Don't worry. You have my support. Though my state's primaries are long gone, you got my vote. And until it was stolen, I even had a sign for you in the front yard. I took it as a compliment. Someone wanted to put the sign in their yard and couldn't afford to purchase one of their own is how I comforted myself. It's like that sometimes in my neighborhood. Even though gentrification has swept through some of the streets where I live, the neighborhood is still pretty poor, black, and therefore, according to media pundits, in your column for votes.
Still, there's something that's been bothering me lately. Just like my neighborhood, it has to do with money. When I read in the local and national headlines that you've raised 40 million dollars in a month and Clinton another 25 million, I'm torn from feeling happy that more people seem to want to put their money in support of you than Clinton (or even John McCain for that matter), but also angry that so much money is going to something as crazy as who will "lead" our country for the next four years.
40 million dollars can go a long way when you really think about it. And you've raised that much in one month. For what? Advertising? Paying your overworked staffers? Campaign costs? Nice suits and shoes? I mean, you spent more in Pennsylvania than any other candidate past or present and you still lost, though I know you don't frame it that way. Still, you didn't win and you spent oodles of money trying to convince all those white, working-class voters to believe in you.
It didn't work, I'm sorry to say, but I think I have something that just might. Instead of spending all that money on TV commercials and jets to fly you from Pennsylvania to Indiana and then to North Carolina, why not spend that money in a more meaningful way. Here are some suggestions:
1) Build "green" homes with Brad and Angelina in New Orleans.
2) Buy groceries for a family struggling to make ends meet. As you probably know, children make up 25% of our population, but they make up 35% of the poor in our country.
3) Pay for job training (or retraining) for all those unemployed workers you refer to in your speeches.
4) Fix up the Veteran's Hospitals around the country.
5) Fund a school district of your choice. Or ten.
6) Support organic farmers.
7) Buy part of the ocean and create a marine sanctuary to protect our rapidly dying seas.
8) Pay for solar panels on as many houses in as many cities as you can.
9) Clean up the polluted rivers and bays around the country.
10) Pay to clean up Hanford's toxic waste site.
I can think of a billion more things you can do with your millions (or maybe it's billions if you add it all up) than to spend it on advertising and spiteful debating. Besides, imagine the press coverage you'd get if you polled your supporters on your website for their ideas and then spent your money on their suggestions? "Barack Obama pays off the mortgage debt for 500 homeowners." Don't you think that headline would garner you more votes among those white, working class women than anything else you might spend your money on?
I think so.
Good luck and thanks for listening,
No Apologies
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Monday, April 21, 2008
Spectacles
I left right after school let out today to weave my way through downtown Seattle on my way to Queen Anne Hill for an eye check-up. Navigating from one end of town to the other is not easy in Seattle. Neighborhoods like Ballard and West Seattle are the long arms of the sea star that make up the city. We live in the Central District, which is, as indicated by the name, central to everything.
But nothing is central to Ballard, West Seattle, and yes, Queen Anne. So I drove circuitous routes avoiding places I knew would be jammed with buses and cars and hundreds of people crossing the street.
Queen Anne a whole different world. Living in one neighborhood insulates me from the others and when I have a chance to wander around a bit, I'm amazed how different one neighborhood is from the other.
Queen Anne is packed with expensive condos, old homes, and wide neighborhood streets. Before my appointment I walked the back streets and found little bakeries tucked next door to churches. Pricey grocery stores and trendy coffee houses line the main street. Neighbors walk by with their well-groomed dogs on a diamond-studded leash and traffic stops when people try to cross.
Nary a drug addict or a Walgreen's to be found.
Where I live, the streets are narrower and filled with potholes. Parking is an impossibility and pit bulls lunge on the end of their short chains attached to young men in over-sized black clothes. Women wander the corners of the neighborhood waiting for their dealers or their pimps, and chicken bones pepper the sidewalk as crows drop them from power and telephone lines.
There are no power or telephone lines on Queen Anne Hill. They're all buried underground.
And everywhere I looked today were white people just like me, enjoying the first warm sun we've seen in weeks.
I like my neighborhood. I like how families sit out on their porches on hot summer evenings and wave a hello with a nod and grin. I like how easy it is to hop on a bus or my bike or even walk to the library or downtown to the bookstore. I like the diversity of faces -- the Asian woman racing across the street against a red light, the elderly black woman in her wool beret and thick, bunched up socks, and the Latino man in his work clothes heading for the bus.
I never realize the deficits of my neighborhood until I venture into another one, a more upscale one with it's high-priced shops and trendy espresso stands.
Money equals power and power means you can get the city to fill your potholes, bury your power lines, and arrest the prostitutes and drug dealers -- or at least push them to the next neighborhood. With money you have voice. I could hear that voice loud and clear today while wondering the streets of Queen Anne.
After the eye appointment I stopped at the trendy grocery store to pick up some dinner and a few odds and ends I missed when I shopped this weekend.
"I'm sorry," I said to the young, African-American clerk, "I forgot my cloth bags. Can you just cram the groceries into one bag?"
"No problem!" she said with a smile. "If you spend $50 tomorrow at our store, you get cloth bags for free."
"Too bad I don't live around here," I smiled back.
"Well, we have stores all over the city. They have same offer. Where do you live?"
"I live in the Central District," I told her.
"Oh," she said and I knew she understood the greater meanings. "Guess your options are limited."
"Very," I replied.
But when I got home, I looked passed the limitations and saw the first buds on the maple trees that line the street, the old Reverend who sweeps his front walkway every day, and my neighbors walking their new baby in a stroller.
You don't know what you don't have until you see what others have and then you can either covet their haves or cherish your own.
I'm choosing to see what I have and with a new prescription for stronger glasses, I'm thankful I can see quite a lot.
But nothing is central to Ballard, West Seattle, and yes, Queen Anne. So I drove circuitous routes avoiding places I knew would be jammed with buses and cars and hundreds of people crossing the street.
Queen Anne a whole different world. Living in one neighborhood insulates me from the others and when I have a chance to wander around a bit, I'm amazed how different one neighborhood is from the other.
Queen Anne is packed with expensive condos, old homes, and wide neighborhood streets. Before my appointment I walked the back streets and found little bakeries tucked next door to churches. Pricey grocery stores and trendy coffee houses line the main street. Neighbors walk by with their well-groomed dogs on a diamond-studded leash and traffic stops when people try to cross.
Nary a drug addict or a Walgreen's to be found.
Where I live, the streets are narrower and filled with potholes. Parking is an impossibility and pit bulls lunge on the end of their short chains attached to young men in over-sized black clothes. Women wander the corners of the neighborhood waiting for their dealers or their pimps, and chicken bones pepper the sidewalk as crows drop them from power and telephone lines.
There are no power or telephone lines on Queen Anne Hill. They're all buried underground.
And everywhere I looked today were white people just like me, enjoying the first warm sun we've seen in weeks.
I like my neighborhood. I like how families sit out on their porches on hot summer evenings and wave a hello with a nod and grin. I like how easy it is to hop on a bus or my bike or even walk to the library or downtown to the bookstore. I like the diversity of faces -- the Asian woman racing across the street against a red light, the elderly black woman in her wool beret and thick, bunched up socks, and the Latino man in his work clothes heading for the bus.
I never realize the deficits of my neighborhood until I venture into another one, a more upscale one with it's high-priced shops and trendy espresso stands.
Money equals power and power means you can get the city to fill your potholes, bury your power lines, and arrest the prostitutes and drug dealers -- or at least push them to the next neighborhood. With money you have voice. I could hear that voice loud and clear today while wondering the streets of Queen Anne.
After the eye appointment I stopped at the trendy grocery store to pick up some dinner and a few odds and ends I missed when I shopped this weekend.
"I'm sorry," I said to the young, African-American clerk, "I forgot my cloth bags. Can you just cram the groceries into one bag?"
"No problem!" she said with a smile. "If you spend $50 tomorrow at our store, you get cloth bags for free."
"Too bad I don't live around here," I smiled back.
"Well, we have stores all over the city. They have same offer. Where do you live?"
"I live in the Central District," I told her.
"Oh," she said and I knew she understood the greater meanings. "Guess your options are limited."
"Very," I replied.
But when I got home, I looked passed the limitations and saw the first buds on the maple trees that line the street, the old Reverend who sweeps his front walkway every day, and my neighbors walking their new baby in a stroller.
You don't know what you don't have until you see what others have and then you can either covet their haves or cherish your own.
I'm choosing to see what I have and with a new prescription for stronger glasses, I'm thankful I can see quite a lot.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Dang nabbit!
I like cold. I love snow. I like to get all bundled up in my heavy wool sweaters and thick gloves, my fleece pants and a woolen hat. I like to go for long walks when the temperature dips below freezing and watch my breath trail behind me as I go. I love the feeling of entering a warm house after a brisk, chilly walk. I love the smell of the wintry air, the way my eyes water when I first step out the door into the frigidity.
But dang nabbit, it's spring and it shouldn't be this cold.
This morning we woke to 34 degrees and crisp, chilly blue skies. First I went for a jog with Rubin. I warmed up, but had scheduled a bike ride with the neighbor at ten. She wanted to know the bike route to the University and I volunteered. I kicked myself as we rode down the big hills in the frosty weather, my hands chapped and clamped onto my handlebars, my nose dripping, and my ears burning with the cold. On the way back, it started to snow.
Let me say that again: It started to snow. April 20 and it started to snow. Rain I understand. Semi-cold, gray, rainy days I get. April showers bring May flowers -- that kind of gray and rainy. That kind of cold. Like flowers blooming is a possibility if not an actuality.
But now it's so cold, the flowers have retreated. They've headed to Florida that's how far they have retreated. Or maybe Texas. Or maybe even Australia where technically it's winter, but it's probably warmer than our spring. The flowers would be stupid to show their little buds in this weather.
Meanwhile, the heating bill is substantially higher. I watch that little year-long-use graph and cringe when the bar for March and April shoots far above the bar marking last March and April. And I thought it was cold last spring!
My toes are cold. My ears are cold. At night, my nose is so cold I sleep with my head under the covers. I NEVER sleep with my nose under the covers because I feel as if I'm suffocating, but now I'm so desperate to be warm, I risk suffocation every night.
The outlook for warmer weather is dismal. I check the 5-day forecast and chilly mornings are to be followed by chilly, rainy days. When I look at the 10-day forecast there always seems to be some optimism with predictions of 60 degree weather. But these past few weeks I've learned to loathe those predictions as they are almost always incorrect. Actually, they are incorrect when they forecast warmer temperatures. When they forecast colder weather they are dead on.
Dang nabbit!
But dang nabbit, it's spring and it shouldn't be this cold.
This morning we woke to 34 degrees and crisp, chilly blue skies. First I went for a jog with Rubin. I warmed up, but had scheduled a bike ride with the neighbor at ten. She wanted to know the bike route to the University and I volunteered. I kicked myself as we rode down the big hills in the frosty weather, my hands chapped and clamped onto my handlebars, my nose dripping, and my ears burning with the cold. On the way back, it started to snow.
Let me say that again: It started to snow. April 20 and it started to snow. Rain I understand. Semi-cold, gray, rainy days I get. April showers bring May flowers -- that kind of gray and rainy. That kind of cold. Like flowers blooming is a possibility if not an actuality.
But now it's so cold, the flowers have retreated. They've headed to Florida that's how far they have retreated. Or maybe Texas. Or maybe even Australia where technically it's winter, but it's probably warmer than our spring. The flowers would be stupid to show their little buds in this weather.
Meanwhile, the heating bill is substantially higher. I watch that little year-long-use graph and cringe when the bar for March and April shoots far above the bar marking last March and April. And I thought it was cold last spring!
My toes are cold. My ears are cold. At night, my nose is so cold I sleep with my head under the covers. I NEVER sleep with my nose under the covers because I feel as if I'm suffocating, but now I'm so desperate to be warm, I risk suffocation every night.
The outlook for warmer weather is dismal. I check the 5-day forecast and chilly mornings are to be followed by chilly, rainy days. When I look at the 10-day forecast there always seems to be some optimism with predictions of 60 degree weather. But these past few weeks I've learned to loathe those predictions as they are almost always incorrect. Actually, they are incorrect when they forecast warmer temperatures. When they forecast colder weather they are dead on.
Dang nabbit!
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Time in the Chair
My friend Cheryl tells me that writing is about your butt in the seat or time in the chair. She's right. It's a discipline and I'm trying desperately to master it. Some days are better than others.
Tonight, it's a struggle.
I woke this morning thinking, "Is it Friday?" and then realized for the past three Thursday mornings I've wondered the same things. A four-day work week lives inside of me somewhere though I have never really had such a luxury except when I worked part time while completing my MFA.
Then it was all about my butt in a chair, though I tempered all the writing with long, strenuous walks through the woods or on the beach. Now my days are filled with teaching and long, vigorous walks with Rubin through the streets of Seattle neighborhoods or along Lake Washington. I love those walks, but it doesn't leave me much time to put my seat in my seat.
But here I am, butt planted, and I'm struggling to find a topic. This is perhaps the tough thing about discipline. As a (former) athlete, discipline made sense. Get up, run, lift weights, practice drills, eat, stretch, eat some more, then go to bed tired and satisfied. Writing doesn't feel so regimented. There are no exercises to complete, no training schedule to meet. Instead of being tired and satisfied, my head spins with too many thoughts about what needs to get done by the end of the school year and people I need to contact to make it all work.
I loved being in a writing program. There were assignments. There were expectations and those expectations were outside myself. I was motivated by tasks to complete and professors to please. Now it's just me, my own ideas, and my expanding butt in this often too firm chair.
The other day on NPR I listened to a man who had just published his first book. I caught only part of the story, half an ear focused in twelve different morning directions. But I heard him confess to two important commitments. First, he gave himself five years to do nothing but write. (He was 45 at the time.) Next, he decided to pull out his typewriter, his favorite stories written by some of his favorite writers and retype their work...actually hammer out on a manual typewriter stories already written by someone else. He told the interviewer that those two commitments grounded him in the discipline of being a writer and even though he only got four stories published in those five years, he grew as a writer in ways he'd never imagined.
Oh, and he recently published a novel.
In my MFA program we were required to choose five of our favorite writers and write an essay in their voice. It was the hardest assignment I had in my two years in the program, but one I know challenged me as well as improved my writing. If I remember right, I chose Terry Tempest Williams, Nancy Mairs, Kathleen Dean Moore, Caroline Knapp, and then I really challenged myself and chose Jamaica Kincaid. I'm not sure I pulled it off, but I don't think that was the point of the assignment. There was a magic in the assignment. I got to leave my head for an hour or two, immerse myself in the words of others, and then spend the next hour or three living their voice on the page.
Maybe because I've been a teacher for so long I have a desire for my own assignments. A teacher would be nice, too, but even just a list of writing assignments with due dates and page lengths. Perhaps that's what all those contests are about whose announcements show up in my email box every week or so from my MFA program. I haven't been bold enough to pursue them, but maybe soon, with my shift of focus in work and in time I should muster up the courage to enter a few.
But this discipline thing scares me. Can I do it on my own?
As of late, aside from the walking, my exercise discipline has been lacking. I've recently recommitted myself to stretches and strength training in addition to the seven or so miles Rubin and I pound out in our walks to school, around the 'hood, and back home again. Now that he's old enough, we've even taken to some jogging for a couple of minutes to raise my heart rate (definitely not his) and it feels good to feel the press of my lungs working and my legs straining. Still, it's nothing like what I used to do and perhaps that's a good thing since my former athlete's body is damaged from all those jumping exercises up the stadium steps and miles of running with a sore knee or a strained back.
Maybe that's the lesson in all of this. Discipline is one thing, but moderation is the other. Carving out time to write is important, but it will only work, past experience tells me, if I temper the journey with those long walks of the brain and the heart. If I can't have the assignments doled out each week, at least I can have the time to think along with the time in the chair.
Mark Doty, the poet, once said in a workshop I attended that when you get to the end of a poem you need to be surprised by the last line. You need to feel as if the last line showed up and you really had nothing to do with it. It arrives because it was time.
I like that image.
I'm ready to be surprised. I'm ready for it to arrive because I've given it time.
And in the end, Cheryl is dead on: I need to show up.
Tonight, it's a struggle.
I woke this morning thinking, "Is it Friday?" and then realized for the past three Thursday mornings I've wondered the same things. A four-day work week lives inside of me somewhere though I have never really had such a luxury except when I worked part time while completing my MFA.
Then it was all about my butt in a chair, though I tempered all the writing with long, strenuous walks through the woods or on the beach. Now my days are filled with teaching and long, vigorous walks with Rubin through the streets of Seattle neighborhoods or along Lake Washington. I love those walks, but it doesn't leave me much time to put my seat in my seat.
But here I am, butt planted, and I'm struggling to find a topic. This is perhaps the tough thing about discipline. As a (former) athlete, discipline made sense. Get up, run, lift weights, practice drills, eat, stretch, eat some more, then go to bed tired and satisfied. Writing doesn't feel so regimented. There are no exercises to complete, no training schedule to meet. Instead of being tired and satisfied, my head spins with too many thoughts about what needs to get done by the end of the school year and people I need to contact to make it all work.
I loved being in a writing program. There were assignments. There were expectations and those expectations were outside myself. I was motivated by tasks to complete and professors to please. Now it's just me, my own ideas, and my expanding butt in this often too firm chair.
The other day on NPR I listened to a man who had just published his first book. I caught only part of the story, half an ear focused in twelve different morning directions. But I heard him confess to two important commitments. First, he gave himself five years to do nothing but write. (He was 45 at the time.) Next, he decided to pull out his typewriter, his favorite stories written by some of his favorite writers and retype their work...actually hammer out on a manual typewriter stories already written by someone else. He told the interviewer that those two commitments grounded him in the discipline of being a writer and even though he only got four stories published in those five years, he grew as a writer in ways he'd never imagined.
Oh, and he recently published a novel.
In my MFA program we were required to choose five of our favorite writers and write an essay in their voice. It was the hardest assignment I had in my two years in the program, but one I know challenged me as well as improved my writing. If I remember right, I chose Terry Tempest Williams, Nancy Mairs, Kathleen Dean Moore, Caroline Knapp, and then I really challenged myself and chose Jamaica Kincaid. I'm not sure I pulled it off, but I don't think that was the point of the assignment. There was a magic in the assignment. I got to leave my head for an hour or two, immerse myself in the words of others, and then spend the next hour or three living their voice on the page.
Maybe because I've been a teacher for so long I have a desire for my own assignments. A teacher would be nice, too, but even just a list of writing assignments with due dates and page lengths. Perhaps that's what all those contests are about whose announcements show up in my email box every week or so from my MFA program. I haven't been bold enough to pursue them, but maybe soon, with my shift of focus in work and in time I should muster up the courage to enter a few.
But this discipline thing scares me. Can I do it on my own?
As of late, aside from the walking, my exercise discipline has been lacking. I've recently recommitted myself to stretches and strength training in addition to the seven or so miles Rubin and I pound out in our walks to school, around the 'hood, and back home again. Now that he's old enough, we've even taken to some jogging for a couple of minutes to raise my heart rate (definitely not his) and it feels good to feel the press of my lungs working and my legs straining. Still, it's nothing like what I used to do and perhaps that's a good thing since my former athlete's body is damaged from all those jumping exercises up the stadium steps and miles of running with a sore knee or a strained back.
Maybe that's the lesson in all of this. Discipline is one thing, but moderation is the other. Carving out time to write is important, but it will only work, past experience tells me, if I temper the journey with those long walks of the brain and the heart. If I can't have the assignments doled out each week, at least I can have the time to think along with the time in the chair.
Mark Doty, the poet, once said in a workshop I attended that when you get to the end of a poem you need to be surprised by the last line. You need to feel as if the last line showed up and you really had nothing to do with it. It arrives because it was time.
I like that image.
I'm ready to be surprised. I'm ready for it to arrive because I've given it time.
And in the end, Cheryl is dead on: I need to show up.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Flea on a hot skillet
Last week, one of my students (I'll call her Sally because no one names their child Sally these days)...Sally was on an extended Spring Break vacation with her family. They traveled to Mexico and while she was gone, I didn't notice Sally's absence.
But upon her return this week, I noticed. Geez, did I notice.
Sally is a flea on a hot skillet. Medically speaking, she's been diagnosed with Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder, but that isn't an apt description. She's a young and lively flea on a very hot skillet.
Last week seemed easier, but I thought it was the "after spring break" relaxed phase. After three days with Sally, I've decided it wasn't relaxed last week, it was normal.
This week (all three days of it) have been anything but normal. It started on Monday. Sally came into the room in the morning, walked right up to my desk and asked, "What did I miss?" Before I could answer, she turned around to say hello to a classmate who'd just entered the room and within seconds, was conversing with yet another student standing by the door.
This was just the beginning. She flitted around the room all morning before class started, bouncing on her toes like a two-legged jack-in-the-box. Within seconds after giving instructions, her hand shot up. "But what if..." and it began, a series of questions that I'd either already addressed in my instructions or already answered for another student.
On Tuesday, during a work session, while the students independently worked on their projects, she blazed a trail to my desk at least 50 times in an hour. "I don't understand what you mean by..." to which I would explain myself again and she'd turn on her toe to head back to her seat, but never make it there. She'd turn around on her heel and be back at my desk, "But what if..."
It wasn't as if she didn't really understand the directions or the assignment or the project, rather she was trying to figure out how to do the least amount of work, put in the least amount of effort, or even, if she played her cards right, avoid the assignment altogether.
My teaching partner turned to me today, after conferencing with Sally over a math assignment, and growled, "She's going to drive me crazy!"
No shit.
Last week I started to really enjoy the group of students we have. I know, I should have "fallen in love" with them earlier as I did previous groups, but this group has been hard to love. I thought it had to do with the snobbery of the wealthy kids or the constant "I wants" from the middle class kids, but now I realize it was all because of Sally.
Without Sally they were a thoughtful, calm, and pleasing group. With Sally they're gossipy, irritated, and demanding. Could she really have this much power?
I watched her today with particular interest. She's out of her sit more than she's in it. And when she IS in it, it's not calmly. She squirms and dances as if tacks are on her seat. When she's out of her seat, she's in someone else's space and not quietly. She's talking and scheming, figuring out the social details she either missed out on last week or has found herself knee deep in this week.
"Tomorrow," I told my teaching partner, "I'm going to use a stopwatch and measure how many minutes she's out of her seat, how much she's in it, and how much of it she's silent."
"You'll be a busy woman," was her only reply.
If this weren't my last year of teaching, I'd probably find Sally amusing, but I've taught too many Sally's to find this behavior anything pleasing.
Once, I had a runner on the track team I coached. His name wasn't Dwayne, but I'll call him that. His ADHD was even more severe than Sally's. He was a magnificent runner. He ran the mile and two mile races and often won, but in order for him to perform up to his ability, I had to station other athletes all around the track, about every 100 meters or so. Their job was simply to "remind" Dwayne that he was in a race because, and you could see it happen, he'd totally lose focus, slow down, and do things like wave to a cute girl, watch the shot putters off to the side, or my favorite, actually stop in the middle of the race and try to talk with the other race participants.
With Dwayne I had a lot more patience than I do with Sally. He wasn't in my classroom. He was on the track running gracefully and with incredible speed. I didn't have to answer any of his questions because there was so much happening during any given practice or competition, he was always distracted by something or someone.
Not the case with Sally. We're together almost 7 hours a day, 5 days a week. She's everywhere, too. I turn around, and there she is with yet another question or inappropriate comment. She raises her hand to participate in class discussions and nine times out of ten, she's completely forgotten the topic and prattles on simply to hear her own voice or to "impress" her classmates.
Except for last week. Last week there was a silence I couldn't explain. Last week there wasn't a buzz of activity, motion without a purpose. Last week we all seemed to be on the same page and everyone seemed joyous and content.
The hardest part about teaching Sally is that I can't say any of this to her. "Hey Sally, when you weren't here last week, we got a whole lot done." Or "Hey Sally, when you weren't here last week there wasn't one single social crisis."
Instead, I muster up all my patience and do the best I can to answer her questions, redirect her energy, and turn down the flame on that hot, hot skillet.
Perhaps that's why I'm so tired tonight.
But upon her return this week, I noticed. Geez, did I notice.
Sally is a flea on a hot skillet. Medically speaking, she's been diagnosed with Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder, but that isn't an apt description. She's a young and lively flea on a very hot skillet.
Last week seemed easier, but I thought it was the "after spring break" relaxed phase. After three days with Sally, I've decided it wasn't relaxed last week, it was normal.
This week (all three days of it) have been anything but normal. It started on Monday. Sally came into the room in the morning, walked right up to my desk and asked, "What did I miss?" Before I could answer, she turned around to say hello to a classmate who'd just entered the room and within seconds, was conversing with yet another student standing by the door.
This was just the beginning. She flitted around the room all morning before class started, bouncing on her toes like a two-legged jack-in-the-box. Within seconds after giving instructions, her hand shot up. "But what if..." and it began, a series of questions that I'd either already addressed in my instructions or already answered for another student.
On Tuesday, during a work session, while the students independently worked on their projects, she blazed a trail to my desk at least 50 times in an hour. "I don't understand what you mean by..." to which I would explain myself again and she'd turn on her toe to head back to her seat, but never make it there. She'd turn around on her heel and be back at my desk, "But what if..."
It wasn't as if she didn't really understand the directions or the assignment or the project, rather she was trying to figure out how to do the least amount of work, put in the least amount of effort, or even, if she played her cards right, avoid the assignment altogether.
My teaching partner turned to me today, after conferencing with Sally over a math assignment, and growled, "She's going to drive me crazy!"
No shit.
Last week I started to really enjoy the group of students we have. I know, I should have "fallen in love" with them earlier as I did previous groups, but this group has been hard to love. I thought it had to do with the snobbery of the wealthy kids or the constant "I wants" from the middle class kids, but now I realize it was all because of Sally.
Without Sally they were a thoughtful, calm, and pleasing group. With Sally they're gossipy, irritated, and demanding. Could she really have this much power?
I watched her today with particular interest. She's out of her sit more than she's in it. And when she IS in it, it's not calmly. She squirms and dances as if tacks are on her seat. When she's out of her seat, she's in someone else's space and not quietly. She's talking and scheming, figuring out the social details she either missed out on last week or has found herself knee deep in this week.
"Tomorrow," I told my teaching partner, "I'm going to use a stopwatch and measure how many minutes she's out of her seat, how much she's in it, and how much of it she's silent."
"You'll be a busy woman," was her only reply.
If this weren't my last year of teaching, I'd probably find Sally amusing, but I've taught too many Sally's to find this behavior anything pleasing.
Once, I had a runner on the track team I coached. His name wasn't Dwayne, but I'll call him that. His ADHD was even more severe than Sally's. He was a magnificent runner. He ran the mile and two mile races and often won, but in order for him to perform up to his ability, I had to station other athletes all around the track, about every 100 meters or so. Their job was simply to "remind" Dwayne that he was in a race because, and you could see it happen, he'd totally lose focus, slow down, and do things like wave to a cute girl, watch the shot putters off to the side, or my favorite, actually stop in the middle of the race and try to talk with the other race participants.
With Dwayne I had a lot more patience than I do with Sally. He wasn't in my classroom. He was on the track running gracefully and with incredible speed. I didn't have to answer any of his questions because there was so much happening during any given practice or competition, he was always distracted by something or someone.
Not the case with Sally. We're together almost 7 hours a day, 5 days a week. She's everywhere, too. I turn around, and there she is with yet another question or inappropriate comment. She raises her hand to participate in class discussions and nine times out of ten, she's completely forgotten the topic and prattles on simply to hear her own voice or to "impress" her classmates.
Except for last week. Last week there was a silence I couldn't explain. Last week there wasn't a buzz of activity, motion without a purpose. Last week we all seemed to be on the same page and everyone seemed joyous and content.
The hardest part about teaching Sally is that I can't say any of this to her. "Hey Sally, when you weren't here last week, we got a whole lot done." Or "Hey Sally, when you weren't here last week there wasn't one single social crisis."
Instead, I muster up all my patience and do the best I can to answer her questions, redirect her energy, and turn down the flame on that hot, hot skillet.
Perhaps that's why I'm so tired tonight.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Transitions: The Sequel
Sunday nights have always been tough. I've relaxed just enough to feel the weight of Monday soil the edges of the last moments of a weekend.We spent this weekend with our friends Jeanne and Lisa at their cabin on the Wenatchee River. The photograph above reflects the level of our relaxation. While it's been cold and wet on this side of the mountains, we were greeted by sunshine and warmth on the other side. It was warm enough that we ate lunch outside and on our hike this morning, shed our jackets and fleece to bare our white arms and legs to the sun.
"My legs aren't white. They're blue!" I announced.
"Like non-fat milk?" Lisa asked.
"Exactly!"
We laughed and rested, read and talked, and all of us slept like we hadn't slept in decades. The air was dry and fresh with the scent of pine needles and spring. We watched the river rush by with winter snow melt and watched the mergansers fly down the river and then back up again. We counted the number of chipmunks on the bird feeder and listened for the woodpeckers and owls.
It was exactly what I needed.
But now it's Sunday night and Monday looms.
I haven't done any homework, but it doesn't seem to bother me. I know everything that needs to get done will get done, but I'm still a bit anxious about the flow of the day.
But that's tomorrow and I want to push out the worries of what might happen and hold on just a bit longer to the gentle rhythms of this weekend.
It's hard. I'm not good at it. I struggle with thinking about the next thing and not savoring the now thing. It's been a lifelong struggle.
I also struggle with being easy on myself. I have 8 more weeks left of teaching. 8 more weeks of this career and then the true transition begins though I think of all of this -- the next 8 weeks, the last 8 weeks -- as a kind of slow motion transition. I want to push through quickly and move on, but there's so much to do and the end of any school is not particularly easy. The end of this particular school year could be perhaps the roughest.
Lately, I've found myself irritated with the notion of having to explain the transition. If I had my way, no one would really know what I was doing. They'd just look up one day and I'd be gone or somewhere else and no explanation would be necessary.
But it's not working out that way. Friends (and Ann as well) announce my transition with pride and flair -- "She's leaving teaching, you know" or "She's retiring from teaching to become a dog trainer!"
I don't see myself as really doing any of those things as specifically as they are stated. Yes, I won't be teaching in a way I've always taught, but in many ways I will still be teaching just to a different clientèle. Yes, I want to train dogs, but it's not like I'm going to let go of one career and instantly be the other career -- there's a great deal to learn and absolutely no pay involved yet. And no, I don't see myself as retiring. Retiring feels like there's no job I "have" to do, just jobs I might want to do or things I want to do like volunteer or travel or sit on my ass and watch TV.
So, when people announce my transition, I feel compelled to explain or justify or clear up the image I somehow feel they are getting when in actuality, it isn't the image I have at all. With a bit of irritation, I then must engage in a conversation about the transition and answer questions I really don't have the answers to. "Where will you be working?" "Do you have clients?" "Has this been a difficult decision?"
I'm polite. I answer all the questions though my answers change from person to person. Inside I'm screaming, "Can't I just do this without having to explain it all?"
Early in the year, I met with Leah, a personal coach who was hired by the school to work with faculty and staff. I love Leah. She's powerful, she's articulate, she's clear-headed. She said to me that over the next few months (the months I've been experiencing as of late) I would have to define my leaving again and again. The story of my leaving will evolve and morph the more I was asked to tell it. At the time she was talking about having to explain my departure to my colleagues and to my students and their families. I haven't told my students yet and aside from my colleagues knowing, no one else associated with the school actually knows yet.
Still, I've had to define my leaving numerous times and in addition, something Leah did not warn me about, I've had to define my arriving -- my choice of becoming a dog trainer.
But it's not just being a dog trainer. There's more to this story and it's that part of the story I've been holding very close to the bone. I want to have time to write. While I've always loved working with dogs, while I've often thought about training dogs over the years, the real motivation for this move is to make more creative space in my life for writing.
I haven't shared this part of the telling with too many people. Odd that I'm sharing it here, but it seems less public than all the individual conversations I have when everyone announces my transition. I'm not sure why I haven't shared it, but I know it's a combination of fear (if I say I want to write, then I will have to have something to show for it so don't set up the expectation if you feel everyone else is going to hold you to it), disbelief (can I really take time to focus on something as ambiguous as writing?), and the unknown (what does it mean to focus on my writing?).
I suppose I should be glad everyone announces this transition as a move away from teaching to a move toward dog training because if they announced it as a move toward becoming a writer, I might throw myself into one helluva panic attack. As it is, I wake up once a night to the sound of my own fragile breathing and talk myself down from a full-throttle worry for about 10 minutes before I fall back asleep.
I am to become a dog trainer. This is much easier to swallow than something as nebulous as being a writer. I am leaving teaching after 22 years to pursue a passion for dogs feels a lot more solid than I am leaving a middle class income with summer's off to sit my ass in a chair and practice the discipline and art of writing without pay.
Sunday is dwindling, melting away like butter and Monday morning sits fat on my hips.
This was the first picture I took at the cabin. It's a trillium. The first bloom. I counted them as we hiked today. Hundreds hidden under pine trees. Somehow it gives me hope that I am on the right path despite my worries and dislike of transitions.
Friday, April 11, 2008
It's Been A Week
Oh my. The week back from Spring Break is always tough, but this week was tougher than I've experienced in a long, long time. It began with a field trip to the beach. It was a cold, cold day, but the rain held off and as we headed back to the cars, we sat on the big log by the parking lot and ate the rest of our lunch while the Beach Naturalist talked with us about our observations. Meanwhile, a parent stood next to me and talked. I hate it when they do that--like somehow the on-going lesson isn't worth listening to.
And then she said, "Where's N (my teaching partner)? Oh there she is. She looks like one of the kids!"
I know, it seems like an innocent comment, but 10 times a week we hear this comment and for N, well, it's 10 times too many.
"Would they say that to a tall, white woman?" N asked me. "I don't think so."
She's right. I've watched it all year long. Everyone approaches me first (the tall, white woman) and even after I introduce N as the "other teacher" or "my teaching partner" I'm the only one who gets eye contact, questions asked of me, or invitations to meetings and discussions. It' amazing. Bigotry in action.
So when this parent, who has made this comment numerous times before, blurted it out one more time, I didn't know what to do. My mistake wasn't in keeping silent, though. My mistake was using it as an example with our students (no names mentioned) of how we can make people feel invisible or insignificant with our words.
Well, bigot-mama found out about the discussion and blew about 5 gaskets first on our Assistant Head of School, then on the Head of School and finally on me.
Oh, and let's not forget who she didn't include in her rants and raves...that's right, N my teaching partner.
"It's another way to render me powerless," N said and all of the sudden I saw what she meant -- I'm the threat because I'm white and older and somehow this parent sees me as an "equal." N on the other hand, is bi-racial, dark-skinned, young, and short. She's not a threat in this parent's play book. Not a threat at all.
"She once told me that she doesn't see color," N said yesterday.
"What, like she can't tell red from green?" I asked.
"No, like she doesn't see black people or Asian people or even gay people or Jewish people. She just sees people."
"Isn't that convenient," I joked.
"Isn't that privilege," N quipped back.
I've had some wing-dingers for parents in my 22 years of teaching, but this woman, she takes the wing-dinger cake.
"She wants us to believe in her view of the world," the Assistant Head said today, "but I've been swimming in her water all my life and I still don't get it." (He's Cuban and gay.) "When she said N was 'cute and little' I lost my patience and told her I thought that was demeaning! That's when she stormed out of my office."
So today, bigot-mama was to come in and conference with me only I invited N to join us. We waited for school to begin (the time for the appointment) only bigot-mama never showed up. We talked to her daughter, "Is your mom coming in today?"
"Oh, she's really sick."
Leave it to the bigot to back out of the meeting and let her daughter bare the burden of breaking the news.
I was relieved, on the one hand, and pissed as hell on the other. "It's another power move," I told N.
"Ya think?" she smiled back. N wore her "Got Privilege" shirt today. I almost wore mine, but we'd agreed that my job was to be the bridge in the conversation and not the "in your face" kind of teacher that I really wanted to be.
Of course, after it's all said and done, it's the daughter I feel the most upset about. She's a good kid. She's starting to get it (this privilege stuff) and she's really questioning and observing and is willing to really listen to different perspectives and realize that her view of the world may not be everyone else's. That makes her a threat at home, I'm certain, and since mom sees us as the instigators of her daughter's rebelliousness, well, she's decided to move her to a different school next year.
Good for everyone who had to deal with the mom. Bad for the kid.
My only hope is that when the daughter decides to pull the teenage rebellion at age 15, she does so in a fury of liberal anger, calling her mom out for the bigot she truly is.
What a week!
And then she said, "Where's N (my teaching partner)? Oh there she is. She looks like one of the kids!"
I know, it seems like an innocent comment, but 10 times a week we hear this comment and for N, well, it's 10 times too many.
"Would they say that to a tall, white woman?" N asked me. "I don't think so."
She's right. I've watched it all year long. Everyone approaches me first (the tall, white woman) and even after I introduce N as the "other teacher" or "my teaching partner" I'm the only one who gets eye contact, questions asked of me, or invitations to meetings and discussions. It' amazing. Bigotry in action.
So when this parent, who has made this comment numerous times before, blurted it out one more time, I didn't know what to do. My mistake wasn't in keeping silent, though. My mistake was using it as an example with our students (no names mentioned) of how we can make people feel invisible or insignificant with our words.
Well, bigot-mama found out about the discussion and blew about 5 gaskets first on our Assistant Head of School, then on the Head of School and finally on me.
Oh, and let's not forget who she didn't include in her rants and raves...that's right, N my teaching partner.
"It's another way to render me powerless," N said and all of the sudden I saw what she meant -- I'm the threat because I'm white and older and somehow this parent sees me as an "equal." N on the other hand, is bi-racial, dark-skinned, young, and short. She's not a threat in this parent's play book. Not a threat at all.
"She once told me that she doesn't see color," N said yesterday.
"What, like she can't tell red from green?" I asked.
"No, like she doesn't see black people or Asian people or even gay people or Jewish people. She just sees people."
"Isn't that convenient," I joked.
"Isn't that privilege," N quipped back.
I've had some wing-dingers for parents in my 22 years of teaching, but this woman, she takes the wing-dinger cake.
"She wants us to believe in her view of the world," the Assistant Head said today, "but I've been swimming in her water all my life and I still don't get it." (He's Cuban and gay.) "When she said N was 'cute and little' I lost my patience and told her I thought that was demeaning! That's when she stormed out of my office."
So today, bigot-mama was to come in and conference with me only I invited N to join us. We waited for school to begin (the time for the appointment) only bigot-mama never showed up. We talked to her daughter, "Is your mom coming in today?"
"Oh, she's really sick."
Leave it to the bigot to back out of the meeting and let her daughter bare the burden of breaking the news.
I was relieved, on the one hand, and pissed as hell on the other. "It's another power move," I told N.
"Ya think?" she smiled back. N wore her "Got Privilege" shirt today. I almost wore mine, but we'd agreed that my job was to be the bridge in the conversation and not the "in your face" kind of teacher that I really wanted to be.
Of course, after it's all said and done, it's the daughter I feel the most upset about. She's a good kid. She's starting to get it (this privilege stuff) and she's really questioning and observing and is willing to really listen to different perspectives and realize that her view of the world may not be everyone else's. That makes her a threat at home, I'm certain, and since mom sees us as the instigators of her daughter's rebelliousness, well, she's decided to move her to a different school next year.
Good for everyone who had to deal with the mom. Bad for the kid.
My only hope is that when the daughter decides to pull the teenage rebellion at age 15, she does so in a fury of liberal anger, calling her mom out for the bigot she truly is.
What a week!
Monday, April 07, 2008
Transitions
We went to the beach today on our first day back from Spring Break. I didn't sleep much last night worrying about a million little details for the week. Will they all remember a sack lunch? Will they have the right shoes and warm clothes? Did I fill out the field trip paperwork? Did I send that email to the parent who asked me a question on the last day before break?
Of course, the day went well. Three kids weren't dressed well and one brought a lunch that needed a microwave. No one was worried about paperwork or emails, but despite all of that, I'm exhausted tonight.
"I think the thing I'm looking forward to the most," I told Ann tonight, "Is not having to hold 23 things in my head every 5 minutes."
She smiled knowingly as she, too, must hold all the flotsam and jetsam of classroom teaching.
I have 9 weeks left. 9 weeks. I'm trying not to focus on the time, but today, when we were loading all the kids into the cars of the parent drivers, making sure they all had their raincoats and backpacks, that they'd all gone to the restroom, that they had their lunches and field journals, 9 weeks seemed both a long time to carry myself through and a short time before I am free of all of this.
I'm torn, too. After school my teaching partner showed me some resumes of the new candidates to take my place. There were strong credentials. She was excited to read the lists of achievements. I could feel a little jealousy creep in, envious of her enthusiasm. I won't be missed, I thought, though even as I thought it, I knew it wasn't true. I would be missed though someone excellent will take my place.
Transitioning from vacation back to work is always tough for me. Not only do I struggle holding all the bits and pieces in my head, but the voices, the questions, the constant chatter overwhelms me when I first return. Today was no exception. The kids were all bubbly, calling my name all over the beach to show me a sea lemon or a burrowing sea cucumber. I pumped up my energy. I cracked jokes about mollusks (alls whelk that ends whelk) and stuck my finger into the siphon of a piddock to watch a spray of water shower a student I'd lured over.
On Thursday nights I've been taking a dog to obedience classes and as I drive the 30 minutes north, I don't think I can make it -- I'm so exhausted from my days of teaching. But when I arrive to the arena, when we start working the dogs and challenging them to sit or stay or lie down and roll over, I'm not tired at all. It feels simple in so many ways -- train a dog to walk by your side, sit on command, come when you call her -- but learning the complexity of a dog's mind, of a particular breed of dog's mind is fascinating and invigorating.
It's what teaching used to be for me.
I know the next 9 weeks will be a struggle. I know the months after I leave teaching will be a struggle in ways I can't imagine. I worry about finances in this time of economic crunch. I worry that there's too much for this old dog to learn. But just when I think that maybe I should just stay where I am, in a classroom teaching kids, I hear the dog trainer ask me after class, "Do you want to teach a refresher course for me this summer?"
I was shocked when she asked. Turns out I'll still be teaching, but that she even thought I could do it blew me away.
Transitions are so fascinating. I suppose I hate them so much, I rush through them and miss the learning that can come from them. I found myself doing it today, but then I decided to just play in the moment, be glad I was on the beach exploring the diversity of life there on a cold day without rain.
I need to do the same thing for the next 9 weeks and after that, go easy on myself as I transition into whatever comes next. Something will come next and I can't force it. Just keep moving forward, slowly, deliberately, and with minimal worry. It will all go as it should.
Of course, the day went well. Three kids weren't dressed well and one brought a lunch that needed a microwave. No one was worried about paperwork or emails, but despite all of that, I'm exhausted tonight.
"I think the thing I'm looking forward to the most," I told Ann tonight, "Is not having to hold 23 things in my head every 5 minutes."
She smiled knowingly as she, too, must hold all the flotsam and jetsam of classroom teaching.
I have 9 weeks left. 9 weeks. I'm trying not to focus on the time, but today, when we were loading all the kids into the cars of the parent drivers, making sure they all had their raincoats and backpacks, that they'd all gone to the restroom, that they had their lunches and field journals, 9 weeks seemed both a long time to carry myself through and a short time before I am free of all of this.
I'm torn, too. After school my teaching partner showed me some resumes of the new candidates to take my place. There were strong credentials. She was excited to read the lists of achievements. I could feel a little jealousy creep in, envious of her enthusiasm. I won't be missed, I thought, though even as I thought it, I knew it wasn't true. I would be missed though someone excellent will take my place.
Transitioning from vacation back to work is always tough for me. Not only do I struggle holding all the bits and pieces in my head, but the voices, the questions, the constant chatter overwhelms me when I first return. Today was no exception. The kids were all bubbly, calling my name all over the beach to show me a sea lemon or a burrowing sea cucumber. I pumped up my energy. I cracked jokes about mollusks (alls whelk that ends whelk) and stuck my finger into the siphon of a piddock to watch a spray of water shower a student I'd lured over.
On Thursday nights I've been taking a dog to obedience classes and as I drive the 30 minutes north, I don't think I can make it -- I'm so exhausted from my days of teaching. But when I arrive to the arena, when we start working the dogs and challenging them to sit or stay or lie down and roll over, I'm not tired at all. It feels simple in so many ways -- train a dog to walk by your side, sit on command, come when you call her -- but learning the complexity of a dog's mind, of a particular breed of dog's mind is fascinating and invigorating.
It's what teaching used to be for me.
I know the next 9 weeks will be a struggle. I know the months after I leave teaching will be a struggle in ways I can't imagine. I worry about finances in this time of economic crunch. I worry that there's too much for this old dog to learn. But just when I think that maybe I should just stay where I am, in a classroom teaching kids, I hear the dog trainer ask me after class, "Do you want to teach a refresher course for me this summer?"
I was shocked when she asked. Turns out I'll still be teaching, but that she even thought I could do it blew me away.
Transitions are so fascinating. I suppose I hate them so much, I rush through them and miss the learning that can come from them. I found myself doing it today, but then I decided to just play in the moment, be glad I was on the beach exploring the diversity of life there on a cold day without rain.
I need to do the same thing for the next 9 weeks and after that, go easy on myself as I transition into whatever comes next. Something will come next and I can't force it. Just keep moving forward, slowly, deliberately, and with minimal worry. It will all go as it should.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Kitchen Aide
The past few days our house has been swarmed by a friendly landscaping crew. Ann's been helping, but I've been inside watching the dog (who wants nothing more than to be with the crew) and baking for the intermittent breaks the crew takes. Today's culinary tasks include baking bread, molasses cookies, and preparing a biscuit crust for a chicken pie recipe.
This is the last day of our spring vacation though we still have two days of the weekend to prepare ourselves for the trenches on Monday. I haven't done a stitch of school work, but there's a pile waiting for me in my backpack as well as lessons to plan.
I keep putting it off.
I keep baking.
I haven't made bread in quite a few months, but Ann made a special request last night so I got up fairly early and started the process. Now the bread is in the oven baking and creating that satisfactory aroma around the house. Intermingled with the smell of the molasses cookies that are now cooling on rack by the oven, the house feels warm and cozy on this blustery, rainy day.
Years ago, when I lived with my ex (Karen), I rarely baked. I rarely did any kind of cooking at all. She was the "queen" of the kitchen and even when I tried, she rarely let me in to butter a piece of bread let alone whip up something more elaborate.
I'm not complaining. She was (and probably still is) a good cook, but I never realized until I left the relationship how much I love to be in the kitchen working through a recipe. I was thinking about Karen today and her need for control when it came to the kitchen while I kneaded the large mass of bread dough on the counter. While the bread was rising, I mixed together the cookie dough. Ann came in right when the first batch of cookies laid to rest in the oven and she smiled saying, "Umm, it smells so good in hear. You should make bread every weekend!"
"I will if we buy a Kitchen Aide," I smiled back.
"Deal!" She's kind of a push over about these things.
The Kitchen Aide made me think of Karen again. She owned one though she did not pay for it. She didn't pay for a lot of things. My salary was three times as much as hers and since we combined our incomes, I now see how much of my money went into purchases "we" made together. For instance, we bought a small piece of property behind us to keep it from being developed. We built a better fence around the garden and had a shelter built for the llamas. We paid a man to do stone work in the garden and we re-roofed the barn with new gutters and all.
But Karen also purchased other things, not with my money, but as "gifts" from her friend Bud. Bud was in his mid-70's when I left Karen. She had known Bud and his wife, Eva, for 25 years. Eva died after a painful battle with leukemia and shortly after her death, Bud "courted" Karen. He'd drive over in his big pickup truck, dressed in a clean, starched white shirt, pressed jeans, polished shoes, and smelling of very old cologne.
Karen claimed that she told him about "us" but it never seemed to have sunk in. Bud was undeterred and this played to Karen's advantage. A wealthy man, Bud bought Karen all sorts of things -- a brand new car, a new washer/dryer set, the new roof on the house, a fancy new computer, and yes, the high-powered, high-performance Kitchen-Aide. He paid for all of it with cash, helping Karen avoid any monthly payments.
I benefited as well. I shouldn't complain, but looking back on it now makes me realize how much Karen received without really having to work for it. So, when I heard myself "bargain" for a Kitchen Aide I cringed a bit.
Later, Ann came in to get some lunch and offer the crew some cookies and I said, "You don't really have to buy me a Kitchen Aide. The hand mixer works well for the cookies and kneading bread is therapeutic."
"What made you change your mind?" she asked.
"I didn't want to be like Karen." Ann got it. She'd heard all about Karen and felt the effects when Karen and I tried to negotiate a fair financial settlement (which really didn't end up fair at all, but that's a whole other story).
"God, you're nothing like that," Ann guffawed.
"I just don't want you to think that I see you like a sugar-momma like she treated Bud."
"Never!"
The thing with Ann is that she always takes what you say at face value. That's a good thing most of the time, but at this moment it meant that she believed me when I said she didn't have to buy the Kitchen Aide.
"So, if I'm not treating you like Karen treated Bud do I still get the Kitchen Aide?"
Sheepish smile.
The bread is almost done and there's still a pie crust to make. My life in the kitchen during this vacation is not yet over.
This is the last day of our spring vacation though we still have two days of the weekend to prepare ourselves for the trenches on Monday. I haven't done a stitch of school work, but there's a pile waiting for me in my backpack as well as lessons to plan.
I keep putting it off.
I keep baking.
I haven't made bread in quite a few months, but Ann made a special request last night so I got up fairly early and started the process. Now the bread is in the oven baking and creating that satisfactory aroma around the house. Intermingled with the smell of the molasses cookies that are now cooling on rack by the oven, the house feels warm and cozy on this blustery, rainy day.
Years ago, when I lived with my ex (Karen), I rarely baked. I rarely did any kind of cooking at all. She was the "queen" of the kitchen and even when I tried, she rarely let me in to butter a piece of bread let alone whip up something more elaborate.
I'm not complaining. She was (and probably still is) a good cook, but I never realized until I left the relationship how much I love to be in the kitchen working through a recipe. I was thinking about Karen today and her need for control when it came to the kitchen while I kneaded the large mass of bread dough on the counter. While the bread was rising, I mixed together the cookie dough. Ann came in right when the first batch of cookies laid to rest in the oven and she smiled saying, "Umm, it smells so good in hear. You should make bread every weekend!"
"I will if we buy a Kitchen Aide," I smiled back.
"Deal!" She's kind of a push over about these things.
The Kitchen Aide made me think of Karen again. She owned one though she did not pay for it. She didn't pay for a lot of things. My salary was three times as much as hers and since we combined our incomes, I now see how much of my money went into purchases "we" made together. For instance, we bought a small piece of property behind us to keep it from being developed. We built a better fence around the garden and had a shelter built for the llamas. We paid a man to do stone work in the garden and we re-roofed the barn with new gutters and all.
But Karen also purchased other things, not with my money, but as "gifts" from her friend Bud. Bud was in his mid-70's when I left Karen. She had known Bud and his wife, Eva, for 25 years. Eva died after a painful battle with leukemia and shortly after her death, Bud "courted" Karen. He'd drive over in his big pickup truck, dressed in a clean, starched white shirt, pressed jeans, polished shoes, and smelling of very old cologne.
Karen claimed that she told him about "us" but it never seemed to have sunk in. Bud was undeterred and this played to Karen's advantage. A wealthy man, Bud bought Karen all sorts of things -- a brand new car, a new washer/dryer set, the new roof on the house, a fancy new computer, and yes, the high-powered, high-performance Kitchen-Aide. He paid for all of it with cash, helping Karen avoid any monthly payments.
I benefited as well. I shouldn't complain, but looking back on it now makes me realize how much Karen received without really having to work for it. So, when I heard myself "bargain" for a Kitchen Aide I cringed a bit.
Later, Ann came in to get some lunch and offer the crew some cookies and I said, "You don't really have to buy me a Kitchen Aide. The hand mixer works well for the cookies and kneading bread is therapeutic."
"What made you change your mind?" she asked.
"I didn't want to be like Karen." Ann got it. She'd heard all about Karen and felt the effects when Karen and I tried to negotiate a fair financial settlement (which really didn't end up fair at all, but that's a whole other story).
"God, you're nothing like that," Ann guffawed.
"I just don't want you to think that I see you like a sugar-momma like she treated Bud."
"Never!"
The thing with Ann is that she always takes what you say at face value. That's a good thing most of the time, but at this moment it meant that she believed me when I said she didn't have to buy the Kitchen Aide.
"So, if I'm not treating you like Karen treated Bud do I still get the Kitchen Aide?"
Sheepish smile.
The bread is almost done and there's still a pie crust to make. My life in the kitchen during this vacation is not yet over.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Garden of Earthly Delights
Today, I'm playing "the wife" though I'm not exactly sure of my motivations. The garden crew is here to continue work and perhaps finish up the work they started yesterday. Plants have been placed and now the hole digging begins and as I write, I can hear the pound pound pound of shovels and post-hole diggers. I love this picture as it shows the shadow of our old cherry tree against the house and the greenery Madeline (bent over) is about to plant. My second favorite picture is this one:
Ann with her hands in the dirt and a happy smile on her face. She loves this stuff, mucking around and getting dirty. She, then, is playing "the husband" role while I stay inside watching the "child" -- Rubin who is delighted by the activity, but struggles with just watching from the window. He barks and whines and want to join in the fun. Right now I have him settled down underneath the desk with a promise of a long walk in the woody park at the end of the lake. I think he rolled his eyes at first, but now he's being as patient as a puppy can be. Meanwhile, the coffee cake I constructed for the work crew is cooling on the stove. See, the wife. My mother would be proud. Not that I'm a "wife," but that I'm cooking for the workers. Money is nice, but food always feels like a nice payment in addition to the salary one earns. The crew has grown in size today. There's Madeline and Kristen, who were here yesterday...
Madeline on the left...Kristen on the right prepping the soil yesterday for today's planting...Then there's Fred, digging holes for plants and more plants. We learned he's an artist as well. He paints watercolors in his studio in Port Townsend and works for Madeline to pay for his art addiction.
Ann is helping Pedro, moving the red bark maple to the front of the house.
And below is James, the man Rubin wants to play with all day long. James is gentle and quiet and just like the rest of the workers, he rarely rests except for a drink of water or a fresh-baked brownie brought to him by yours truly, the wife. To the right, all the workers (including Anna by the bamboo) spending the chilly, sunny day making our yard a garden of earthly delights.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Hail Spring!
Can you see it? Just at the edges in the bark and on the deck. It's hail. Cold, hard hail. It fell in sheets yesterday afternoon.At first we thought it was snowing, but upon further inspection, we realized it was hail.
March 31 and the temperature was still in the 30s early in the morning. April 1, we woke to fog and 36 degrees, but then the fog moved away to reveal beautiful sunshine and blue skies. Good thing. A very good thing.
Today begins the end of our landscaping. Madeline, the landscaper, is here with her crew rototilling all around the yard, digging holes for the multitude of plants purchased to fill in the blank spaces.
This is only a sampling as the truck arrived this morning hauling buckets more of not only foliage, but dirt. It smells marvelous outside.Ann's busy helping them and I'm on doggie watch as Rubin would LOVE nothing more than to get out there and help dig. Instead, we're inside making brownies for the crew and painting the main floor doors that have needed a coat of trim color since we remodeled over 2 years ago.
Chores. Lots and lots of chores. I guess this is what spring cleaning is all about. Sprucing up the dingy and revitalizing the old. The sun does much the same thing to me. I'm feeling spruced and revitalized a bit. Perhaps that's due to spring break, but mostly it's because of the sunshine. And the accompanying warmth.
I have a few more doors to paint, but the stack of paid bills/receipts keeps calling to me -- file me, file me. But what a daunting job. It's like the thread of a sweater -- once pulled, things tend to unravel before they repair themselves.
So, I shall attack the door and hope Rubin keeps his tail out of the way.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, March 21, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, March 14, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, March 01, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, February 18, 2008
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!
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!
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
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.
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.
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