Therapy Dog

I've known all along that my choosing to work with dogs was going to mean I had to face some dark corners of my psyche. I've known that dogs are therapist in a furry coat and to really understand them, to really learn how to "lead" them, I would have to understand myself in a way I've only glimpsed in my work with a human therapist.

Thus is the case with Rubin. Don't let the goofy demeanor fool you. Don't let that cocked head and awkward under bite make you think he is not wise or challenging. He may look at you like he is simply waiting to learn from your fount of knowledge when in actuality, like any great Buddha, he is simply asking you a question so you might find an answer you didn't know you needed.

For the past year, I've been "training" Rubin for his therapy dog test. Passing the test allows Rubin to visit hospital patients, schools, and nursing homes clad in his trim-fitting blue vest. The test requires Rubin to perform many tasks. Simple ones like sit and down and stay. And odd ones like a hug from a stranger, awkward petting from another stranger, and the ability to walk into a "large angry crowd" and allow himself to be petted.

Rubin can do many of the tasks required, but he is not a dog who allows strangers to touch him. He backs away. Once he knows you, once he's spent time with you, he'll let you do everything from petting the top of his head to scratching his speckled belly. But if you are a "stranger" forget about it.

Therefore, despite all the work, Rubin scored a "not ready" on his first attempt at passing his therapy dog test yesterday.

But don't think he is not a therapy dog. Far from it. He may never offer elders therapy nor children a reading companion, but he certainly has provided me with the kind of therapy I've had to pay a lot of money for in the past.

And all of it without words.

These are five (though there may be more) of the "issues" I'm working on in my therapy work with Rubin (I don't feel comfortable saying this is what I've learned because, like any good therapist, working with Rubin is a process not a goal):

1. Worry and stress do not lead to a calm life nor do they light a clear path. On the contrary, they just make everyone else around you worried and stressed. Worry and stress serve no other purpose than to cement you to an immovable position. You cannot "progress" when you walk through life with worry and stress. People don't like it, dogs really don't like it. And they will remind you of your worried/stressed energy every chance they get by disobeying you, running just out of reach from you, and barking hysterically. It may feel counterintuitive, but at the moment when your worry and stress are controlling every aspect of your life, a good therapy dog will ask you to breathe, to sit down, to let go, to simply stop and check in with yourself.

2. The word "failure" should be banished from our vocabulary, specifically the vocabulary of teachers and schools. Instead, we should be seen as "ready" or "not ready." Once you hold onto failure as an option, if you do not succeed, your sense of worthlessness can grow at an exponential rate. Failure digs holes that feel impossible to grow out of. Failure burdens while "not ready" offers hope of a next time. You aren't there yet. You aren't there yet, but you can still get there. To be ready requires work, hard work. It will require skills you may not think you have and some that you think you have, but aren't developed yet. Being "not ready" is not a detriment, it just means there's more work to do. Being "ready" is different for everyone. For some it may come naturally and within a few months, you're there. For others, "ready" may take years and many attempts, but once you slip into that feeling of failure, of seeing yourself as someone who can't, then no matter how much hard work you do, you're done for. You've defeated yourself and it's a defeat of the most debilitating kind.

3. Patience is an important virtue IN a teacher, but patience is also an important virtue FOR a teacher. I've known all of my teaching career that the more patient I am with my students, the more they learn, the more they grow. But I've often been unable to apply that kind of patience to my own life, to my own learning. I am hard on myself. I grow impatient with myself. When working with Rubin those dual needs for patience -- patience with him and patience with myself -- are a must. If I am impatient in only one of those areas, then Rubin struggles to learn. I struggle too. I know what I want Rubin to do and I know the unspoken time limits I have in my head for Rubin to do it. When he doesn't do it or doesn't do it within those time limits, I lose patience not just with him, but with myself. He is not a failure, I am and that kind of self-flagellation can kill you... slowly. When I am forgiving, when I am patient with myself, Rubin responds with that knowing smile, like the yogi whose known the answer all along but needed you to arrive at the answer by yourself.

4. The more you control a situation, the less control you really have. For me, this is an internal struggle. I lay out in my head exactly how I see a moment, an hour, a day progressing and any deviation from this plan raises my level of anxiety. Rubin is my constant reminder to live in the moment. It's a cliche, I know, but Rubin notices the world in a way that I have lost. The bird over his head, the smell of the grass, the desire to jump on a moth -- he notices it all and in his attentiveness he does not think about the next moment, the next hour, the next day. If I am not in that moment with him, we lose our connection. He does not respond to my commands. Often he will not even look at me when I say his name. At these moments he wants me to be in his moment and only then will he acknowledge my existence. How often have I been so wrapped up in what's next, my mind spinning around one worry or another and unaware of someone else's existence or even my own existence? He is of the body first, the mind second. I am often just a head, detached from my body and that body's existence in the sensory world. In my head, I swim in worry, thinking myself into the future and not living, full-bodied in the now.

5. In my quest to learn more about dogs, I've watched a lot of dog trainers via television and video, I've read a lot of articles and books, but nothing prepares me more than working with an actual dog. They are all different. In their differences I must be different. I can do this well with my human students -- they all require a different kind of teaching since they all learn in different ways -- but with a dog, my intuition is all off. I'm not sure what one dog needs versus another and in not knowing, I doubt myself. We watch a lot of Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer, and he claims that doubt is perceived as weakness by a dog. Dogs do not respond positively to weakness. Instead, they search for a strong pack leader and if they do not perceive that strength, they take the role themselves. But how do I shed my weakness when it has been the skin I've worn most of my life? Sure, I can walk into a classroom filled with kids and exude leadership and strength because I've done it for over 20 years. Kids listen simply because I understand the lay of the land far better than they do, but dogs...well, dogs are in a different country. While taking the therapy dog test, Rubin instantly went into his insecure place. He tucked his tail, his ears folded back, the whites of his eyes got larger, and he walked with nervous hesitancy. He was a reflection of me. Even though I stood tall and walked confidently, inside I was everything Rubin was on the outside. I was nervous. I was hesitant. I was doubtful. I was without a shred of confidence. He needed me to be more than a mask of my fears, but I couldn't shake it. I couldn't breathe my way into self-assuredness and he knew it. When I look back on that moment, I realize that for much of my life, I have lived in that kind of fear -- a fear that I am not good enough to pull this off. The fear that if you pull on my facade, the whole of me would crumble into a ball of rubble. I'm a lot better than I was years ago, but that insecurity is still there, still running in my veins. Rubin is like a mirror. No, even more in-depth, he is an x-ray who reflects back to me not the facade, but the underlying image of my insecurity.

This may all seem ridiculous. This may all seem like new age hooey, but when I allow myself to believe it, when I allow myself to see myself through Rubin's eyes, I know he is one of the most gifted therapists I've ever worked with. At this point, we are working on our partnership. We're working on being in the moment together, walking confidently, and learning to be ready for the now. I was not ready the other day and therefore Rubin was not ready. He may never be a therapy dog for others. In fact, if I listen to him closely he would say, "I'd rather play than work," and so I'll pull out his agility equipment and learn better leadership skills by directing him through the tunnels and the jumps, the weave poles and the see-saws. "Play therapy," he'd say, "That's what will work best for you. Play therapy."

He's right, of course, I just need to listen not only to him, but to myself. In therapy I think they call that transference -- he lives the lessons until I can learn them myself.

I'm very lucky to have such a patient therapist. And one who can wiggle his tail with such love, I am slowly learning to love myself.

Where's My Pillow?

I have spent the past two days at a conference on Environmental Education. I have much to say, but tonight I am so tired even my typing fingers feel as if they are typing through oatmeal. My body feels as if it's moving through oatmeal. Slow and gooey, that's how I feel and there is still one more work day before a 3-day weekend.

The end of the school year is always like this. I hold on. I feel exhaustion in every breath. I neglect family and friends. I get up in the morning, pull myself through the day, and then crash at night. I thought that by having two days where I didn't work with kids would be relaxing, but instead it just added to my exhaustion.

And when I sleep, I sleep like the dead. It doesn't help that the weather is all wonky. 90 degrees on Saturday and 41 degrees yesterday. Now it's cloudy and windy and a tad warmer than yesterday, but still, that endlessly gray sky with an occasional patch of blue does little to lift my spirits or the blanket of weariness that hangs heavy on my shoulders.

One reason I signed up for this workshop was to receive 2 credits toward renewing my teaching certificate. The 2 credits require me to write a paper and right now, that's the last thing I want on my plate. Luckily, the "teacher" isn't too pushy about when the paper is due or the length the so-called paper needs to be. "A unit plan," he said, but there was no criteria, no specified requirements, no instructions beyond that.

I can BS with the best of them. I can pull a fantastic lesson plan out of my ass in no time, but the problem is that I have very little time and not so much motivation. This is my last year of teaching and while I'm trying to maintain my certification for another 5 years, I'm doing so only as a safety net in case I need to sign up as a substitute teacher to pay my portion of the bills.

But I'm kind of done with teaching and being in this workshop solidified my decision to leave. The presenter is an award-winning environmentalist with schools all around the world. He is an anthropologist by training, but has spent his life setting up environmental programs in Thailand, Bali, and the Queen Charlotte Islands (just to name a few). He was a walking factoid, spewing out statistics and dilemmas like a computer.

While some of his information was new, most of it I was familiar with since I've spent a lot of my career studying the implications of human impact on the planet. Most of the other teachers were quite young and many of them hadn't heard nor had they played many of the games the presenter shared with us. It felt simplistic in many ways until I realized that what we do in our classroom is not the norm for most classrooms around the state or even in the country.

So, while I didn't feel stretched in terms of my own learning, I did feel proud that the kind of work I've been doing is the kind of work that needs to be done in classrooms all around the world. Not to sound too arrogant, I realized that I was good at the work I've been doing for over 20 years and now it was time to pass the torch to others who have more energy than I seem to be able to muster these days.

There have been times on this journey to leave teaching when I've felt a twinge of regret. "Oh maybe I am good at this and should just keep going..." but today it felt great to leave knowing I was a good teacher. I'm not sure why it offered me so much peace, but today, while we mucked around in a stream and talked about the properties of willow trees, I said to myself, "Wow, I don't have to retain all this information and carry it back to my classroom to create a lesson. I can just revel in the knowledge and choose to live my own life differently, but the burden/responsibility of teaching others now falls to these young people." Right there in that stream I could feel the weight of my 22 year teaching burden fall off my shoulders.

Hey, maybe that's why I'm so tired...I've been carrying quite a load for quite some time. Not as long as others, but certainly longer than most and even in my weariness, I felt rather proud today to be at the end of something pretty astonishing.

Still, I have to write a "unit plan" as well as wrap up the last year of my career, which includes so many "last tasks" I can hardly think straight let alone keep my head from finding the nearest pillow and sleeping for 20 hours.

The Speed At Which

Yesterday was Saturday. It doesn't seem so long ago, but when I look at the clock this evening, Saturday is a whisper of memory. The speed at which this weekend has passed by me makes me dizzy. The week days walk to the weekend's flight. The week days crawl to the weekend's run.

When I try to count my accomplishments this weekend, I'm hard pressed to reach 10 items on my list. In fact, trying to remember all that I did yesterday feels like distant memory.

I am therefore wasting my time on this blog since every minute zooms by me and there must be more to do than what I'm doing.

There must...

A Dog Can Save Your Life

I was dreading many things today -- going into work, the heat of the first true summer day, my students and their need to be flakey on these last few weeks of school -- but the day provided me with some unexpected joy.

First, a girl in my class whose sister died last December finally shared the news with her two best friends AND wrote about it in a reflection letter on how she's grown and changed during the year. This is big because normally she avoids any mention of her sister's death, runs as far from us as she can if we show even the slightest affection (appropriate affection that is) towards her, and has yet to share her sorrow with anyone close to her including family. Her letter brought me to tears. "I have grown in this past year, but I can't exactly explain how. My sister died and that just put all these emotions in my belly and now I can't get them out."

Second, the play the kids are working on is finally, FINALLY coming together and their performance may actually be a success instead of the failure I kept envisioning in the wee morning hours.

Lastly, Mr. Rubin, the dog who teaches me something every day, frolicked raucously this afternoon, happy as a clam (though actually happy as a puppy) and made me smile with his many poses for the camera.

Silly dog.

Silly dog who saves my life in a million ways every five minutes.

Now I shall settle down into this Friday evening by watching "Juno," which Ann insists will lift my spirits even more.

More photos of Rubin on the Rubinations link...

Smatterings

For the past few days I've been "sequestered" in a jury room waiting to be called "to duty." Actually, I was called once to be in a jury pool and twice to be a potential juror, only I was excused both times. The first because I have a workshop I've paid to attend next week this particular trial required at least a week's service. The second because it was a child abuse case and I cannot, will not be impartial. If 22 years of teaching has provided any lessons it is that the kids, no matter how horrible they may behave, never deserve to be hit. And they never deserve to be hit with an "object" as the court reporter described it.

"I cannot be impartial," I told the judge. He asked me to elaborate. How could I begin to tell him of the numerous cases I've had to report, the 3 times I've served as a witness in three different cases and the bastards still walked away with their abused kids in tow, or the kids I've known who were terrified to testify against their abuser.

"It sounds like you've lost faith in the jury system," the rather arrogant judge told me.

"Absolutely not," I replied. "It's this system that will weed me out because I am biased."

I was excused.

But being excused just throws you back into the jury pool for the possibility of being selected again for a different judge and a different trial. It's like some form of modern-day medieval torture. "Back to the dungeon!"

It wasn't that bad. I enjoyed the silence of it. No classroom clamor, no end of the year stress, lots of time to go to the bathroom, an hour+ lunch...it was civilized. I practiced imagining having that kind of time to think, that kind of space in my head not to have to hold 7000 "to dos" in the air at once. I could get used to this, I thought.

But it's made it difficult to go back to work for these last 15 days.

15 days. It seems so short when I say it or write it, but I know that the next 15 days are their own form of medieval torture.

And this has been a difficult class. Very difficult. They have very little depth. Some of them do, but as a whole, they are meager of soul. I haven't had a class like this in a long time. It makes leaving odd. Kind of like a professional athlete going out on a bad year versus say Brett Farve who went out on a relatively good year.

With a bad year you kind of feel like it's time to go because you've overshot your effectiveness. With a good year you kind of leave it all out on the field.

I think I left it out on the field last year and this year is my professional embarrassment.

Well, it's not that bad, but let's just say I'm not going to win any award. Not that I ever have, but I have a sour taste in my mouth or at least I feel one coming on.

So 15 days feels in many regards like an eternity and in that eternity there is a lot to get done, none of which I feel motivated to do. It didn't help to spend the past 2 days watching how the rest of the world operates. Even at lunch, out in the courtyard of City Hall with busy traffic and lots of people and planes overhead and construction in the background, it was peaceful. The classroom is never that peaceful. No one ever takes their time like the judges did in their courtrooms.

Tomorrow is supposed to be in the mid-80s. I'm not sure what to do with that. It's been in the 30s and 40s for months now. Rainy, cloudy, chilly...even frosty. My bones have been damp for days and days. And now heat. It will make those last 15 days feel literally and figuratively like hell. No one can focus in that unexpected and sudden heat, least of all the kids.

These smatterings seem bleak. I'm not feeling bleak. I'm feeling...what's the word? I'm feeling...resigned. Like going to the dentist to have teeth drilled and filled. It's going to take as long as it takes and I must endure the drills and the shots and the forever opening of my mouth clogged with someone else's fingers and hands.

Space and Doubt

Our internet has been down for the past week. We needed a new modem, or so said the cable guy who replaced our old (6 years) one with a sleek new one. Now life is speedier and some bit of technology is off to a landfill.

I have 18 days left as a teacher. Actually, almost 17 days as this day is close to over. I am filled with a desire, an obsession to find space both in my head and in my life for doing nothing. Now my life is filled with too much. The end of the year is always like this -- projects, presentations, organizing, report cards -- but it feels particularly anxious as I know that after 18 days I will really not want to be here finishing up all the minutiae of this career.

I long for the day when I do not have to carry 7000 items in my head -- did I take attendance? Did I copy those assignments? Did I enter grades? Where did I put that file? Did I write that email to those parents? -- and on and on and on. I want to clear away the clutter in my brain and stretch out in the open space of nothing. Well, not of nothing really, but of less.

Last night, on my drive back from a dog training class, I thought about all the names in my head. There are the names of my 19 students and the names of all the past students who still walk these halls. There are the names of all my co-workers and the names of all the parents. There are the names of all the marine invertebrates we're studying and the names of their phyla -- arthropods and cnidarians and mollusks and echinoderms and on and on. There are the names of all our community partners who I must remember to put on the program for our final performance. My head is filled with names related to work and still there are names of my friends and family that must squeeze their way in there between the folds of my memory.

But it's not just names that elbow each other like an angry crowd. There are schedules and events, errands and appointments. There are lists for groceries and projects and little things I must remember, reminders I must hold for myself, or pass on to others. I should marvel at the capacity and brilliance of my brain, but instead my head feels heavy and tired and longing of wide open spaces.

Ironically though, when I am able to clear my mind for a moment -- like last night at the dog obedience class when I could solely focus on getting the dog to lie down, to stay, to walk right at my side without a leash -- the open spaces fill with doubt. Am I doing the right thing? Am I capable of making a shift from teaching to something else -- a dog trainer? A writer? A part-time employee?

Everyone around me says "yes." Everyone around me is supportive and understanding. Everyone around me is encouraging and positive.

It doesn't appease the doubts. They creep in, mostly at night, but occasionally when I least expect them.

I love the nights when I must take Rubin to dog class, but last night the doubts even crept in there. He was a monster. He was a clown. He was a goof-off. He was everything but obedient. At one point, we were to trot by all the other dogs in class leashless. All the other dogs were leashless, too. The first pass went great. Rubin trotting merrily by my side gazing up at me in that obedient, loyal way of his. The second pass was a disaster. With a huge smile on his face, he raced to the middle of the field and looked over his shoulder, an invitation to all the other leashless dogs to follow. The four German shepherds in class leaned in unison, tempted but obedient. The young black lab who never stops wiggling broke for the chase. The King Charles spaniel hid under his mother's legs. The aggressive mix lunged for Rubin. And I was left calling for my dog who would not come.

And I want to be a dog trainer?

"You're too hard on yourself," Ann laughs at the training story. "Think about all the mistakes you made in your first years of teaching."

And immediately I thought about all the mistakes I make every day while teaching.

How do I vanquish doubt? How do I walk with confidence into this next phase, set aside worry and allow myself to make mistakes and learn from them? If I am to make space in my life and in my head, how do I make certain that doubt doesn't flood the open spaces drowning me in ulcers?

I know I can't rid myself completely of doubt, but I do want to be "less" hard on myself, a bit more forgiving of myself and my dog as he romps out of control oblivious to my commands. I want to have patience and not allow worry to drive me away from these new life choices and back into the comfort of doing something I know how to do or requires little effort or thought.

I have 18 days left. I wonder what will happen on that 19th day when I can let it all go? Maybe I won't even feel the difference. Maybe the open space won't become apparent until late summer when I generally have to gear up for the new school year. Maybe then I'll notice a void. Maybe then I'll notice a pause in my life. Maybe then I'll breathe deeply not as a way to make it through the next few days or next few hours, but as a way to truly relax and revel in the emptiness of my mind.

The Gray as Matter

Okay, after reading Bookworm's list of what could happen, things I never thought of, I'm a little leery of getting behind the driver's seat. So...

...Rubin's in the driver's seat from now on!

Of course, he whined the whole time I was taking the picture, so maybe I should just leave it parked and ride my bike with a trailer on the back for Rubin.

While everyone LOVES a new car, I'm in the getting to know you phase at this point.

What I like:

1) The color. I've never had a charcoal gray car before. Ann wanted blue, but the blues were not the right kind of blue.

2) The size. It looks small, but it's got a lot of room inside for such a small outside. I also like driving on the highway passed the big SUVs, like the kind we owned and even though I worry a bit about getting crushed, I don't feel (as) guilty driving something small and fuel-efficient.

3) As for fuel efficient, I drove to Woodinville yesterday (about 25 miles away) and home again and the gas gauge didn't move. IT DIDN'T MOVE...like it was full and it was still on full this morning. Love that!

4) Rubin in the back seat. He's really close now and when I'm resting at a stop sign I can reach back and scratch his chin. I like that. He likes that.

5) Controls for the radio/CD player are on the steering wheel. I'm sure other cars have this feature, but it sure makes my life a lot easier and safer.

6) The versatility. Back seats go down and the back of them are a hard plastic. Not carpet. That is soooo much easier to clean especially with a dog. BUT the kicker is that the front passenger seat goes all the way down (forward) too and there's a lot more room if needed.

What I'm getting used to:

1) The size. Our SUV was a truck. It drove like a truck and felt like a truck. I've owned trucks more than I've owned cars and I'm not quite used to the car driving feeling. It's not completely natural for me. Yet.

2) Not sure how we're going to mount racks on the car. It's a 2009 and they actually don't make racks for it, though we can get some from Toyota, which might be the route we take. I'll have to research all of that before we figure it out.

3) The dashboard. It's RIGHT THERE, unlike the SUV that seemed farther away and well, how do I explain, reasonably sized. Things feel a bit oversized on this car, but I think I'll get used to that, too.

So, Bookworm, I shall now drive more cautiously and remember that it is just a car...but it still carries some prized possessions...Ann, Rubin, and yes, me.

More Grey Matter

It's too late now to take a picture, but sitting outside our house is our new car. Finally. And, of course, it isn't at all what we thought it would be.

It went like this:

Ann: We don't really need an SUV anymore.

Me: Really? Why not? (I'm stunned because Ann has always been the proponent of a larger car so we can "haul stuff" though mostly we just haul the dog.)

Ann: Well, we already have the furniture we need for the house and the deck and all the landscaping is in place. There's nothing big we really need to buy anymore.

Me: So, what do we want to buy?

Ann: I don't know let's just see.

First we went to the Toyota dealer as our SUV needed service. We dropped it off and decided to look at Toyotas primarily because we like the dealership and also we love the reliability of the car. We asked for a non-smoking car salesperson, as if they would be any less slimy, and ended up with Lawrence, a former NFL linebacker for the New England Patriots.

What we wanted: Mid-priced, fuel efficient wagonish car that could hold "stuff" and be versatile.

Lawrence showed us a Scion Xb. It looks like a toaster if that helps at all. Then he showed us a Toyota Matrix. Ann liked it, which made me laugh because a few weeks back, when our friend Laurie drove up in one, Ann said she thought it was ugly.

Go figure.

We drove the Matrix. Zippy, roomy, and a good mileage. Plus, all the Toyota's and Scion's have low emissions meeting the new standards, even California standards, for how much they pollute. I liked that.

Then we drove the Scion. Did I mention that it looks like toaster on wheels? Well, it drives like one too. Ann's first words, as she pulled out of the parking lot were, "I feel like a little person." Ann's not all that tall, so I just chuckled at her comment. Then I drove it and said, "God, I feel like a little person too!" I am a tall person so this meant something!

Toaster on wheels. Need I say more.

Then we discussed with Lawrence the difference between a hybrid and a regular gas guzzler. He was informative. Both cars put out the same emissions when emissions flow out. The advantages of the hybrid are that emissions don't flow out when it's running on electric, which only happens when you're going 25 mph or less OR when you run solely on electric, which you can do for about 30 miles and then you have to switch back to gas. The difference, according to Lawrence, is minimal. The price, according to Lawrence, is not.

$10,000-15,000 more for a hybrid.

That was the clencher. Yes, we want to be environmentally friendly, but since both cars get relatively the same gas mileage (the hybrid does a better job, but not substantially so) and they both "pollute" at the same rate (though that rate is substantially less than our 4Runner), we opted for paying less and going with the smaller car.

Two cars, two test drives, and there was no need to go anywhere else to look for a car.

And just like that, we came home with a 2009 (how do they do that?) Toyota Matrix S (one up from the standard model) in a charcoal gray (Ann wanted the dark blue, but the car has a dark interior and I wasn't into dark on dark as I'm prone to depression =-) so we went with a cheery gray...go figure!)

When we went to pick up the car we brought Rubin along. He was hesitant at first...the car is, after all, smaller than his 4-wheel drive truck/SUV and therefore not as roomy in the back, but soon he adjusted and now hops in and out of the car (a much more sustainable jump) like a champ.

Pictures tomorrow...

Grey Matter

The sky held its breath this afternoon. Charcoal hung heavy against the sunlit houses. Illuminated colors seemed all the brighter, all the more iridescent in contrast to the steely gray of the rain-laden clouds. I tried to take a photograph, but I couldn't capture the expanse of it. Instead, I waited for the sky to exhale and release the cold pellets of rain held deep within its belly.

Hours later, I'm still waiting.

The clouds have pushed themselves across the sky, the sun, what little there was of it, slipped behind the mountains, and still no rain.

It'll come, I know, just as it did last night and the night before. The pounding of it woke me up each time and I rolled over in my warm bed to dream of rafts in rough whitewater and swimming deep beneath the lake.

This morning I woke up to read about the symptoms of menopause, not because of the rain or my dreams, but because of my dry skin and pulsating headaches. They were both on the list along with a racing heart, irregular menstruation, and night-sweats, all of which I'm experiencing.

I'd like to think there is a connection between the long winter of this spring and my crawl beyond middle age, but I have yet to figure out the significance. My dreams are unclear as well and often they are a perfect reflection of what's on my mind or trapped deep within it.

The water dreams happen a lot for me as do the dreams of riding in a car that I'm either supposed to be driving though I'm not in the driver's seat or dreams of my teeth falling out one chunk at a time. My mother, a member of her own dream group, would say I have issues with control and my therapist would say, in Jungian fashion, that I am the water, I am the car, I am my teeth, but even knowing all of the possible interpretations doesn't unravel the tangled web I wake with every morning.

Most likely it has to do with transition and there, perhaps, is the connection between this afternoon's sky and my current life -- we are both holding our breath. I shall hold my breath, I fear, for the next 5 1/2 weeks, the time I have left "in the trenches" of my last days as a teacher. Exhaling means release and I am not at the place where I can release myself from the responsibilities of another busy end of the year.

This morning, the weather forecaster on the radio talked of a 40% chance of precipitation. That's kind of how I feel -- a 40% chance of relaxation. A 40% chance of letting go. A 40% chance of release.

When the clouds hung like velvet steely drapes this afternoon, the 40% felt imminent.

Then nothing. No rain. No hail. No pellets of sleet. Just a cold chill growing colder and the feeling that the sky was as heavy as a bank vault door.

Only without a combination to unlock the safe. Thick metal between one world and the next.

This sounds depressing, but I didn't see or feel it that way. Instead I felt anxious, but not in a bad way. It felt more suspended just like that place between a breath in and breath out. An extended anticipation. Almost calm, but with a slight tug of tension when the lungs are full, expanded and the breath pushes for release.

I can't photograph that either.

I walked the dog to the first day of the Farmer's Market. It's about an hour walk and with each step I worried about not having enough warm clothes or getting drenched when the clouds opened up just far enough from home to make the walk back miserable. When we got to the Market, I waited for Ann to join us and ate my vegetable tamale and sipped my ice-cold lemonade while Rubin played with the ice cubes I tossed him. Still no rain. I huddled against a tree and tried to catch the glimpses of sun that pushed through the sheets of metal sky.

Ann arrived, ate her tamales and we walked back to the car to avoid the rain.

But still no rain.

We came home, turned up the furnace, watched some TV while drinking hot cocoa and still the rain waited.

The sky will breathe again.

And so will I, but for now I'll head up to bed, wait for the sound of rain on the skylight and the water to fill my dreams.

Tuesdays With Dorrie

By marrying Ann, I have inherited her friends. They are good friends, good people and I feel as if my life expanded ten-fold with their addition.

Two of those friends are Doris and Steven. They are such good friends that when we remodeled our house, we got to live with them for over a month. They have a large, spacious, and incredibly gorgeous house so we could have lived there without them even knowing, but that's not how Doris and Steven work. They embrace you -- full arms, full heart, and most importantly, full-bellied. Well, we at least had full bellies!

Doris retired last year from teaching. She hasn't skipped a beat since her last day of work. She traveled to Italy, knitted more sweaters than I've ever owned in my life, worked on a myriad of art projects, and mastered the science of making no-knead bread. Steven, who retired some time ago, is the steady pulse in Doris' busy life. He golfs every morning, so early that there is often frost still on the course, he walks his gi-normous German shepherd, Ben, and assists Doris in her many, many household projects.

He, too, helps with the no-knead bread.

Upon her retirement, Doris and Steven have opened their house every Tuesday night for dinner. Anyone who has lived in their house or are friends with someone who have lived in their house are invited. This includes not only Doris and Steven's two grown children --Ian and Phoebe and their spouses -- but all of their extended family and friends.

We're included. Even Rubin is included and while we all meet in the kitchen to talk politics and food, the dogs chase each other around their swimming pool in the backyard.

But always, at the center of the gathering is this incredible food. Each Tuesday is a different theme. One week it's Japanese, the next Indian. With Doris' background, Italian night is always a big hit. Last week was Mexican, but instead of tortillas we ate bread...lots and lots of bread...and pineapple spears for dessert. No matter the theme, the Italian flair is always present be it in the cheeses or the "caponata" (pictured below) that we spread on our bread.

The food is always wonderful, but the gathering of eclectic characters is even more wonderful.

Tonight we may not be able to attend. Our lives are busy today and well into the evening, so we'll throw together something light and easy. It'll be enjoyable as Ann and I debrief our days and plan ahead for the upcoming summer. Rubin will enjoy the mellow environment and go for a game of fetch right before bed.

But down the street, Doris and Steven and their many friends and extended family will share yet another meal. It's good to know such people exist in the world. It's really wonderful to know they exist in my life.

Dear Mr. Obama

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

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.