1994 was a deep distrust and dislike of Bill Clinton. Bad feminist that I am, I can’t separate the wheat from the chaff, the wife from the husband in this instance.

And maybe I’m silly, but in the film, “True Colors” when Kathy Bates (playing the role of the devoted friend and aide) confronts John Travolta and Emma Thompson (playing the role of Clinton look-alikes) on their willingness to sell out and give up on their sense of ethics and Emma Thompson counters with the argument that selling out gets them the White House, Hillary Clinton fell a few notches in my book. No one argues with Kathy Bates. Not even Emma Thompson. And though it was all “fiction” I remembered that scene for weeks after watching the movie and have been unable to remove that turning point from my overall assessment of Hillary Clinton.

Reason #2: The night Obama won the Wisconsin (and Hawaii) primaries he gave a speech in Texas. It was a stump speech of sorts, but for the first time I heard him say something that made me really listen. I don’t remember the words exactly, but he was talking about education and the need to not only pay teachers more, but to support them. That was all well and good, but what made me lift my head from my dinner was a line about the arts. Something to the effect, “…and I will bring back the arts to our schools.”

I haven’t heard a candidate say that in a long time. In fact, in my adult life I don’t think I’ve ever heard a candidate say that. And he didn’t stop there. He talked about the value of music and theater, creativity and expression. He talked about kids needing art to be fully human.

To be fully human. Have you ever heard a politician say such a thing?

John F. Kennedy talked about the arts, but not since FDR have I heard a president so impassioned about them. Of course, I wasn’t around when FDR used the arts (along with other ideas) to pull us out of a Depression, but I’d read it about it in my history classes and studied the underpinnings of the New Deal when I was required to teach it to a class of 11th graders in my first years of teaching.

Arthur Miller said, “When the guns boom, the arts die,” and even though I wasn’t alive when he said it, I can fully appreciate the sentiment.

Afghanistan and Iraq. The hunt for Osama. The hatred of Saddam. Bombs and guns and tanks and dead civilians alongside of dead soldiers at the same time school budgets slashed music and art classes, as symphonies and theaters across the nation struggled to stay afloat.

That Obama never voted to send us to war was impressive, but during his Texas speech, it became apparent to me that he knew that the focus on war had killed the arts and even more, that the death of the arts was like a disease in our nation. We are without a soul. We are without deep roots. We are without any semblance of humanity. We are simply a machine, uninspired and asleep, marching ourselves into death and bloodshed.

Okay, he didn’t say all that, but that was the underlying message. We are nothing as a nation if we kill the arts. That impressed me.

Reason #3: We’ve been on vacation in Winthrop, Washington for the past half a week. It’s a conservative place. There are cowboys and truckers in abundance. There are four radio stations – two play country and western, one plays oldies, and the fourth is a conservative talk radio show. While waiting in the car for Ann, I listened to the talk radio for a few minutes. They were talking about the upcoming elections and were on the phone with a caller who was “seriously worried” about Barack Obama.

The radio host said: We should be worried. The man is passionate. The man says all the right things about hope and hard work. The man obviously cares about his country and the citizens, but let’s face it. He is the most liberal member of the U.S. Senate. He makes Hillary look like a moderate. He is a grassroots organizer who has hit the streets for liberal causes his entire life. And if that isn’t enough, he stands in direct opposition to what most of our listeners believe in – he believes in abortion.

I’m not sure what struck me the most about this diatribe. I’ve longed for a “true liberal” in the White House. (I’m actually longing for a radical, but I’m not stupid enough to think it will happen in my lifetime.) I’m not convinced Obama is such a man, but if the conservatives are, if the right-wing Christians are then I say bring him on!

But underneath this radio announcer’s worries was a hum of respect. He saw Obama as honest and forthright. He saw Obama as passionate and caring. He didn’t speak ill of the man. Rather he disagreed with his stance on certain issues, one in particular, but he never slammed Obama for his views. He just disagreed.

Could he have done that for Hillary Clinton?

I doubt it.

There are definitely areas where I disagree with Obama. Well, maybe not disagree, but don’t agree fully. He’s committed to carbon credits for one while Hillary Clinton wants to tax the oil and gas companies. He doesn’t believe in gay marriage, though he says he’s open to talking about it. He talks of universal healthcare, but it isn’t really. And he says he’s not taking any money from special interest groups, but Oprah seems pretty special interest to me.

Still, just like the conservative radio host I sense something different about Obama, or at least, I’d like to sense something different. He seems honest. He seems committed. He seems very genuine and intelligent and aware of the mistakes of the past eight years. He’s not about dividing, he’s about bringing together. I remember thinking that when he gave his speech at the last Democratic Convention in 2004. “It’s not red states and blue states,” he said. “It’s the United States.” I liked him even then. He reminded me of Barbara Jordan in a way – compassionate, collected, intelligent.

I will vote for Hillary if she gets nominated. I will vote for her, but once again, it will be more a vote against whomever the Republicans nominate. But if Obama gets nominated, it will be the first time in my life that I’ve actually voted FOR someone who I can believe in.

Ron Paul, Don’t Pull, and the Lunar Eclipse

Ron Paul, Don’t Pull, and the Lunar Eclipse
Winthrop, Washington (while on vacation)
2/21/08

I had to squint to look at the moon tonight. Like a spotlight only it didn’t blind me. Instead, it illuminated everything. Full and white. A hole in the sky. Light streaming through a ripped black canvas.

We arrived yesterday early afternoon. It’s been three years since we were last here, here being Winthrop east of the Cascades at the southern end of the Methow Valley. The drive was relatively easy. Despite the depth of snow on the roadside, the highways were bare and dry all the way into town allowing us to really pay attention to the landscape instead of the treacherous driving conditions we’d experienced in the past.

Eastern Washington is a stark contrast to Western Washington. Firs give way to pine trees; dense forests give way to organized linear orchards. On the west side, line of sight is limited and layered with green. On the east side, you can see for miles and most of what you see is brown. Whitewater rivers flow off the Cascades to become wide, flat, meandering waters that often look like lakes they move so slowly.

While we prefer the west side to the east, the snow to the north is crisp and dry, perfect for cross-country skiing and so, when we can, we like to escape the mountainous ruggedness of the west side and play in the valleys of the east.

The east side is also much more conservative than the west. Often, liberal Democrats win elections by earning a majority of votes from Seattle (located on the west side), obliterating any hope of democracy for the voters from the east side who are far more conservative. This was evident as we wound are way up the east side.

“Ron Paul,” I said to Ann pointing out the first political sign we’d seen. “Interesting,” was her only response. And then again, a sign stuck into a snow bank on the side of the road. “Ron Paul,” I said again to which Ann “hummphed” and then continued scanning the scenery for hawks and deer.

By the time we reached Winthrop, we’d counted at least 20 Ron Paul signs and soon began to speculate as to his appeal.

“Freedom from government interference,” I postulated.

“But why?” Ann pondered. “What would the government care about this wide expanse of scrub?”

“Precisely,” was my response, “All this land and the government might try to make rules about how it should be used.”

When we finally piled out the car – Ann, Rubin, all our gear and me – the sun warmed our faces and reflected off the snow. It was 34 degrees. The air was dry, but nippy and despite the temperature and the warmth of the sun, it was cold.

We skied right away after checking into the resort stretching our tired car riding muscles and allowing Rubin some needed puppy energy release. The Methow Valley is relatively flat, which makes for incredible cross-country skiing as well as expansive views of the surrounding valleys and mountains. Because of its latitude and easterly location, the snow is abundant and dry, if that’s how snow can be described. No matter because it’s perfect for skiing and it’s even more perfect for dogs to run and run and run and run.

Rubin did just that for 9 miles. Actually, we skied for 9 miles, he probably ran far more than that as he raced back and forth between us, ahead of us, and then back behind us. By the time we got back to the car his tongue lolled off to one side and he didn’t have the energy to jump up into the back seat.

We drove into town for dinner and ate under the Christmas lights and ornaments that hang in the funky restaurant all year round. Dinner consisted of burritos and rellanos and two baskets of chips. By the time we left the restaurant, the night sky came alive with stars and a full moon sat fat on the horizon. We walked in the snow back at the resort while the moon hid itself behind the earth. A full lunar eclipse wasn’t on our itinerary, but oh what a surprise. We watched the shadow of the earth edge its way across the white globe not quite obscuring it, but transforming the brightness into a dingy ball of dirt. It was magnificent to see ourselves silhouetted in a kind of philosophical way – we were nothing but insignificant matter now cast as shadow in the night sky. It almost made me want to howl at the moon.

We woke early this morning, suited up and hit the same dog friendly trail. Rubin was delighted. The cold air was a stark contrast to the warm sun. We thought we’d skied for hours only to return to the car at noon, just in time for lunch in Mazama. We warmed ourselves on the porch of the Mazama Country Store and then headed out for another short ski while Rubin rested in the car.

We ate dinner in our room, read our books, and then walked around the resort one last time before bed. The moon, no longer eclipsed or fully full, was bright. Not just in its contrast to the night sky, but bright like overwhelmingly so. I squinted. With Rubin’s leash wrapped around my waist, we crunched through the snow. The snow, they say, concentrates the smells so Rubin was transfixed by certain spots and anxious to get to others. “Don’t pull,” I told him and gave a quick yank to the leash. He backed off a bit, but soon edged ahead pulling me along with him. Snow drifts carried the scent of rabbit and deer, raccoon and fellow domestic dogs. “Don’t pull,” I said again and then laughed. “Donpull, ronpaul,” I said in my best Russian accent and I heard Ann laugh beside me, her smile lit up by the spotlight of the moon.

Getting away like this feels necessary. I know that soon, with the changing of careers, I will not have access to such gloriously long vacations. A week off in February is a luxury. Four days to ski in Winthrop feels even more so. Today, after we skied in the morning and realized it was only noon when we were done, was almost surreal. “Shouldn’t it be like 3 in the afternoon?” I asked Ann.

But time is moving slowly today and perhaps it will tomorrow. I’m trying to pay attention. I’m trying to soak up each moment of sun, each moment of light reflected off the white, crystallized snow. I’m trying to laugh longer and breathe deeper. I’m trying to make my heart pump harder and my muscles push a little bit farther. Not because it’s my last “mid-winter break,” not because I don’t think I’ll ever be here again skiing like this. It’s something much more elusive than that. I was trying to put my finger on it as we walked in the moonlight with Rubin tugging at the leash. It has to do with the infinitesimal feeling of the shadow on the moon, of the bazillion stars in the sky, of the rise of the mountains to the west and the rumble of the river to the south.

I am not a religious woman. I’ve leaned more toward the animist view that we are part of something larger, something spiritual in the sense that my existence is connected to the existence of the coyote howling in the distance or the pine forest along a rivers edge. Coming here, to this valley so far from home, makes me realize how much I need reminders of my place in the fabric of things. Coming here keeps me grounded in a way that the city can’t. Coming here lets me see that what I do in the world matters at the same time that it doesn’t matter, and it’s in that paradox of contradictions I am able to let go for a little while. It allows me to truly relax and not carry the burden of choices and obligations that overwhelm me.

This is a world that contains pulling dogs, Ron Paul, and lunar eclipses. This is a world where the moon can blind and illuminate, where the snow can be cold on the land and warm on the skin. This is a world where mountains divide the land and the people, where rivers cut through valleys, and rain gives way to snow. This is a world where dogs can bury their noses in one spot and smell a week’s worth of history with one sniff.

I feel like I’m doing that now – smelling this one spot trying to understand my light in a ripped black canvas.

The Choosing

We have been away skiing in Eastern Washington. I had a chance to do a bit of writing, though not much as the weather was glorious. Those posts will come later since I need to download them from my laptop. For now, these are my thoughts...

I am often asked how I became a teacher. Or more accurately, why I chose to be a teacher. I don't have an answer. I don't remember ever really choosing it. I actually don't remember choosing much in my life, at least consciously. I did choose Ann (and was lucky she wanted to be chosen by me) and I did choose Rubin (with Ann's input). But when I think back on my entire life, the real choice I remember consciously making was choosing my kitten when I was a kid. (But did I really? Or was he just there and I remember picking him up and equating that with choosing?)

Of course I've made little choices. I chose the color of the paint on the kitchen wall, I chose a new pair of shoes just this past week, and I chose countless meals from countless menus in my life, but actually choosing something really important, life-changing important where I weighed the options -- well, I'm hard-pressed to come up with more than a handful of examples.

I chose to leave Port Townsend after 17 years there. That was conscious...in a way. I was very sad. Crying actually while house sitting for a friend. I was weeping and trying to figure out what I was going to do to stop all the emotions. What was I? Who was I? What were my choices?

And then it hit me...I didn't need to live in Port Townsend anymore. I could go any where, do anything and I didn't have any ties to bind me to that place -- aside from a job and friends.

But a job could be had somewhere else and friends I could keep from a distance, so almost in a flash, I knew I needed to move away and live back in Seattle.

So yes, it was a choice, but a choice that struck me and was not at all planned out.

Back to teaching. Within my career, I've chosen to teach different subjects or at different grades depending on the opportunities, but I've never considered not teaching. Well, that's not completely true. I've considered it hundreds, perhaps thousands of times, but I never knew what I'd do instead. I had ideas, but I never had the gumption to try them.

I worried about a steady paycheck. I worried about my financial obligations. I worried about healthcare and benefits and retirement plans. I worried that I wasn't skilled at anything but teaching and most of my career, I worried that someone would figure out that I wasn't really a very skilled teacher. (I've gotten over that one perhaps because of time, but more likely because I've seen some pretty crappy teachers in my day and I figure I can hold my own in the skill department.)

I'm worrying about all of those things now as I get closer to leaving teaching. But still, even that doesn't feel like a choice. I just woke up and said, "I'm done. I can't do this for the rest of my life. I need to do something else." And then I announced it to Ann who was supportive and encouraging, and then I announced it to my employer who hasn't really said anything about it, and then I announced it to people randomly who show an interest in my choices.

But now, thinking back on it, what choice was I making? Was it thoughtful? Was it planned well? Was it a good move?

Probably not, but now that I'm in the flow of that choice -- the counting down of days, the getting my shit in order -- I worry that the choosing was random and not at all what I should be doing.

Then again, I know I can't continue teaching. I know that. I really, really know that.

So I look around now with different eyes. How did all those people in the world who aren't teaching choose their lives, their days, their professions? Do they just let the choices happen, like I have, and move on about their merry ways? Or are they more deliberate in their choosing?

What I've realized in these observations is that there are a lot of choices out there to make and that the choosing, if one becomes conscious of it, can be overwhelming and mortifying. For instance, we ate at one of our favorite low-priced restaurants while on vacation this week. I perused the menu and really considered my choices. I wasn't all that hungry, but in the past that never stopped me from eating. So this time I deliberately chose a smaller meal and then, when Ann ordered dessert, I passed only nibbling on the crust of her cherry pie.

That kind of choosing wasn't too difficult, but in the course of the day there are so many choices we make it's no wonder we just make them hastily and without much forethought.

And another thing I've realized is that what I've really done by resigning my job at the end of the school year is all a matter of perspective. I am choosing to leave. That's one choice, but I'm also choosing to focus my time learning to be a dog trainer and carving out some time to write. Those are two other choices separate from the first.

So really, the choosing to leave is on a different level of magnitude than the other choices because once I'd chosen to leave, I could have chosen a bazillion other things to pursue -- like working in a bookstore or climbing a mountain or taking a job at a restaurant.

I did put a lot of thought (and research) into choosing to be a dog trainer and in actuality, it has been something I've toyed with for years and years. I remembered just the other day a conversation I had with a good teacher-friend who was, at the time, the high school librarian. This was perhaps my sixth year of teaching and I just couldn't picture myself doing it for another 30 years. My friend, Marty said, "What would you like to do if you didn't teach?" Not an earth-shattering question, but I knew at that point that I loved animals and wanted to do something that involved dogs. "Dog training sounds interesting," I said to her and she beamed back, "You'd be perfect at that job!"

That was 15 years ago and it's always been in the back of my mind -- the dog trainer thing -- but what's kept me from it is this weird combination of not believing I could actually do it (like learn how) and not believing I could actually choose it for myself.

Now I have.

Old dog, new tricks.

Now I just have to be patient before the choice can evolve into the thing that it will be. Meanwhile, I go back to work on Monday -- teaching for another 4 months -- and all the while, practicing the art of choosing.

Sunshine

It's been quite a weekend. We took Friday off and headed up to the mountains for a ski with Rubin in tow. (See Rubinations link.) He was tired after that, but then Paul and Patti came up from Oregon on Saturday and we spent a great weekend visiting the public market, eating out, and taking a long walk along the lake in the sunshine.

Yes, sunshine. Like a gift from the gods. Blue skies, too, and fairly warm temperatures. We've needed it. Even Rubin seems a bit more alert.

Yesterday, after Paul and Patti left, we headed to Woodinville for a romp at the dog trainer's ranch. We sat on their new deck and ate smoked chicken and laughed at our silly dogs. Then to Starbucks where the trainers buy everyone a coffee and we mingle with the crowds at the mall. Rubin loves it. He especially loves the walk to the pet store where he got a new ball and treats from the owner.

Oh, and new ski booties. He hates those, but it was entertaining for everyone involved. Like a dog tap dancing.

Today, a long walk with Colleen and Monty at Seward Park while Ann worked in the yard. The sunshine makes you want to work in the yard. Well, it makes Ann want to work.

We're packing now for our ski trip though there is still laundry to be done and a car to clean out before we stuff it full of everything for the trip. Rubin and Ann are asleep in the living room. Not a very inspired blog, but it is the mundaneness of the day, which is just fine with me.

Oh, and the sunshine is spectacular!

1979

I lived in a one bedroom apartment. I lived with a woman whom I was soon to leave. (Actually, she left me for a school back East and I just decided to stay behind.) Next door to our tiny apartment lived a deaf woman who, when starting her car in the morning, revved the engine loudly, unable to hear the ruckus she caused. The bus stopped right outside our front door. All night long, the rumble of the bus up the hill. Even now, I sometimes have dreams about that apartment, about walking up the hill after missing the bus.

The apartment was dismal. Dark, smelly, and sparse I sat on the couch one night all alone, watching the Presidential election returns. I was depressed. The numbers projected Reagan and I was angry. I thought for sure the world was going to come to an end. What an asshole. What an incompetent mumble mouth. What a blow job he was passing off as a personality. My stomach hurt. My head hurt. I sat on that dilapidated old couch and ate stale popcorn uncertain of what tomorrow would bring.

Tomorrow came. Tomorrow went. Then the disappointment of the first Bush. Then the hope (and frustration) of Clinton followed by an even more disappointing Bush the Second.

And now, I sit in the study listening to the TV in the other room as the announcers dissect another election. "Historical" they say, "Monumental" they say, "Stunning" they say. Of course, it's only the primary (Super Tuesday), but the way they sling it, this is the most fascinating stuff on earth!

I want the pollsters to interview me. Call me up, I say, and this is what I'll tell you: I don't care who wins the primary because when it's all said and done, the Democratic candidate has my vote...by default. Obama...sure, I'll vote for him. Clinton...okay, I'll do it. Clinton/Obama I might even get excited, but the bottom line is this -- I will vote for someone other than a Republican. Isn't that how some Republicans feel, too?

Perhaps not. Rush Limbaugh thrust his tripe at McCain clamoring that he was not "conservative" enough. Others have chimed in too and are, in fact, doing it right now as I type. But still, you can't tell me that Republicans, when given the choice between a wimpy conservative and Hillary Clinton won't choose the wimp? You can't tell me that some hardcore right-wing Christians won't vote for the "moderate" McCain over a black man?

My house now is much more pleasant than that dreary apartment. I have a partner I want to spend my life with and dog to match. I have dear, dear friends who I enjoy as much as I can. I haven't lost hope as I thought I had in 1979, but I'm not the foolish optimist I was either. Still, this election stuff can give me an ulcer. Please don't make it McCain. Please not Romney. Please not Huckabee (though think of the fun you could have with that name in a foreign tongue). Get Bush out. Give me someone a bit more sensible. Give me someone a bit more realistic and not so bumbling or bombastic. Give me someone who can say "terrorist" and not sound like their mouth is filled with cheap beer.

Sometimes 1979 doesn't feel that far back. Sometimes I think politics is God's joke (if there is a God) on all of us. Sometimes I see life as a lumpy couch in a miserable one-bedroom apartment.

But most of the time I don't.

Give me a candidate, Democrats. Just give me a candidate. Piss on all this waiting and weighing.

Funeral Songs

Perhaps it's morbid to think of songs one should play at their funeral, but after this weekend's service for Jim, I've been thinking a lot about the music I might choose to be played when I die.

Jim's choices were perfection. "Cattle Call" with LeeAnn Rimes and Eddie Arnold. How perfect is that? Tom Waits singing "Picture Frame." It doesn't get any better than that.

Of course, it's not what I might choose. On the way home this afternoon, Ann and I tossed around titles. She likes music, too, but her knowledge of what she likes is limited. "What's that song," she begins and I have to squeeze clues from her. "Sing it," I urge, but that doesn't work because she can't just pull tunes out of her memory. "What are some of the lyrics?" I prod, but there are only snippets, one-word clues that offer know real hints. "What's the song about," I finally ask, but she sits quietly, trying to think and nothing is offered.

I have too many songs to choose from. Way too many. I'm certain Jim did, too. How did he decide on the ones that were played? How did he winnow out the songs that weren't suited for such an occasion from the songs that were?

It was a beautiful service, if that's what funerals can be considered. Not just the music, but everything. The setting, Kay's eulogy, the words of reflection -- and especially my mother's reading of her own special memory of Jim. I cried a lot yesterday, but I really cried when my mother stood up to recount her story.

It's not dying that is sad. Yes, dying is sad, but the wake of grief it leaves behind is the saddest. That Kay was able to offer such a perfect eulogy for her husband was one way she expressed her grief. It was eloquent, it was poignant, it was full of love and laughter with tidbits of memory sprinkled throughout.

My father cried. I saw the tears drop from under his eye patch. I couldn't watch for too long because his tears fueled my own. My mother cried, too, though not when she read her remembrance. She stood right by me as she read and when she moved, her leg brushed my shoulder as I sat listening and crying. I hope she felt my love for her that moment.

The wake Jim left behind, the wake of tears and sadness is wide. He was loved. If anything seemed apparent yesterday it was how much love surrounded his life.

I feel lucky to be one of the many who was able to love him.

And be loved in return.

I always knew I was lucky, but as we left the fellowship with Leonard Cohen (not really) singing but "poeting" (if there is such a word) I realized how Jim's service was a big thank you card to all of those who had touched his life.

I'm not sure I'll be lucky enough to plan my own service. I could start now, but there's this sense that my life will change before it ends and what I might choose now as a song or a poem or a verse may not be the kind of thank you card I'd want to send then whenever that then happens.

Jim's death was tragic in the sense that it came too soon and at the hand of a poison he could not control. But Jim's death, or the memory of his life shared yesterday, was one of most beautiful arias I've ever heard, music included.

That's the kind of man Jim was. Of course he'd leave behind the lingering notes of a beautiful song. Of course he would.

Three Events

Jim's service is this weekend. He has been on my mind for weeks now. Heavy. Tiring. A deep sadness that hangs around the moments of my busy life.

Then yesterday. A man walks into a local restaurant and kills one person seriously wounds another. We've had a lot of shootings in the neighborhood lately. So many that, at school, we're in perpetual yellow alert -- parents must come into the school to pick up their kids and we can no longer go to the park for recess. The kids are crazed. So are we.

And then long talks about what the shootings mean to our community. Some are gang related, but yesterday's shooting was not, though the news would tell us otherwise. It was a young man, angry at the man who was dating his girlfriend. Domestic violence, they're saying, but it's so much deeper than that.

A student in my classroom lived with this man when he was a boy. He was a foster child in their home and she watched him like she'd watch an older brother. And then he went to prison. At 16 where he's been for the past 7 years. Not just prison, but solitary confinement.

"He has anger issues," said the mother of the girl in my classroom, the mother who knew this young man. She wept as she told me how sad she was that this is how his life ended up. "What was he supposed to do? I'm not condoning what he did, but he was a kid who couldn't get a job, couldn't find a place to live, and was very, very angry."

I listened. I cried, too. It's so much more complicated than a young man killing another young man over a girl.

In the morning, another parent told of us her oldest daughter's current condition. The youngest daughter is in our class so the mother wanted us to know that "G had turned for the worst." G had suffered a brain injury in a horse riding accident. For over a year she's been in a coma and now today, she was diagnosed with an abscess on her brain. G was coming home with a hospice nurse. W, the girl/sister in our class, has never once talked about her sister. She's never once let on how horrible it must be to have a sister in a coma, a sister she's watched diminish and slowly die for over a year.

And then this afternoon. W's father came and asked to check W out of school. "A medical emergency." W raced out of the room.

Three events. So unique, so different, and yet so much the same.

I walked home today in the rain. It was cold and windy and wet. When I got home I leashed up Rubin and we went out in the weather again. I was hoping it would wash me somehow, make me feel as if the world in which I lived was good and clean.

It is, of course, both good and clean. But it is also evil and dirty. It's also unjust and unfair.

I am thankful for the rain. I am thankful for the cold. I am thankful for the wind.

And, despite the pain, I am thankful I knew Jim, that I know the foster mother of a troubled young man, and that I know a young girl who is facing the world the only way she knows how -- one moment at a time.

In Times Like These

I am addicted to the sound of the keyboard. The clickclickclick feels cathartic. I want to hear it. I need to hear it. I find myself typing and typing faster and faster pushing the limits of my skill just to hear the pattern of sound my thoughts make as they are transferred through the keyboard.

And I have nothing to write, really, just random thoughts about random things.

We just returned from dinner at our neighbors. Lamb soup. I did not eat it. I tried, but pictures of the lambs I once raised kept leaping into my mind. I ate salad and hummus and bread and goat cheese.

We laughed as we shared the meal with our neighbor's housemate, Abdullah who is learning English, but as our neighbor says, "Has yet to put a whole sentence together."

Still, we understood each other. He was cold. It is not this cold in Saudi Arabia. There is no ice. He waited 30 minutes at the bus stop. He was cold.

He ate the radishes on the plate with a fork. They rolled around while he politely tried to stab them. I laughed and pantomimed the radish ricocheting around the room. He laughed.

I had today off. No school because of the ice and snow though there was more ice than snow. I was thankful for the day and I'm trying hard not to long for another tomorrow. At noon I took a nap and slept deeply. Now I feel rested, but still one more day would feel healing.

I have made a resolution. I will no longer complain. Well, I will try to stop complaining so much. I am alive and I must live this life. Each day. Each day until I am no longer a teacher. And then, each day again without complaint.

I read Bookworm's blog and I cried. Ann wanted to read it so I read it again over her shoulder and I cried again. Bookworm, there is such beauty in your pain. I feel wrong to say it, but your voice is so strong, your words are so exactly what they should be. I wish to have such wisdom at such a time.

Instead, I just want to hear the sound of the keys under my fingers tapping out something. Even if it isn't beautiful, I want the sound to soothe me.

I am saddest when I think of what is left behind. Yes, Fossil Guy is gone and there is a hole in the universe, but it is the ripples that make me cry. My parents. Bookworm. The children. The grandchildren. All the friends, the mountains of friends. All ripples and I know not how to offer comfort or sympathy and I feel arrogant in thinking that my offer is of any use.

Rubin has come into the study and laid his head on the carpet with a big sigh. He liked today. Snow. Staying home. Playing with his dog friends from up the street. The long walks.

Tonight, while we went to our neighbor's house for dinner, we left his kennel door open as a test. Will he feel comfortable moving about the house when we aren't here? Eventually we want to be able to just leave him in the house, no longer using the kennel. When we came home 2 hours later and he was still in his kennel, the door open, and he waited for our "okay" before he came out.

His kennel is a comfort. The sound of the keyboard appears to be mine.

I guess we each find what we need in times like these.

6:40

It's not raining yet, today, but the Ethiopian women are bundled for the wet and the cold. They scurry by our house dressed in white scarves and wool coats. There isn't a single place to park on the block, but the churchgoers try again and again to squeeze their SUV's into tiny spots next to fire hydrants and driveways. They park too far away from the curb, their cars angled out into the middle of the street. The neighbors across the street call the police. Every Sunday, they wake up, place orange cones in front of their house and driveway and then, call the police.

This happens every Sunday. We don't go anywhere on Sundays unless we are away until after noon when all of the churchgoers have unwedged their cars and gone home.

But this is not every Sunday. Today I feel like donning a white scarf and chanting in the orange Coptic Christian church where all the Ethiopians are headed. Today I feel like saying the name of god over and over again in a foreign tongue until my throat grows raw, until my knees bleed rocking back and forth on the cement floor.

I woke at 6:40 this morning. I looked at the clock and thought, "Is Jim (Fossil Guy) still alive?" Then I took the dog out and watched the Ethiopians drive down the street looking for their parking places. I crawled back into bed, summoning the dog up with us. He rested on a pillow in between us, his head draped over my hip.

"Is Jim still alive?" I thought it again and kissed Ann on the forehead.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Just thinking about Jim."

I came downstairs and got the paper, made coffee, and listened to the radio. A slow morning. Ann read the paper and I searched for new music on iTunes.

Then an email from mom and dad. Jim died this morning. 6:40.

Death is a squeeze to the heart. Not a gentle squeeze but a firm one. It hurts. It reminds you you are still alive. I want to do something to relieve the squeeze, but there is nothing to do.

I shall take the dog for a walk. I shall grade papers for the upcoming week. I shall clean the house, fold the laundry, and call my parents.

But those aren't things one can do to loosen the heart. It's tight and it will stay that way for days, weeks, and Sundays to come.

Goodbye, Fossil Guy. Know that you are loved.

Still.

And that the women in white chant their prayers not knowing they are chanting for you.

I know.

I will miss you.

42.2 Days

I've been thinking a lot about time. Every day it walks around with me on my wrist, in my head, and now even on my computer. We bought a new computer recently and because of the ridiculously short life of computers, I had to reload all of my music. It took over a week. CD in, hit IMPORT, CD out and do it all again. At the bottom of the iTunes window I watched the minutes, the hours, and the days count up. Now, if I played my library from beginning to end it would run for 42.2 days.

A lot can happen in 42.2 days.

Today, for instance. My allergies returned. Full throttle. I could scratch my eyes out and perhaps feel better. I could rub my knuckle deep into my skin and perhaps relieve the pain from the unending itch. Instead, I'm taking too much Benadryl and trying to stay calm.

Today, part two. Rubin went in to have a tooth removed. It came in crooked. So crooked, in fact, it dug a hole in the roof of his mouth. So crooked, all the other teeth shifted and now his once minor underbite is a major underbite. Tonight he is groggy and wobbly and disoriented. He wants to sleep, but he finds himself staring out the back door window, slightly leaning, with an occasional "woof" escaping from his drooling mouth.

42.2 days. That's a long time to listen to music.

In 6 months I will no longer be a teacher. I've submitted my intent to resign at the end of the school year. Then I jump my ship of certainty for something wobbly and groggy. I'll stand at the back door of my life and drool. 6 months seems like an eternity though where every day I must face students who make demands, ask questions, feel insecure, want my attention, create crises, walk around self-absorbed.

They don't know I'm leaving, yet, and frankly, I don't want them to know until the day after school gets out.

I don't like goodbyes. But that's still 6 very long months away.

Then I remember FossilGuy, my surrogate uncle. A man I've known since I was 8 or 9 or maybe 10. No one seems to quite remember. FossilGuy is dying. He's been given 6 months at the most.

Ironic. We have the same time though my time marks a shift and his, well, his marks a more permanent one I suppose.

6 months is too short. When I think of FossilGuy breathing through his oxygen tank 6 months feels too long, too.

Rubin has finally fallen asleep in his bed behind my chair. His head is still up, but now resting against the side of the bed. His breathing is heavy.

My eyes are itching and I just popped in two more Benadryl and an Allegra for good measure. Soon I'll be floating. I floated this afternoon almost down the stairs when I came home from work early to rest and attempt to get through this allergy attack. I was wobbly and groggy from the medications and only wanted to put on my pajamas and take a nap with a cold, damp cloth over my eyes. I felt as if my feet weren't touching the ground. The stairs moved and I caught myself on the railing.

I slept. I slept like the dead. I didn't move and when I woke, Rubin was there, wagging his tail and falling over. Ann picked him up from the vet hospital and she came in stroke my forehead and tell me about Rubin's tooth removal.

I have yet to listen to any of the music on the computer. I feel almost compelled to play it straight through -- 42.2 days straight through.

But I can't start. I don't want to measure time in songs. I don't want to measure time in transitions. I don't want to measure time in medication. I don't want to measure time in death.

I can feel the Benadryl coursing through me. My eyes are a tad less itchy. Still swollen and red, but not as unbearable as they were before.

I should stop complaining.

My heart is sad tonight. Not because of Rubin's tooth or my puffy eyes, but because I don't know what to say, what to do about FossilGuy. There's nothing to do. I can just send love his way. I can't fix it. I can't slow down time. I can't speed it up either.

It took me a week to download 42.2 days of music. There must be some kind of meaning in all of this, isn't there?

No. No meaning. Just time.

Eyebrows

I've been thinking about eyebrows lately.  My own in particular.  They are rough, but I've never really seen them as so...not until I looked at my friend Jeanne's eyebrows that she'd just had waxed.  First, it's important to know that both Jeanne and I are on the hairy side.  Not abnormally so (whatever that means), but fuzzy -- more hair than a lot of women. 

 

And it's black hair.  That makes a difference.  

Blond hair or lighter hair seems to go unnoticed say on unshaved legs or armpits, but black hair shows up.

Even in the dark.

So I was intrigued when Jeanne told me she'd waxed her eyebrows. 

I took a close look.  Yes, they were thinner and not nearly as thick or full as they'd been before. Certainly leaner and lighter than my own.  I was surprised Jeanne undertook such a procedure for she, like me, is not a girly-girl, not a lipstick lesbian or a femme -- all those labels people still pass around despite the changing times.

Once I'd seen her eyebrows it got me looking closer at the eyebrows on other women -- friends and passersby alike.

Eyebrows, in and of themselves, are simply swaths of hair placed in unique positions above people's eyes. They move.  They arch and furrow.  They lift.  Sometimes they lift awkwardly, haphazardly.  Sometimes they lift without each other.  They convey emotions.  Anger and fear, patience and sadness, love and frustration.  

Men's eyebrows are more varied. They are allowed to be.  Old men are prone to bushy brows like the man I saw standing in line ahead of me at Starbucks. Wisps bent in all directions, varying lengths of coarse hair curling into his forehead and temples and even into his eyes.  Some men, and women too, have uni-brows -- that line of hair that extends across the forehead, no distinct break for the natural line of the nose.

But women, I've noticed, sculpt their eyebrows.  Some, it seems, pluck the unwanted hair creating an arch and puffy red skin where the hairs used to be.  

Others do what Jeanne did -- waxed their eyebrows into a shape with a bit more curve.  No pointed apex, no tips sharply slanted toward the ears. 

Beauty or some perceived notion of beauty drives such artistry.

Or maybe it doesn't.  

Did Jeanne wax her eyebrows because she was worried about the shape and thickness and volume of hair?  Did she want to look more beautiful?  Did she look in the mirror and scare herself into making an appointment for an eyebrow wax?

I can't picture it.  Jeanne is beautiful no matter what her eyebrows look like but somehow she felt moved to rid her forehead of unwanted thickness.

Looking at eyebrows has made me look at my own.  Years ago I thought I'd never be a woman who plucked anything, but then weird, wiry hairs started to appear on my chin.  I took a pair of tweezers to them and yanked whenever the black whiskers showed themselves.  

One day, a few years back, Ann and I spotted an older man who had huge strands of hair emanating from the moles on his face.  Lengthy.  Five or six inches lengthy.  I have moles, too, and hair pops out all the time.  In fact, one particular mole gets so hairy old women and young children often try to slap the spider from my neck.  

I clip those hairs often.

When we saw the man with the long wisps of hair on his face, I turned to Ann and said, "You'd tell me if I had hair protruding from my face like that wouldn't you?"

She just laughed, but when I looked in the mirror, my god, there were three hairs curling out of my cheek mole.  They  must have grown for weeks. I trimmed them instantly and then watched the mirror every morning for signs of unwanted growth.

So what's the difference? Why am I okay with trimming mole hairs, but not pruning my eyebrows?  

I looked at them closely this morning.  They aren't too bad.  They certainly aren't trim.  And when I use the word "trim" I mean like the trimmer or edger Ann uses to give the front parking strip that well-maintained, golf course look -- no raggedy edges spilling onto the sidewalk.

If my eyebrows are the grass and my skin the sidewalk, well I have to admit there are some wisps of grass growing out of the pavement.  

Should I pluck them?  Should I schedule a wax?  

Isn't okay that hair doesn't grow in neat little rows?  Isn't it okay that sprigs of black pop out at random locations?  Are people walking around looking at my eyebrows and saying, "Jesus, even cavewomen had less fur!"

I remember as a teenager deciding to no longer shave my legs.  This was a big deal because I was already an outcast and the hair on my legs is just like the hair on my head -- thick and dark.  

My nickname in high school was Magilla Gorilla.  

In college, when I walked into the women's bathroom with shorts on (and short hair on my head) women would gasp or even worse, tell me, "This is the women's bathroom!"

Once my mother said, "Oh honey, you should shave your legs, it looks so dirty!" (She'll deny that she said this, but believe me, it took years of therapy to get over that one.)

Of course, she sleeps with a man who has just as much hair on his legs as I do and more on his chest and back than I ever expect to see on my body.  Is he dirty?  

Our friend Trina came by today.  She has sculpted eyebrows.  They're almost perfect.  She's very young, of course, so it's hard to know if she makes them look like that or if they just come so well groomed.  

What did my eyebrows look like 20 years ago?

I haven't a clue.  I never looked.  I never even thought to look.

Now I can't seem to stop.

This Weather

The avalanche of fear accompanying the threat of Global Warming has always been a bit tempered by the thought that maybe, just maybe Seattle's gray wetness would evaporate. While Phoenix drowned in rainstorms, we'd luxuriate in warm, sunny weather at least 6 months out of the year instead of the standard 6 weeks.

But no, Global Warming (yes, capitalized) has only made our gray, wet, cold weather grayer, wetter, and colder along with windier and slightly more unpredictable. Every fall and spring the local news stations innundate us with footage of floods from the flatlands, but this year, the floods rolled down the hills and through the cities and right into our neighborhood tucked safely, we thought, on one of the many Seattle hills right into the winter. Winds blew out powerlines, snow piled 87 inches high in the mountain passes by mid-December, and below freezing temperatures are predicted for the next few nights.

This isn't uncommon, but the frequency has increased and the skies have looked everso more ominous on my walks with the dog.

Is it possible that the length of the winter days is actually shorter than ever before? Is it possible that the nights have stretched into a record length? Did we move north in latitude?

Today offered us a respite. Yesterday too. It was dry yesterday though not completely clear until the afternoon, but today was sunny if not warm, and dry if not any less muddy. We sat on our new neighbor's porch and felt the sun on our faces and arms and laughed about all the mishaps of moving and remodeling. Our young neighbors have just moved in after days and nights of painting and sanding, caulking and stripping. This is their first home and they have high hopes for its future, but for now it is liveable and big enough to hold the whole family -- 16 in the extended group -- for the New Year's Eve festivities.

For now, the sky is that blue no one can quite describe, trapped between cerulean and turquoise, the kind of blue on postcards sent from tropical oceans. The pink horizon gives no hint of Global Warming, unlike the often orange skyline of summer. The air is clear after weeks of rain, but it's cold as well, my breath lifting from me each time I take the dog out.

Years ago I met a woman in French Glen, Oregon on the edges of the wildlife refuge. It was early in the morning and she was sitting on the screened in porch of the old hotel painting the sky. Her canvas was the large palette of a sketchbook, previous pages turned back on a spiral binding.

"What are you painting?" I asked.

"The weather," she replied and never once let her paintbrush lift from its purpose.

"How do you capture something so statistical with paints?"

She smiled and looked up. "Like this." She folded back the pages of her sketch book to reveal day after day of paintings. In the bottom right hand corner of each page she'd written location, temperature, humidity, precipitation and almost every other meterological data one would find on the evening weather report. "I paint each day," she continued, "And try to capture in color and texture that vague statistical data you mention."

She'd done it, too. The days prior felt captured in her book -- the unexpected lightning storm of the previous day, the slant of the sun against the migrating birds resting in the refuge wetlands, and the cloud cover that greeted me as I drove into French Glen.

"How long have you been doing this?" I asked.

"I'm recording the weather each day for a year. I began on January 1st." She went back to painting, mixing the colors to produce just the right morning blue of the muggy August sky.

I think of that woman often especially when the weather challenges the forecasts. I admired her discipline and perseverance. I admired her creative genius. I admired her desire to chronicle something very few people would remember.

I cannot paint, but I've often thought about keeping a daily weather journal. Every time I try, though, I long for the tubes of color she had laid before her. Words are not magnificent enough to capture the bitter frost of tonight or the gusts of tomorrow's windstorms.

Perhaps Global Warming is just a cyclical event. Perhaps thousands of years ago the weather leapt from the skies to slice down trees and set forests ablaze. Perhaps great drifts of ice melted into flooding streams that carved rock and tossed boulders tumbling. Perhaps huge swaths of grasslands parched into sands. Perhaps humans are nothing more than rooted debris, tenuous fixtures about to be swept into the rising oceans. Perhaps it can't be stopped and the warmth of the skies will wipe the earth's slate clean of human life with all of our words and paints, our statistics and predictions.

Today I am simply moved by this weather, whatever the reasons.

The Light

It rained all day. There was the promise of snow, but it was indistinguishable from the drops of rain. It was dark and wet all day. We did very little, which I resigned myself to about 3 this afternoon. Do nothing day, officially declared.

Now the gray light that filled our day is gone and it is dark and wet and cold. Ann is cooking dinner and Rubin is chowing down a bowl of kibble and chicken. For some reason it is this light that I love so much. It's not a natural light, but a warm light of the kitchen and the study, the lamp light in the living room and the glowing light above the stove where Ann is cooking.

I was glad when the winter solstice passed. The days would grow longer, more light to live by. But occasionally, I like this winter light or winter dark is more appropriate. Our house feels soft. Our house feels like a nesting place, a place where we can just do nothing and feel little to no guilt.

Ann never feels guilt about such days. I did for the first half, but then, lying on the couch with a book to finish and that lamp light warm above my head, the guilt faded away, much like the light of day and I settled into the darkness.

Now dinner is ready and we'll sit in that glow of the kitchen and talk about making cookies tonight -- a perfect endeavor on a dark, rainy night.

Courage

I love this picture because of Rubin's exposed tongue and my apparently missing teeth. I guess that's what happens when you turn 49 years old.

Today was a great day, though. We went to Peggy's farm and played with the horses. Rubin didn't play much, but Jeanne and Lisa's daughters played big time. They are two and four years old and were the pure definition of COURAGE.

When I was a kid, my family would watch "The Wizard of Oz" every year on our little black and white TV. You sort of lost the switch from Kansas to Munchkin land, though the quality of the picture changed right when Dorothy opened the door, but still, I remember that movie like I'd written it myself. Later, when we had a color TV, I'd hide in the kitchen when the Wicked Witch was on the old house with a ball of fire on her broom ready to hurl it at the scarecrow. Something about the green skin wigged me out, but once she was gone, I was skipping down the yellow brick road as they fetched up the Cowardly Lion.

I loved all the characters, but he was my favorite. I imitated him all the time -- What happens if you run into a Prontasaurus? I'd show him who's king of the forest! -- and I practiced under my covers after I watched the movie saying "Courage" with just the right amount of spittle in my throat.

Courage dribbles out of us, I think, as we get older. Okay, maybe not everyone, but I often feel like it's dribbled out of me. This is an interesting time. I'm finishing out my last year of teaching, getting ready to leap into something completely new and different, and all I could do today on my 49th birthday is cry as I listened to the four-year old say, upon watching Peggy demonstrate how to work with the horse, "I can do that!" And then she marched right into that arena and lead that horse around like she was 150 pounds and not 40 pounds.

And if that wasn't amazing enough, her two-year old sister got up on top of that 1,100 pound beast and pointed the direction she wanted to go every time Peggy said, "Where should we go?"

Courage, I've read, is not the lack of fear. It's supposedly knowing the fear and doing the thing anyway. I buy that on some level, but on another level there's something to be said for being purely courageous (doing the thing without the hint of fear). The girls were like that today. They hadn't a clue what there was to be afraid of though somehow they must have sensed it as they reached up above their heads and groomed the horse's belly. How could they not know that the animal next to them could squash them flat with just the wrong move?

But the horse was gentle and patient and the girls sensed that more than they sensed anything we adults define as fear.

I liked watching their courage today. I liked watching them move confidently forward, trusting Peggy and the horses without all those tapes playing in their heads -- "You can't do this...what the hell are you thinking? You're going to fail. What if I do something wrong? I could get hurt!" They were inspirational today and the perfect birthday present. Courage is about moving forward, with a smile on your face and a swagger in your walk that says, "It doesn't get any better than this!"

It doesn't. It really, really doesn't.

Working Alternatives

My survival these days depends upon long walks in the inclement weather. My cheeks are flushed from a brisk cruise down by the lake with Rubin in tow. Walking is my meditation and when I walk I think about my life -- past, present, and future.


Last week was no exception. In the waning winter light I thought about leaving teaching and everything that might mean. I'm ready to leave, but in the wake of that decision are doubts. Who am I if I'm not a teacher? What skills do I have to be anything else other than a teacher? What if, when I make the leap to dog training and writing, I fail?

Fear defines my wake along with the doubt and a whitecap or two of insecurity about myself, my skills, and my desires.

So when I came home from my long, pondering walk I talked with Ann.

Me: How are you feeling about my desire to leave teaching?

Ann: Fine. You're ready.

Me: Yeah, but what if it doesn't go well?

Ann: How wouldn't it go well?

Me: What if I don't like what I've chosen, what if I fail, what if I can't earn enough money?

Ann: (Who is putzing around the kitchen never stopping to look at my fears with me, just moving intently from the fridge to the sink to the garbage can to the stove...) Well then, I guess you can always be a lesbian prostitute.

This, of course, makes me laugh. Ann is not a worrier. She just takes things as they come. She may get upset about something, but generally that something doesn't linger long -- she moves on and in her wake is a uniformed set of waves disappearing in the wide expanse of her life.

Later that night we're watching TV. I'm still chewing my arm off with worry. Ann's talking about the landscaping that's currently happening in our muddy yard.

Ann: It looks good, doesn't it?

Me: Yes, though I'm tired of the mud.

Ann: (Who can see beyond the next few months...) Yeah, but next year, it's gonna be great and we can have dinner out on the new deck and really enjoy it.

Me: Unless I'm in the poor house.

Ann: You won't be poor. You'll be "the wife" making the meals and cleaning the house. (She smiles.)

Me: That would be okay with you?

Ann: Sure! Why not? Who doesn't want a wife?

Me: Okay, I promise to be the best lesbian prostitute wife you've ever had!

Ann: Actually, you'd be the first!

We laugh and though I know she'll never let me starve or be homeless or feel guilty about being "kept woman" I still worry that this is the right move at the right time.

Yesterday I met with our school's "consultant" who meets with the staff to talk about issues that might be running under the surface. My issues are personal and have to do with how I go about telling everyone (especially my teaching partner) that I'm leaving.

Consultant: Telling is a series of stories. You don't just tell this once. You'll tell it over and over and every time you tell it, your narrative will refine itself and the truth will emerge.

Me: The truth?

C: Sure. Right now the truth is emerging even as you tell me. First your story was focused on the issues here at school and then, the more you spoke, the more the story became about you and your self awareness that you are becoming something you don't admire -- a cranky, bitchy old teacher. The more you tell the narrative of your leaving, the more the story will be about you and not everyone else. That's the truth. You need to leave to stretch yourself. You need to leave to pursue other passions in your life. You need to leave because you need to be fulfilled and challenged and after 22 years of teaching, that's not happening any more. You are at a key place in your life -- you either leave now or you stay for the next 10 years and retire. People will understand that story. People will understand the service you've provided for 22 years and they will be grateful for you, they will be supportive of you, they will be sad, but they'll wish you well, too.

Me: But what if I fail?

C: You won't fail. Life will just be different. And if it's a difference you didn't want, you'll find your way back here or to something that does feel right. You aren't going to do nothing are you? You don't strike me as a person who's going to do nothing?

We laugh. No, I'm not that kind of person. If I was, the worry about doing nothing would eat me alive, one limb at a time.

After my talk with the consultant, I spoke with our Assistant Head of School. I love this man. He's kind and sensitive and I trust him completely. When I told him about my conversation with the consultant, he nodded and said, "I won't lie. This is hard for me. It's going to take me awhile to get over your leaving. You are one of the finest teachers I've ever known."

I was stunned. "Thank you" was all that popped out, before he continued, "But don't count us out completely. We're looking at hiring master teachers who would work part time with our younger faculty to support them. Keep that open as an option."

When I think about it now, I realize I have many options -- clerk at REI, dog trainer, writer, part-time master teacher, wife, and lesbian prostitute. Maybe that's why I slept so well last night -- my wake didn't look so choppy with doubt and fear any more.

And now Rubin wants his morning walk. It's windy and cold outside...just what I need to chill off my doubts.

Narrowing It Down

In high school I was a sprinter. I ran the 100, 200, and 400 meter races. I long jumped. I competed in sports that required my speed -- basketball, softball, volleyball, and yes, even badmitton. I liked fast and I still do. My brain even works fast. I think 10 steps ahead with contingency plans along the way.

Ann, on the other hand, moves at one speed. I kid her about this, but it's the truth. One speed. She does not hurry and if pushed to hurry she gets flustered and snippy, she shuts down and gets quiet. She considers all options before she makes a move and sometimes this can take days or weeks.

When her father died last spring, she spent months talking with her financial planner about the best choices for the inheritance. Meanwhile, papers needed to be signed and the longer Ann took to sign the papers, the longer her brother, but mostly her sister had to wait (her sister was much more anxious and in need of the money). So her sister would call and sometimes her brother, but her brother calling was always a relaxed conversation as he explained the details of being executor of the estate. Phone calls with her sister are rare, but for about 3 weeks, Ann received 3-4 phone calls a week and though they'd start out, "How are you?" they'd end up with, "When are you going to sign the papers?"

Now that Ann has signed the papers and distributed her money into well-researched funds, her sister no longer calls on a weekly or even monthly basis.

But that is neither here nor there. The point is, Ann is thoughtful and takes her time with important decisions and even the unimportant ones.

Being a sprinter, it can drive me crazy. I like to make and act on my decisions. Like right now, I've decided to shift from teaching into dog training, but I must complete the next 6 months of my contract. It's difficult because while I teach during the day, I train dogs three nights a week. During the day, I rarely feel joy. During the night training classes I feel joy every moment.

But I must be patient. It's a distance race not a sprint and so I must conserve my energy if I expect to see the finish line.

So, while Ann flew out of town to visit her sister who is recovering (quite nicely) from her masectomy (her only sister and hence the one who rarely calls unless money is involved), I started researching the purchase of a new car.

In a previous post I spelled out my dilemma. Hybrid or bio-diesel? Small car or SUV? Do we own two cars instead of one? Do we sell our car now and buy something new and environmentally friendly? Or do we buy two cars and sell our old one?

I did my research and have surmised that we need a Ford Escape Hybrid. Though I'd prefer a 2007, there aren't that many out there and so I am stuck looking at the 2008. But part of my dilemma is still there -- do we own one car or two? Do we sell our Toyota 4Runner or keep it, adding a hybrid to our family?

If I were living on my own, I'd go out tomorrow and sell our SUV and buy the Ford.

But I live with Ann and she doesn't sprint to her decisions.

So, while she was away I wrote out the 4 options we have for purchasing a car. While Ann appreciated it she still is not ready to make a decision.

Meanwhile, I'm in my anxious mode. "If we find a 2007 Ford Escape, I think we should buy it," I tell her.

"Why?"

"Because they have better gas mileage than the 2008's and Click and Clack think it's a better deal, but there aren't that many out there so we must jump on any opportunity."

Silence.

"What do you think?"

Silence.

And then, "I'm not ready to make this decision. Let's talk about it when I'm not so tired."

Sprint, sprint, sprint. My heart is surging ahead and now I must wait. I am not good at waiting, though I know Ann's way of making decisions is probably more advisable. Still, now that I've done all my research and narrowed it down, it feels time to act.

I am the hare clicking away at the computer comparison shopping.

My tortise is asleep on the couch. The TV is on and lo and behold, an ad for a Ford Escape Hybrid comes on.

Wake up, wake up!

But if I've learned anything it's that an anxious hare cannot rouse of resting tortise.