My oldest brother, Mike, was one of the most talented people I've ever known. He also was gay, a fact that some would say doesn't really matter, although it does matter, because that fact was an important part of his story. I say "was" because he has been dead for nearly 17 years.
On the off chance that there's an after life, it's entirely possible--probable, even--that Mike is still talented and still gay. Just more cosmically so. And, frankly, I like the idea of a more flamboyant night sky, one not afraid to accent itself with an occasional swash of bright colors or an athletic move typically reserved for a strobe-lit dance floor.
I think of him this morning as I consider the remaining unread pages in my current bedside book--"Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore"--a strange, lifestyle-bridging tale that doesn't quite go where I think it will, thank goodness.
Despite its intense focus on the bells and whistles of the digital age, the core of this book rests firmly in the belief that not everything can be Googled or solved with a series of mouse clicks. I just proved that by Googling my brother and coming up with no results that satisfy me.
How can it be that a man with such immense artistic talent and a personality as big as the Sandhills has left such a thin digital trail of a life well lived? While I understand the paltry search results for someone like myself--a person whose life has been neither large nor lived in the public realm--how do I explain the digital silence when I inquire about my big-life brother, someone whom even Andy Warhol counted as a close friend?
Maybe I explain it by downplaying the significance of the digital world. Lest we forget, after all, there was a time--a rather long stretch of time--when vocal cords and papyrus were the mediums of choice for storytellers and historians. It wasn't the Internet that saved the common man, but, rather, it was the pulp of a bible and the sturdy legs of a missionary seeking out the disconnected commoners, offering literacy as the added bonus of salvation.
Salvation, indeed.
I have a hankering for the retro this morning, a desire to lose myself in tactile, inky pages I can hold onto. Today, I have a hunger for a life more real than anything the internet can conjure, however flashy and lifelike its conjurings may be. I want to hear voices rather than mouse clicks, see sunlight rather than the glow of a back-lit screen. Today, I want a taste of the unplugged, sensory-rich life my brother Mike lived, way back in the mid 90s.
And I'm pretty sure it's going to be delicious.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Friday, December 28, 2012
The Joy of Sour Notes
About eight years ago, Allison went through a "clarinet" phase the same way some people go through a grapefruit-diet or plaid-socks phase. In other words, it didn't last all that long. But it did last long enough for Mark and me to attend a band concert or two. And one, in particular, will stay with me like homemade noodles--stuck to my ribs forever.
She was in 4th grade, and it was the big roll out of the band, the first time parents could see what all those early morning practices and night-time battles were for. Based upon what I heard that evening, apparently they weren't for much, thank you. One trumpeter, in particular, stuck out. And I'm not talking about the bell of his horn, though he did have it hoisted nicely.
This kid played trumpet the way an allergy sufferer blows his nose in September--with great gusto and no apparent sense of public shame. At times, he actually sounded like some throw-back clown from a cheap circus, honking his big, red nose just to get a laugh.
It took awhile, but, eventually, the kid did get some laughs. I mean, even the most kind-hearted parents have their limits. That night, that limit proved to be about 6-1/2 minutes. Two songs in and people began sitting on the edge of their seats, anxiously anticipating the next spasmodic outburst from the boy's horn, an instrument that seemingly had a mind of its own. And he did not disappoint, eventually wearing us down until we all were battling a bad case of the giggles.
Such moments make a person realize that an elementary music teacher just may be the bravest person on earth.
Then again, we had one of those moments three years later at a Lincoln High orchestra concert, so maybe that medal of honor should extend to all music teachers.
This time, it was a female cellist I could not turn my eyes from. True, it meant that I barely watched Eric work the neck of his own cello, but I'm sure he would have understood. I mean, this girl was amazing in her ho-hum approach to Mozart. If her eyes fell upon the music even once, it was only because the music stand was in the way of her view, as she scanned the audience, looking for a friend she was texting with her free hand. That's right. She was a cellist with a free hand.
It was like watching a Carol Burnett skit, only Harvey Korman was nowhere to be seen. Instead, this was all Carol, doing everything she could but play actual notes (although her hands ran up and down that neck like a masseuse in training). And her bow work left me breathless, the way that bow got so darned close to the strings, without actually touching them. Even more amazing was that she managed to do it all while chewing an entire pack of Bubble Yum bubble gum.
I don't know what made me think about these magical concerts, so many years after the fact. Maybe it's because of the sudden focus on teachers, and the bravery some of them show in times of dire stress. Maybe I just wanted people to know that you don't need the threat of a gun to bring out the best in a teacher.
Sometimes, you just need an incredibly distracted musician who can't be bothered with all those notes on the page.
She was in 4th grade, and it was the big roll out of the band, the first time parents could see what all those early morning practices and night-time battles were for. Based upon what I heard that evening, apparently they weren't for much, thank you. One trumpeter, in particular, stuck out. And I'm not talking about the bell of his horn, though he did have it hoisted nicely.
This kid played trumpet the way an allergy sufferer blows his nose in September--with great gusto and no apparent sense of public shame. At times, he actually sounded like some throw-back clown from a cheap circus, honking his big, red nose just to get a laugh.
It took awhile, but, eventually, the kid did get some laughs. I mean, even the most kind-hearted parents have their limits. That night, that limit proved to be about 6-1/2 minutes. Two songs in and people began sitting on the edge of their seats, anxiously anticipating the next spasmodic outburst from the boy's horn, an instrument that seemingly had a mind of its own. And he did not disappoint, eventually wearing us down until we all were battling a bad case of the giggles.
Such moments make a person realize that an elementary music teacher just may be the bravest person on earth.
Then again, we had one of those moments three years later at a Lincoln High orchestra concert, so maybe that medal of honor should extend to all music teachers.
This time, it was a female cellist I could not turn my eyes from. True, it meant that I barely watched Eric work the neck of his own cello, but I'm sure he would have understood. I mean, this girl was amazing in her ho-hum approach to Mozart. If her eyes fell upon the music even once, it was only because the music stand was in the way of her view, as she scanned the audience, looking for a friend she was texting with her free hand. That's right. She was a cellist with a free hand.
It was like watching a Carol Burnett skit, only Harvey Korman was nowhere to be seen. Instead, this was all Carol, doing everything she could but play actual notes (although her hands ran up and down that neck like a masseuse in training). And her bow work left me breathless, the way that bow got so darned close to the strings, without actually touching them. Even more amazing was that she managed to do it all while chewing an entire pack of Bubble Yum bubble gum.
I don't know what made me think about these magical concerts, so many years after the fact. Maybe it's because of the sudden focus on teachers, and the bravery some of them show in times of dire stress. Maybe I just wanted people to know that you don't need the threat of a gun to bring out the best in a teacher.
Sometimes, you just need an incredibly distracted musician who can't be bothered with all those notes on the page.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Hot Potatoes: Or Making a Case Against Being the Be All, End All
Last night, I had the pleasure of watching my nephew, Chad, inhale about a half acre of cheesy potatoes. He is 30 now and should know better.
Thank goodness we don't always turn knowing into doing.
I'm five days from opening my new Sierra Club calendar, and I wonder if it's too late for a revolution. Not a cheesy potato revolution, exactly, but a movement, nonetheless, that could embrace an occasional cheesy-potato foray.
Beyond occasional bouts of bad eating, though, the real joy of this movement is that it requires very little, uh, movement. Mostly, it requires a person--a woman, really, because this is a female problem--to give up trying to be the be-all-end-all. That's right. I'd like to see women do a little less in 2013. A little less volunteering. A little less dieting. A little less sacrificing. A little less self loathing.
...because, really, self loathing seems to be at the root of so many of these sacrificial things women do. What else would make a woman spend money on makeup and personal trainers, slimming jeans and magical powders unless she was convinced she wasn't good enough already? What else could be driving a woman to give up all her free time, to take on another project, to raise her hand once more, unless she thought she wasn't quite up to snuff?
For a well-to-do society, we sure don't do "well" very well.
Some days, it seems that everyone's watching our every move and judging our every decision. Those cameras propped up on light poles at busy intersections? Yeah, they don't care about traffic violations. They're really recording our private faults--the secretive preening, the continual adjustments, the free hand slipping into the bag of Brach's candy corn. (Candy corn? My god, is this how low we've sunk? We'll cheat on our diets with the skankiest sugar hussies available?! Whatever happened to our good taste, our dignity?!)
What if, like merchandise in a store, we came with tags dangling from our arms? And what if those tags all read: "IRR....as is"? I'm pretty sure those tags would qualify as truth in advertising, considering I've yet to meet someone who was "regular" or someone who was anything other than "as is."
What if women decided to spend our time getting comfortable with our "as is"-ness as opposed to fighting against it so much? For starters, I'm pretty sure that some businesses would go under--businesses that, today, thrive because they convince us that our current selves are a little too eewwwy.
But I also think that, if we really loved ourselves--right now--just a wee more, the world would still be filled with women who volunteered and cooked for others, women who worked hard at work and then hard, again, at home, women whose bodies grew strong and whose choices made the world a softer, more lovely place. It's just that the fuel behind all of those things would be pure and lovely, too. It would be like wind power--energizing and free--rather than the sticky tar sands of judgment and loathing that fuel too many self improvements today.
So, here's to cheesy potatoes in 2013. Not so many that they ooze from our pores, but just enough to remind us of the richness of this world, the rightness of time spent together, the value of laughing and eating and sharing our stories, our irregular, as-is lives with each other.
Thank goodness we don't always turn knowing into doing.
I'm five days from opening my new Sierra Club calendar, and I wonder if it's too late for a revolution. Not a cheesy potato revolution, exactly, but a movement, nonetheless, that could embrace an occasional cheesy-potato foray.
Beyond occasional bouts of bad eating, though, the real joy of this movement is that it requires very little, uh, movement. Mostly, it requires a person--a woman, really, because this is a female problem--to give up trying to be the be-all-end-all. That's right. I'd like to see women do a little less in 2013. A little less volunteering. A little less dieting. A little less sacrificing. A little less self loathing.
...because, really, self loathing seems to be at the root of so many of these sacrificial things women do. What else would make a woman spend money on makeup and personal trainers, slimming jeans and magical powders unless she was convinced she wasn't good enough already? What else could be driving a woman to give up all her free time, to take on another project, to raise her hand once more, unless she thought she wasn't quite up to snuff?
For a well-to-do society, we sure don't do "well" very well.
Some days, it seems that everyone's watching our every move and judging our every decision. Those cameras propped up on light poles at busy intersections? Yeah, they don't care about traffic violations. They're really recording our private faults--the secretive preening, the continual adjustments, the free hand slipping into the bag of Brach's candy corn. (Candy corn? My god, is this how low we've sunk? We'll cheat on our diets with the skankiest sugar hussies available?! Whatever happened to our good taste, our dignity?!)
What if, like merchandise in a store, we came with tags dangling from our arms? And what if those tags all read: "IRR....as is"? I'm pretty sure those tags would qualify as truth in advertising, considering I've yet to meet someone who was "regular" or someone who was anything other than "as is."
What if women decided to spend our time getting comfortable with our "as is"-ness as opposed to fighting against it so much? For starters, I'm pretty sure that some businesses would go under--businesses that, today, thrive because they convince us that our current selves are a little too eewwwy.
But I also think that, if we really loved ourselves--right now--just a wee more, the world would still be filled with women who volunteered and cooked for others, women who worked hard at work and then hard, again, at home, women whose bodies grew strong and whose choices made the world a softer, more lovely place. It's just that the fuel behind all of those things would be pure and lovely, too. It would be like wind power--energizing and free--rather than the sticky tar sands of judgment and loathing that fuel too many self improvements today.
So, here's to cheesy potatoes in 2013. Not so many that they ooze from our pores, but just enough to remind us of the richness of this world, the rightness of time spent together, the value of laughing and eating and sharing our stories, our irregular, as-is lives with each other.
Who Are We Not to Be Brilliant
"Our deepest fear is not
that we are inadequate; our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond
measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We
ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and
fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your
playing small doesn't serve the world. There is nothing enlightened
about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We
were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within is. It's not
just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine,
we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are
liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates
others."
--From Marianne Williamson's book A Return to Love. It was quoted by Nobel Prize–winner Nelson Mandela in his inaugural address.
Sunday, December 23, 2012
She's Makin' a List. . . .
Considering I did 95 percent of this year's Christmas shopping with my buns planted firmly in the living-room chair, face basking in the otherworldly glow of a Mac laptop, there's a fairly good chance that the act of opening gifts on Christmas morning will induce temporary bouts of Bell's palsy in others, as their faces drop in disappointment. This is why I've written down and tucked away a supreme Plan B (take THAT, John Boehner!)--the Gratitude List. Let's just hope I remember to wear this pair of jeans on Christmas morning, considering I've already placed this list into the back pocket!
Some Scenarios of A Pretty Good Life, in No Particular Order
By Jane Holt
Scenario One
The air smelled exceptionally fine yesterday--crisp, like fresh-picked lettuce, with bracing undertones of Saskatoon to help awaken the nose. While greedily pulling in as much as my fairly substantial nostrils could handle, I also lamented that most plugged-in, post-modern folks forget to breathe--really breathe--during their waking hours. And that's a darned shame, not to mention a real waste of good air.
Scenario Two
Recently, Finn decided to go temporarily cuckoo upon wrapping up our walks. And I, for one, couldn't be happier. The scenario: the moment he reaches our property line (perhaps he was a county assessor in a previous life?), he stops cold, gives me a look and proceeds to run in insane, tight circles, public image be damned. It also doesn't matter a whit to him that it's 6:15 a.m. and the neighbors are just now rubbing the sleep out of their eyes. Frankly, I support this latest development.
Scenario Three
Little kids with red cheeks and stubby, short fingers somehow make homemade treasures taste even better. I know this because I have tested this theory multiple times over the past few days, as Ava and Olivia, Annie, Ellen, Isaac and Hannah have knocked on our door, sugar-laden paper plates in hand, carrying out their parents' orders to bring a bit of good cheer to the odd family at 3448. As if I required clarity, Hannah even provided a delightful, apt description of said gift: "It's a tasty treat for you!" Tasty, indeed. Take that, Harry and David. Your 5 o'clock shadow and designer jeans have nothing on tiny snow boots and wool hats sitting askew.
Scenario Four
Really, I could do without a single gift under our water-deprived, just-barely-hanging-in-there Christmas tree, considering I can warm my soul to the sound of three bedrooms happily occupied. And I don't even care that the tub now needs twice-daily stubble swiping or that I find wet towels scattered about the house, like dust bunnies, only too heavy to move on their own. When my stomach was swollen with the potential of life 21 years ago, (as opposed to being swollen this morning with the detritus of too many sugar cookies--another essay, another day) I never could have anticipated the deep joy of having four warm, slightly skunky-smelling bodies at rest on the second floor. Again, I'd happily bypass that clumsily wrapped container of Pringles for this middle-of-the-night comfort of a brood re-collected.
Scenario Five
This year, especially, I have loved the neighborhood Christmas lights, their colorful pronouncements peaking out from snow-covered bushes. I love the Gaussian smear of primary colors that always manage to bring a smile to my face. More and more, I find myself dreaming of a job that exists primarily outdoors, some reason that I might spend most of my time in the real world, rather than observing it through the fluorescent, canned-air falsehood of indoor space. Until I find that job (and, frankly, Bad Jane has been pondering how I can destroy the career of Kate Braestrup, chaplain to game wardens, so that I might apply--despite my lack of experience), I seek out the promise of nature. I fill my eyes with its lights--chilled, ancient stars finding their way through the darkness, the blazing, winter sun bouncing off of the crust of half-melted snow, the brilliance of a Cardinal's red jacket set against the snowy backdrop of a naked wisteria. And my heart is filled.
Mostly, I think it's incredibly important--maybe even life-saving important--that we stop and pay attention. Right here, right now. When we refocus ourselves, we see the life rafts that are there, and they are overfilled with reasons to have hope and know love, despite everything.
Some Scenarios of A Pretty Good Life, in No Particular Order
By Jane Holt
Scenario One
The air smelled exceptionally fine yesterday--crisp, like fresh-picked lettuce, with bracing undertones of Saskatoon to help awaken the nose. While greedily pulling in as much as my fairly substantial nostrils could handle, I also lamented that most plugged-in, post-modern folks forget to breathe--really breathe--during their waking hours. And that's a darned shame, not to mention a real waste of good air.
Scenario Two
Recently, Finn decided to go temporarily cuckoo upon wrapping up our walks. And I, for one, couldn't be happier. The scenario: the moment he reaches our property line (perhaps he was a county assessor in a previous life?), he stops cold, gives me a look and proceeds to run in insane, tight circles, public image be damned. It also doesn't matter a whit to him that it's 6:15 a.m. and the neighbors are just now rubbing the sleep out of their eyes. Frankly, I support this latest development.
Scenario Three
Little kids with red cheeks and stubby, short fingers somehow make homemade treasures taste even better. I know this because I have tested this theory multiple times over the past few days, as Ava and Olivia, Annie, Ellen, Isaac and Hannah have knocked on our door, sugar-laden paper plates in hand, carrying out their parents' orders to bring a bit of good cheer to the odd family at 3448. As if I required clarity, Hannah even provided a delightful, apt description of said gift: "It's a tasty treat for you!" Tasty, indeed. Take that, Harry and David. Your 5 o'clock shadow and designer jeans have nothing on tiny snow boots and wool hats sitting askew.
Scenario Four
Really, I could do without a single gift under our water-deprived, just-barely-hanging-in-there Christmas tree, considering I can warm my soul to the sound of three bedrooms happily occupied. And I don't even care that the tub now needs twice-daily stubble swiping or that I find wet towels scattered about the house, like dust bunnies, only too heavy to move on their own. When my stomach was swollen with the potential of life 21 years ago, (as opposed to being swollen this morning with the detritus of too many sugar cookies--another essay, another day) I never could have anticipated the deep joy of having four warm, slightly skunky-smelling bodies at rest on the second floor. Again, I'd happily bypass that clumsily wrapped container of Pringles for this middle-of-the-night comfort of a brood re-collected.
Scenario Five
This year, especially, I have loved the neighborhood Christmas lights, their colorful pronouncements peaking out from snow-covered bushes. I love the Gaussian smear of primary colors that always manage to bring a smile to my face. More and more, I find myself dreaming of a job that exists primarily outdoors, some reason that I might spend most of my time in the real world, rather than observing it through the fluorescent, canned-air falsehood of indoor space. Until I find that job (and, frankly, Bad Jane has been pondering how I can destroy the career of Kate Braestrup, chaplain to game wardens, so that I might apply--despite my lack of experience), I seek out the promise of nature. I fill my eyes with its lights--chilled, ancient stars finding their way through the darkness, the blazing, winter sun bouncing off of the crust of half-melted snow, the brilliance of a Cardinal's red jacket set against the snowy backdrop of a naked wisteria. And my heart is filled.
Mostly, I think it's incredibly important--maybe even life-saving important--that we stop and pay attention. Right here, right now. When we refocus ourselves, we see the life rafts that are there, and they are overfilled with reasons to have hope and know love, despite everything.
Friday, December 21, 2012
An Outbreak of Stupid
"The only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun." --Wayne LaPierre, the NRA's executive vice president, speaking at a Washington news conference today.
On Monday, a normally bubbly student stuck around the library's check-out desk, quiet and nervous. When I asked her if she was okay, she wouldn't make eye contact, silently shaking her head and asking for a private place to talk. Turns out, her sister, who lives thousands of miles away, hung herself last weekend, leaving behind 4 children, one of whom is 2 months old. No one in her family could bear to break the news to the student's mom. That difficult conversation will happen this weekend.
Just days earlier, some kook took a military gun to an East-Coast elementary school and shot--point blank--tiny people and their teachers. To death. Any recommendations how I might provide good care to the 1,400 kids who come to East High each morning, many of whom carry heavy, dark bags with them?
I don't plan, any time soon, to get my concealed-weapon's license. Mostly because I do not think for a moment that I could pull out a gun, keep my cool and off the bad guy in front of us. Would I shield my students from his evil? Yes, I would. Would I kick his nuts to Kansas? Absolutely. But would I shoot him? No, I would not. Nor would I carry a gun--especially a loaded gun--to school, just in case.
People who think arming school personnel is a reasonable option either live in Texas or haven't spent a day in a school--more or less 180 of them--for a very, very long time. School folks work with clients whose worlds continually teeter on turmoil. Do you really expect them to ignore the weapon whose bulk would call to them underneath our apple-laden knitted sweaters? Or to feel comforted by it?
Yeah, right.
He recoiled from the pack of reporters wanting to know why he’d lost control of his House Republican conference, whether he can survive as House Speaker, and how a solution to the “fiscal cliff” can be achieved. “How we get there, God only knows,” Boehner conceded. (from The Washington Post)
While it's true that I couldn't get the idea of that cold beer in the fridge out of my mind during the last few hours of school today, it doesn't mean I didn't bring my best to the students who were knee deep in the pressure of semester finals. So you can understand if I'm a bit disgusted by Washington politicians who cried "Uncle" so that they could head to their spacious homes for the holidays. Apparently, the idea of coping with and solving a problem that they themselves (or their predecessors) created--a really hard problem, people!--was too much and they decided that hot toddies and new nine irons were far more appealing than sticking around to solve their self-imposed problems.
If teachers threw up their arms when faced with, oh, I don't know, the staggering impossibilities of meeting No Child Left Behind standards (yeah, that's right. NO child), I'm pretty sure that millions of folks would demand that we be fired, tenure be damned. And, frankly, many of us would understand the outrage, even if the standards are pipe dreams.
So, tonight, disgusted by wieners with microphones, befuddled by those who blast the "godless" public schools and their "liberal-leaning" employees who never do enough, I cracked open a cold one and said a silent prayer for my student, whose sister is no more. And, I'll be honest, I was glad to know that, since I got all my work done before I left today, I've got 14 days to gear up for the hard work of doing my job, come January 7.
On Monday, a normally bubbly student stuck around the library's check-out desk, quiet and nervous. When I asked her if she was okay, she wouldn't make eye contact, silently shaking her head and asking for a private place to talk. Turns out, her sister, who lives thousands of miles away, hung herself last weekend, leaving behind 4 children, one of whom is 2 months old. No one in her family could bear to break the news to the student's mom. That difficult conversation will happen this weekend.
Just days earlier, some kook took a military gun to an East-Coast elementary school and shot--point blank--tiny people and their teachers. To death. Any recommendations how I might provide good care to the 1,400 kids who come to East High each morning, many of whom carry heavy, dark bags with them?
I don't plan, any time soon, to get my concealed-weapon's license. Mostly because I do not think for a moment that I could pull out a gun, keep my cool and off the bad guy in front of us. Would I shield my students from his evil? Yes, I would. Would I kick his nuts to Kansas? Absolutely. But would I shoot him? No, I would not. Nor would I carry a gun--especially a loaded gun--to school, just in case.
People who think arming school personnel is a reasonable option either live in Texas or haven't spent a day in a school--more or less 180 of them--for a very, very long time. School folks work with clients whose worlds continually teeter on turmoil. Do you really expect them to ignore the weapon whose bulk would call to them underneath our apple-laden knitted sweaters? Or to feel comforted by it?
Yeah, right.
He recoiled from the pack of reporters wanting to know why he’d lost control of his House Republican conference, whether he can survive as House Speaker, and how a solution to the “fiscal cliff” can be achieved. “How we get there, God only knows,” Boehner conceded. (from The Washington Post)
While it's true that I couldn't get the idea of that cold beer in the fridge out of my mind during the last few hours of school today, it doesn't mean I didn't bring my best to the students who were knee deep in the pressure of semester finals. So you can understand if I'm a bit disgusted by Washington politicians who cried "Uncle" so that they could head to their spacious homes for the holidays. Apparently, the idea of coping with and solving a problem that they themselves (or their predecessors) created--a really hard problem, people!--was too much and they decided that hot toddies and new nine irons were far more appealing than sticking around to solve their self-imposed problems.
If teachers threw up their arms when faced with, oh, I don't know, the staggering impossibilities of meeting No Child Left Behind standards (yeah, that's right. NO child), I'm pretty sure that millions of folks would demand that we be fired, tenure be damned. And, frankly, many of us would understand the outrage, even if the standards are pipe dreams.
So, tonight, disgusted by wieners with microphones, befuddled by those who blast the "godless" public schools and their "liberal-leaning" employees who never do enough, I cracked open a cold one and said a silent prayer for my student, whose sister is no more. And, I'll be honest, I was glad to know that, since I got all my work done before I left today, I've got 14 days to gear up for the hard work of doing my job, come January 7.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Getting Churched
Chaplain Kate Braestrup and Rabbi Craig Lewis are two people I'd never heard of before this morning, and now I can't seem to shake either of them. Braestrup was the guest on this morning's radio show "On Being," speaking about her experiences as a chaplain for Maine's state-parks rangers. Lewis was the guest speaker at my church.
Despite the miles that separate them, the two spoke about surprisingly similar things; namely, miracles, life and small acts of kindness (which both would say are really just different words for the same thing).
What struck me most about Brastrup were her thoughts on life and love. She said that she struggles with the Christian notion that life is the prize above all prizes, because, well, we all ultimately die, nullifying all of that hard work and taking away the shininess of the prize. For her, it makes more sense to prize love above all things, because love spawns action and results.
As a chaplain for the state-parks police, she often accompanies the rangers on search-and-rescue missions, the end results often ending in grief and tears. By prizing love more so than even life, though, Braestrup sees evidence of miracles all the time--not miracles we pray for and collect, but the ones that just happen when good people--strangers, even--reach out to help those who are lost and in need.
So, when someone whose relative has died in a snowmobiling accident asks her "Where was God in all of this?" Braestrup answers truthfully-- "He was in the people he sent to come to your aid."
All these years, I've been haunted by the words of my college church's priest, when he said "Why is it we do all these good things and follow the word of God? Because we want eternal life!" I mean, surely, greed isn't the best reason to do good. Hearing Braestrup de-emphasize life at all costs and replace it with love? That was music to my ears, a philosophy I can live with.
As was the wisdom that came from Rabbi Lewis' lips this morning. Today, of all days, it was powerful to see men representing different faiths sharing the altar before us. Today of all days, it was powerful to hear Genesis spoken first in Hebrew and then in English, reminding me of the things we have in common, rather than the things that separate us. Today of all days, it was significant that a Jew stood before a church full of Christians and talked about the importance of giving thanks, and giving it now.
I came home, walked the dog, breathed fresh air, wrote three thank-you letters and felt my heart lighten and fill up again. All because I was lucky enough to hear the stories of two strangers.
Despite the miles that separate them, the two spoke about surprisingly similar things; namely, miracles, life and small acts of kindness (which both would say are really just different words for the same thing).
What struck me most about Brastrup were her thoughts on life and love. She said that she struggles with the Christian notion that life is the prize above all prizes, because, well, we all ultimately die, nullifying all of that hard work and taking away the shininess of the prize. For her, it makes more sense to prize love above all things, because love spawns action and results.
As a chaplain for the state-parks police, she often accompanies the rangers on search-and-rescue missions, the end results often ending in grief and tears. By prizing love more so than even life, though, Braestrup sees evidence of miracles all the time--not miracles we pray for and collect, but the ones that just happen when good people--strangers, even--reach out to help those who are lost and in need.
So, when someone whose relative has died in a snowmobiling accident asks her "Where was God in all of this?" Braestrup answers truthfully-- "He was in the people he sent to come to your aid."
All these years, I've been haunted by the words of my college church's priest, when he said "Why is it we do all these good things and follow the word of God? Because we want eternal life!" I mean, surely, greed isn't the best reason to do good. Hearing Braestrup de-emphasize life at all costs and replace it with love? That was music to my ears, a philosophy I can live with.
As was the wisdom that came from Rabbi Lewis' lips this morning. Today, of all days, it was powerful to see men representing different faiths sharing the altar before us. Today of all days, it was powerful to hear Genesis spoken first in Hebrew and then in English, reminding me of the things we have in common, rather than the things that separate us. Today of all days, it was significant that a Jew stood before a church full of Christians and talked about the importance of giving thanks, and giving it now.
I came home, walked the dog, breathed fresh air, wrote three thank-you letters and felt my heart lighten and fill up again. All because I was lucky enough to hear the stories of two strangers.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Cleaning up our Language
I remember trying to learn HTML on my own, back when the public schools were just inching onto the technology bubble. In need of a little job security, I had convinced East to add a Webpage Publishing class before I actually knew how to publish anything on the web.
Guess what I spent my summer learning that year?
In a weird way, my first exposure to HTML--an unforgiving language, indeed--came to mind this morning as I got up the courage to turn on the radio and listen in a bit as people tried to explain yesterday's horrific events. Most of their explanations felt a bit hollow, in part, because they were offering them in the wrong language. And I suspect more than a few teachers could have told them so.
Teach long enough and you'll bump into a kid who is utterly confounding, one for whom rules and consequences are as foreign as HTML was to me 15 years ago. Yet, we confound our professional psyches all the more by using the wrong measuring sticks--the wrong language--to explain or take apart that abhorrent behavior.
"What kind of normal person would do THAT?!" we sputter.
Well, not a one, probably. And that's the point. This is not normal behavior, so we might as well throw out all the norms, standards and practices if we want to find a meaningful solution.
So, what do we do when "normal" doesn't fit anymore? Well, for starters, we do what we do when our jeans don't fit anymore. We set them aside and get to work again. We remind ourselves of the basics--those things that we all need and share--and look for the gaps in our current practices.
We start addressing hunger, for instance. And mental illness. We start to set aside our obsessive refusal to pay more for the right to live in this country, and begin to funnel our time and money into meaningful, substantial changes in the way we do things. We throw out the hollow "bottom line" for something more apropos for humanity--like compassion and teamwork, dignity and doing what's right.
And, since I'm dreaming here, we shrink the airwaves just a wee bit and give less time to gasbags like Rush Limbaugh and 24-hour news networks and build in some pauses between our storytelling. I mean, honestly, what do we really get by staring into that box, nonstop, or injecting the vitriol into our ears and veins over and over and over again?
I'd say we get what we got yesterday--a whole lot of heartbreak with a rush of goodwill on its backside.
Guess what I spent my summer learning that year?
In a weird way, my first exposure to HTML--an unforgiving language, indeed--came to mind this morning as I got up the courage to turn on the radio and listen in a bit as people tried to explain yesterday's horrific events. Most of their explanations felt a bit hollow, in part, because they were offering them in the wrong language. And I suspect more than a few teachers could have told them so.
Teach long enough and you'll bump into a kid who is utterly confounding, one for whom rules and consequences are as foreign as HTML was to me 15 years ago. Yet, we confound our professional psyches all the more by using the wrong measuring sticks--the wrong language--to explain or take apart that abhorrent behavior.
"What kind of normal person would do THAT?!" we sputter.
Well, not a one, probably. And that's the point. This is not normal behavior, so we might as well throw out all the norms, standards and practices if we want to find a meaningful solution.
So, what do we do when "normal" doesn't fit anymore? Well, for starters, we do what we do when our jeans don't fit anymore. We set them aside and get to work again. We remind ourselves of the basics--those things that we all need and share--and look for the gaps in our current practices.
We start addressing hunger, for instance. And mental illness. We start to set aside our obsessive refusal to pay more for the right to live in this country, and begin to funnel our time and money into meaningful, substantial changes in the way we do things. We throw out the hollow "bottom line" for something more apropos for humanity--like compassion and teamwork, dignity and doing what's right.
And, since I'm dreaming here, we shrink the airwaves just a wee bit and give less time to gasbags like Rush Limbaugh and 24-hour news networks and build in some pauses between our storytelling. I mean, honestly, what do we really get by staring into that box, nonstop, or injecting the vitriol into our ears and veins over and over and over again?
I'd say we get what we got yesterday--a whole lot of heartbreak with a rush of goodwill on its backside.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Rock of Ages
Math does funny things to my mind. Especially as I've gotten older.
When I turned ten, I remember being amazed that I had lived to be a decade old. Looking back at photos from that year, I should have been amazed that no one had kidnapped me, shaved off my bleach-blonde mullet and stripped me of my slippery, silk, button-down shirt. I suppose you could say I was a "looker." But not the kind that drew positive reactions.
In honor of my 25th birthday, I designed a funky, die-cut, dinosaur-themed birthday card for an assignment in my Typography class. The card celebrated the fact that "I'm old. A quarter century old." Again, I remember being stunned that I'd reached such a summit in my life.
On the day I turned 36, I remember realizing that I was now at least twice as old as my oldest student. And that fact left me speechless.
This morning, on my pre-dawn walk, I realized that I have been teaching for 25 years. Twenty five years. Which is exactly. . . half. . . of . . . my . . . lifetime. Such revelations justify an abundance of elipses.
I remember reaching my tenth year as a teacher, and being stunned that I had kept a job for that long. My own dad, whom I respected greatly, changed jobs about every 6 or 8 years. Why, then, would I ever expect to stick with one for an entire decade? But, by the time I reached that tenth year of teaching, I remember thinking that I just might be able to stick with this job until I retire.
Fifteen years later, and I still believe I can stick with this until I retire. I suppose, then, the question becomes whether or not the kids can stick with me for that long. It's no longer a question of me sustaining an interest in the subject so much as it is a question of whether I can remain relevant enough to reach that age.
Well, that's not entirely true. There is the question of whether I can stick with it. And it's not the students who've led me to wonder this; rather, it's education's recent adoption of the business model that has left me wondering. If you ask me, this is one adoption that never should have happened. How on earth could we expect a business model to work when our clients--who, for the most part, are required by law to be our clients--also happen to be our products? And, as long as we insist upon using measuring sticks created by distant entities obsessed with rote, standardized outcomes, we should expect public education to "fail."
Pinch me, but I still happen to believe that the relationships I foster with my students will go much further in nudging them along in their development as caring, connected human beings than will any coaching I provide them on how best to take a standardized test.
Next week, I turn 51, which means that I will no longer have taught for half of my life. But this is a fact in only the most Pharisaic way, me quibbling with myself over a handful of days or weeks as the dividing line lengthens. What strikes me most, as I ponder this surprisingly long ride I've taken, is how much I still enjoy it all. And by "it" I mean "the students."
Twenty five years later, and they continue to be vibrant, connected, funny, brave folks who give me great hope in the future. The fact that one or two of them might end up changing my Depends down the road? Well, by then, maybe they'll have spent half a lifetime preparing for that moment and I can be at ease, knowing I'm in good hands.
When I turned ten, I remember being amazed that I had lived to be a decade old. Looking back at photos from that year, I should have been amazed that no one had kidnapped me, shaved off my bleach-blonde mullet and stripped me of my slippery, silk, button-down shirt. I suppose you could say I was a "looker." But not the kind that drew positive reactions.
In honor of my 25th birthday, I designed a funky, die-cut, dinosaur-themed birthday card for an assignment in my Typography class. The card celebrated the fact that "I'm old. A quarter century old." Again, I remember being stunned that I'd reached such a summit in my life.
On the day I turned 36, I remember realizing that I was now at least twice as old as my oldest student. And that fact left me speechless.
This morning, on my pre-dawn walk, I realized that I have been teaching for 25 years. Twenty five years. Which is exactly. . . half. . . of . . . my . . . lifetime. Such revelations justify an abundance of elipses.
I remember reaching my tenth year as a teacher, and being stunned that I had kept a job for that long. My own dad, whom I respected greatly, changed jobs about every 6 or 8 years. Why, then, would I ever expect to stick with one for an entire decade? But, by the time I reached that tenth year of teaching, I remember thinking that I just might be able to stick with this job until I retire.
Fifteen years later, and I still believe I can stick with this until I retire. I suppose, then, the question becomes whether or not the kids can stick with me for that long. It's no longer a question of me sustaining an interest in the subject so much as it is a question of whether I can remain relevant enough to reach that age.
Well, that's not entirely true. There is the question of whether I can stick with it. And it's not the students who've led me to wonder this; rather, it's education's recent adoption of the business model that has left me wondering. If you ask me, this is one adoption that never should have happened. How on earth could we expect a business model to work when our clients--who, for the most part, are required by law to be our clients--also happen to be our products? And, as long as we insist upon using measuring sticks created by distant entities obsessed with rote, standardized outcomes, we should expect public education to "fail."
Pinch me, but I still happen to believe that the relationships I foster with my students will go much further in nudging them along in their development as caring, connected human beings than will any coaching I provide them on how best to take a standardized test.
Next week, I turn 51, which means that I will no longer have taught for half of my life. But this is a fact in only the most Pharisaic way, me quibbling with myself over a handful of days or weeks as the dividing line lengthens. What strikes me most, as I ponder this surprisingly long ride I've taken, is how much I still enjoy it all. And by "it" I mean "the students."
Twenty five years later, and they continue to be vibrant, connected, funny, brave folks who give me great hope in the future. The fact that one or two of them might end up changing my Depends down the road? Well, by then, maybe they'll have spent half a lifetime preparing for that moment and I can be at ease, knowing I'm in good hands.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Cooking Light
Every home should have a nest or two, some place where you can go to feel warm and connected, hugged by familiar things and an easy rhythm. Yesterday, around dusk, that place was the kitchen. With some old mixes providing the soundtrack (how can it be that even a really sad Beck makes me smile?), I set out not to dazzle my family so much as to simply provide a meal for them.
Wanting a little company, I bring in Finn's bed and tuck it underneath the miniature pleather benches of the breakfast nook, where he too could be cozy and content. Settled in, I knew he would have a perfect view of any wayward, kamikaze orts tumbling from the cutting board.
It's hard to beat the 5:30 glow of a cloudy winter afternoon, especially set against the indirect lighting peeking out from under the cupboards. That glow somehow transforms the most mundane things--dicing onions, for instance--into something more admirable and important.
I run my fingers along the tops of the spice containers, slowing at the more exotic choices--Look at that! Garam masala!--but, mostly, it's an exercise in enjoying the order and promise of these mostly alphabetized-by-size options.
Like my fingers, my mind wanders, too, and, for some strange reason, I can't shake ketamine from my thoughts. Twice in the last month, I've heard or read stories about this strong anesthetic and its unexpected side benefits--namely, it's ability to smooth away depression in the matter of hours, not months. I think of friends and acquaintances who have spent years trying to find the perfect magic formula for rewiring a blue brain, often with unsatisfying, slurring results. And now, researchers are talking enthusiastically about the speedy potential of a repurposed drug.
My mind wanders from ketamine to baking soda...something so ordinary that that's the best name they (whoever "they" are) could devise. Utterly ordinary yet surprisingly transforming, remember to add it to batter and your pancakes become light and airy. Forget it and you've started your own communion-bread side business, minus the transubstantiation. And it's got a nice list of side benefits outside of the kitchen, as well--tamer of bug bites, burns and indigestion, for instance.
Aside from being food central, this nest called "the kitchen" seems to encourage the fermenting of ideas, as well. Here, I'm free to draw tenuous threads between anesthetics and leavening agents. Here, I can make something with my hands while my head goes somewhere else, and usually without disastrous results.
Like a safe room, without all the drama.
Wanting a little company, I bring in Finn's bed and tuck it underneath the miniature pleather benches of the breakfast nook, where he too could be cozy and content. Settled in, I knew he would have a perfect view of any wayward, kamikaze orts tumbling from the cutting board.
It's hard to beat the 5:30 glow of a cloudy winter afternoon, especially set against the indirect lighting peeking out from under the cupboards. That glow somehow transforms the most mundane things--dicing onions, for instance--into something more admirable and important.
I run my fingers along the tops of the spice containers, slowing at the more exotic choices--Look at that! Garam masala!--but, mostly, it's an exercise in enjoying the order and promise of these mostly alphabetized-by-size options.
Like my fingers, my mind wanders, too, and, for some strange reason, I can't shake ketamine from my thoughts. Twice in the last month, I've heard or read stories about this strong anesthetic and its unexpected side benefits--namely, it's ability to smooth away depression in the matter of hours, not months. I think of friends and acquaintances who have spent years trying to find the perfect magic formula for rewiring a blue brain, often with unsatisfying, slurring results. And now, researchers are talking enthusiastically about the speedy potential of a repurposed drug.
My mind wanders from ketamine to baking soda...something so ordinary that that's the best name they (whoever "they" are) could devise. Utterly ordinary yet surprisingly transforming, remember to add it to batter and your pancakes become light and airy. Forget it and you've started your own communion-bread side business, minus the transubstantiation. And it's got a nice list of side benefits outside of the kitchen, as well--tamer of bug bites, burns and indigestion, for instance.
Aside from being food central, this nest called "the kitchen" seems to encourage the fermenting of ideas, as well. Here, I'm free to draw tenuous threads between anesthetics and leavening agents. Here, I can make something with my hands while my head goes somewhere else, and usually without disastrous results.
Like a safe room, without all the drama.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Something's Afoot...and Happily So
There
is something sacred about shared ground, about knowing that someone you
love has walked this same path, warmed their toes in the same ancient
sands and waters. That’s why I wasn’t even jealous last night while
listening about my friends’ recent adventures in Cancun. Well, maybe I
was a wee bit envious. . .
It’s been almost ten years since my family headed to Mexico, settling along the shores of Isla de Mujeres, a half-hour boat ride from booming Cancun. It was there where the Holts baptized ourselves in turquoise waters, swam among Crayola-colored fish, observed our first topless bather. And it was there where a pudgy, young Eric Holt swam with a nurse shark, despite his fears of drinking the water at the local restaurant.
Last night, it was that nurse shark that bridged yesterday and today. My friend mentioned a side trip to a local island, charming and slow-paced, that was punctuated by the opportunity to swim with a shark. That’s when I knew we had walked the same shores, separated by a thousand high tides, but tied to that very place, nonetheless.
Why is it that we are comforted by knowing our friends have “been there,” too? Maybe, in spite of the Internet’s “shrink wrap” tendencies, the world is still a vast and mysterious place. Maybe, such shared experiences--even when shared at different times--confirm that there is, in fact, such a magical place out there. That the waters really were that color. That it wasn’t just us.
Honestly, when I think about the vastness of outerspace, I am not bothered by the “just us-ness” of it all. But, somehow, I need to know that, here on earth, at least, we are connected to each other, and that those connections are anything but tenuous or discountable. It matters that, last weekend, my friends stood on the very Mexican shore a hundred yards from where my family stayed a decade ago.
Like thumbtacks lovingly pressed into the cork board, our shared footprints are our declarations that, like Kilroy, “I was here.” We anchor each other--and ourselves--when we walk these common paths, no matter how far we are from home.
It’s been almost ten years since my family headed to Mexico, settling along the shores of Isla de Mujeres, a half-hour boat ride from booming Cancun. It was there where the Holts baptized ourselves in turquoise waters, swam among Crayola-colored fish, observed our first topless bather. And it was there where a pudgy, young Eric Holt swam with a nurse shark, despite his fears of drinking the water at the local restaurant.
Last night, it was that nurse shark that bridged yesterday and today. My friend mentioned a side trip to a local island, charming and slow-paced, that was punctuated by the opportunity to swim with a shark. That’s when I knew we had walked the same shores, separated by a thousand high tides, but tied to that very place, nonetheless.
Why is it that we are comforted by knowing our friends have “been there,” too? Maybe, in spite of the Internet’s “shrink wrap” tendencies, the world is still a vast and mysterious place. Maybe, such shared experiences--even when shared at different times--confirm that there is, in fact, such a magical place out there. That the waters really were that color. That it wasn’t just us.
Honestly, when I think about the vastness of outerspace, I am not bothered by the “just us-ness” of it all. But, somehow, I need to know that, here on earth, at least, we are connected to each other, and that those connections are anything but tenuous or discountable. It matters that, last weekend, my friends stood on the very Mexican shore a hundred yards from where my family stayed a decade ago.
Like thumbtacks lovingly pressed into the cork board, our shared footprints are our declarations that, like Kilroy, “I was here.” We anchor each other--and ourselves--when we walk these common paths, no matter how far we are from home.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
7:30 on a Quiet Saturday Morn
My hand languishes atop the seat of Eric's bike,
unfamiliar dewdrops collecting on my fingertips.
I will not wipe them away,
these rare, soft diamonds.
Instead, they shall sit undisturbed, until their cool weightiness
leads them to each other,
where, eventually, they do a slow swan dive,
landing quietly atop the parched earth.
How many days have I squandered?
More than I can count.
This, however, is not one of them,
the quiet fog having none of it.
I wend my way through the park,
its features softened and hugged by condensation,
and I am content to be silent,
hearing only the crackle of curled Oak leaves,
floating to the dewy earth.
This is my walking prayer, whispered on a foggy Saturday morn,
my quiet words taken in by the soft air that wraps around me.
unfamiliar dewdrops collecting on my fingertips.
I will not wipe them away,
these rare, soft diamonds.
Instead, they shall sit undisturbed, until their cool weightiness
leads them to each other,
where, eventually, they do a slow swan dive,
landing quietly atop the parched earth.
How many days have I squandered?
More than I can count.
This, however, is not one of them,
the quiet fog having none of it.
I wend my way through the park,
its features softened and hugged by condensation,
and I am content to be silent,
hearing only the crackle of curled Oak leaves,
floating to the dewy earth.
This is my walking prayer, whispered on a foggy Saturday morn,
my quiet words taken in by the soft air that wraps around me.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Time is on My Side
Some days unfold slowly, taking their time to reveal themselves. Today was one of those days, certain in its quiet unraveling, and I was content to be patient with it, gently running my fingers across each crease of change.
I woke from ambling dreams filled with a hundred familiar rooms, warm under the weight of my blankets. As I lay there, I held my breath, listening for the rhythmic signs of a family surrounding me. A mumbled word, escaped from a dream. The contented release of breath. A shuffle of blankets to chase away the early-morning chill.
I took my time getting up. And, in return, the day delighted in pulling its chapters, end to end, like warm taffy.
A Sunday morning almost always is magical. Born first of chasing away the monsters--thanks to Finn's property-trolling diligence and a comfy chair--Sunday morning greets me like a good friend, not so much with words but with quiet opportunities--pillows and newspaper, a soft conversation over the radio, the delight of two crosswords from which to choose.
This particular morning is punctuated with the pleasure of Mark's rare appearance (thank you, vacation days!) and two puzzles that are surprisingly supple for being Sunday's children (thank you, Will Shortz, for not making me feel like a complete idiot!). And then there is church, another treat to enjoy with Mark, whose weekend work schedules leave little time for religious rituals.
You'd think we would have behaved better, for how little time we spend in church together. Ah, but this Sunday service was punctuated with the joy of sitting among friends--funny friends--which isn't the best formula for salvation. And yet, as we quietly piled up hymnals and pamphlets, kleenex and prayer cards atop our friend Susan's purse (she was foolish enough to sit in the pew in front of us), I felt tickled by a playful God, warmed by his silly sense of humor.
Even the woman sitting next to us--astute enough to notice the vanishing hymnals and quiet disarray--was quick with a smile, a relief to me, considering what could have been her reaction. "I teach 8th graders," she explained. My 13-year-old self smiled at her forgiveness.
And all day was like that--simple, unexpected, slow, forgiving. Even the homework I continued to ignore wasn't so bad when I finally tackled it. It was a day of comfort--from chilly walks exploring Lincoln's newest sculptures and murals to making soup with the remnants of a Thanksgiving feast, I felt glad to be alive.
All day, the fireplace whispered its warmth towards us, keeping the Holts together. Even when we were doing our own things--Allison putting up Christmas lights in her newly organized room, Eric chipping away at college homework, Mark mastering puzzle number two or me, both hungry for and resisting the last few pages of "The Book Thief"--even in our separateness, we could sense the gentle tie that binds.
That is the magic of a day that strolls-, somehow creating more time by opening up the spaces in between.
I woke from ambling dreams filled with a hundred familiar rooms, warm under the weight of my blankets. As I lay there, I held my breath, listening for the rhythmic signs of a family surrounding me. A mumbled word, escaped from a dream. The contented release of breath. A shuffle of blankets to chase away the early-morning chill.
I took my time getting up. And, in return, the day delighted in pulling its chapters, end to end, like warm taffy.
A Sunday morning almost always is magical. Born first of chasing away the monsters--thanks to Finn's property-trolling diligence and a comfy chair--Sunday morning greets me like a good friend, not so much with words but with quiet opportunities--pillows and newspaper, a soft conversation over the radio, the delight of two crosswords from which to choose.
This particular morning is punctuated with the pleasure of Mark's rare appearance (thank you, vacation days!) and two puzzles that are surprisingly supple for being Sunday's children (thank you, Will Shortz, for not making me feel like a complete idiot!). And then there is church, another treat to enjoy with Mark, whose weekend work schedules leave little time for religious rituals.
You'd think we would have behaved better, for how little time we spend in church together. Ah, but this Sunday service was punctuated with the joy of sitting among friends--funny friends--which isn't the best formula for salvation. And yet, as we quietly piled up hymnals and pamphlets, kleenex and prayer cards atop our friend Susan's purse (she was foolish enough to sit in the pew in front of us), I felt tickled by a playful God, warmed by his silly sense of humor.
Even the woman sitting next to us--astute enough to notice the vanishing hymnals and quiet disarray--was quick with a smile, a relief to me, considering what could have been her reaction. "I teach 8th graders," she explained. My 13-year-old self smiled at her forgiveness.
And all day was like that--simple, unexpected, slow, forgiving. Even the homework I continued to ignore wasn't so bad when I finally tackled it. It was a day of comfort--from chilly walks exploring Lincoln's newest sculptures and murals to making soup with the remnants of a Thanksgiving feast, I felt glad to be alive.
All day, the fireplace whispered its warmth towards us, keeping the Holts together. Even when we were doing our own things--Allison putting up Christmas lights in her newly organized room, Eric chipping away at college homework, Mark mastering puzzle number two or me, both hungry for and resisting the last few pages of "The Book Thief"--even in our separateness, we could sense the gentle tie that binds.
That is the magic of a day that strolls-, somehow creating more time by opening up the spaces in between.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Tighten Up!
Almost 51 years old and I'm just now learning how to carry myself. Nothing like an aching back to bring these things to light. But I've got to give it to the physical therapist. He's right. How we carry ourselves pretty much decides how we're going to feel.
It's only the second time in my life that a stranger has talked to me about my pelvis. The first time was 19 years ago, when Mark and I took a few months of yoga. For people who could put their legs over their heads--WHILE STANDING!--they were a surprisingly inflexible bunch, far too serious for me. I know I've mentioned the "Voluminous Farting Incident at Yoga" before, but, doggone it, farts are funny! And when a roomful of stretchers can't appreciate or even acknowledge the malodorous elephant in the room, well, they are NOT my people!
Anyway, the yoga instructor would say all kinds of things that, if Mark and I had been better students, probably were very useful. As it were, though, they mostly just cracked us up. Like that fart. That no one else "heard." Several times during each yoga session, the instructor would utter things like "unfurl your pelvis to the world" and, despite her best intentions, I never could make out what it was I was supposed to do.
It's only the second time in my life that a stranger has talked to me about my pelvis. The first time was 19 years ago, when Mark and I took a few months of yoga. For people who could put their legs over their heads--WHILE STANDING!--they were a surprisingly inflexible bunch, far too serious for me. I know I've mentioned the "Voluminous Farting Incident at Yoga" before, but, doggone it, farts are funny! And when a roomful of stretchers can't appreciate or even acknowledge the malodorous elephant in the room, well, they are NOT my people!
Anyway, the yoga instructor would say all kinds of things that, if Mark and I had been better students, probably were very useful. As it were, though, they mostly just cracked us up. Like that fart. That no one else "heard." Several times during each yoga session, the instructor would utter things like "unfurl your pelvis to the world" and, despite her best intentions, I never could make out what it was I was supposed to do.
Now, almost 20 years later, another stranger (who I happen to believe might think a public fart is funny) tells me that I thrust my pelvis forward when I walk. Like some lower-level evolutionary figure.
For the past three weeks, I've been doing my darnedest to push back my pelvis. Down, boy! I've also been stretching, lifting my arms into funny positions, blowing up acrid-tasting balloons and pinching them closed with my teeth and tongue. And I'm actually starting to feel better. Maybe even starting to carry myself better, too.
I'm not saying the second half of my life (yes, I'm an optimist, if not a tired and slightly apprehensive one) will be upstanding or that I will start to carry myself better when facing a public fart. But I do think I'll be a bit more comfortable in my own skin, slowly edging my way up the evolutionary scale towards full-blown homo erectus.
Homo. Erectus. Heh, heh, heh. That's funny!
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Divine Forgiveness
I woke up this morning intending to go on a spoken-word diet, hung over from the aftereffects of breaking my word to someone I love. Actually, I first woke around 2 this morning, my stomach in knots over my screw up.
Let's just say I would rather wake to a bleak medical prognosis than to a mess I've made, especially when it's on someone else's turf.
Up too early with no newspaper to read, I picked up The Book Thief, a book I'd meant to start a long time ago. Immediately, I was swept up by its language, pulled in by the mystery of its narrator (Death itself). And, for a while, I lost myself to this compelling tale, although its bleak landscape managed to seep from the pages and frame my own less-than-shiny world.
In need of fresh air, I put the book down and walked Finn, the north wind cutting into us as we made our way home. I could have taken a shorter route, I suppose, but I wanted to feel the elements against my skin. To suffer, I suppose. And, anyway, the monkey mind that raced in my head wasn't done talking. It threw me a dozen scenarios, some ending in heartache, others lightened by the generosity of the person I'd hurt. I had my favorite script, to be sure, but I wasn't sure this person would buy it.
By midmorning, I had my answer--forgiveness. Just. Like. That. Well, it did cost me a bit. But mostly, it saved me. Saved me from my loud-mouthed, know-it-all, damn-the-consequences self. Saved me from all those scenarios I'd written in my head, the ones in which I'm alone on an island, separated from those I love the most.
I still might go on a spoken-word diet. I definitely could benefit from switching to a "lite" version of myself, one that knows when to speak and when to sit silently, honoring the trust that lets another's stories escape from within and fall gently upon my blessed ears.
After all, God gave us just one mouth but two ears. I should start to pay more attention to that important fact.
“I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded; not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.”
― Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner
Let's just say I would rather wake to a bleak medical prognosis than to a mess I've made, especially when it's on someone else's turf.
Up too early with no newspaper to read, I picked up The Book Thief, a book I'd meant to start a long time ago. Immediately, I was swept up by its language, pulled in by the mystery of its narrator (Death itself). And, for a while, I lost myself to this compelling tale, although its bleak landscape managed to seep from the pages and frame my own less-than-shiny world.
In need of fresh air, I put the book down and walked Finn, the north wind cutting into us as we made our way home. I could have taken a shorter route, I suppose, but I wanted to feel the elements against my skin. To suffer, I suppose. And, anyway, the monkey mind that raced in my head wasn't done talking. It threw me a dozen scenarios, some ending in heartache, others lightened by the generosity of the person I'd hurt. I had my favorite script, to be sure, but I wasn't sure this person would buy it.
By midmorning, I had my answer--forgiveness. Just. Like. That. Well, it did cost me a bit. But mostly, it saved me. Saved me from my loud-mouthed, know-it-all, damn-the-consequences self. Saved me from all those scenarios I'd written in my head, the ones in which I'm alone on an island, separated from those I love the most.
I still might go on a spoken-word diet. I definitely could benefit from switching to a "lite" version of myself, one that knows when to speak and when to sit silently, honoring the trust that lets another's stories escape from within and fall gently upon my blessed ears.
After all, God gave us just one mouth but two ears. I should start to pay more attention to that important fact.
“I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded; not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.”
― Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner
Sunday, November 4, 2012
The Long Slog
Time is a weird creature, sometimes stretching itself out across the couch like a slinky cat; other times, uncoiling like a jack-in-the-box, surprising us with its speed and agility.
With three days left before elections, I'd say time has been all cat and no jack, of late.
And, yet, now that we stand at the doorstep of The Big Day, I can't imagine life without cat fights and robocalls. How on earth will we "make nice" and put the partisan past behind us? I don't know the answer to that, but I do know that, when time has bent my mind in the past, I still managed to wake up and and get out of bed the next day. And there is something to be said for that.
November 1995. In my last month of pregnancy, my belly button but a faint, flat outline of the past, there were many days when I thought the pages of the calendar turned much too slowly. Tired of stretch-paneled jeans and pulsating nether regions, I was impatient for the next phase, pain and mess be damned. By mid morning on November 24, though, itchy from the dregs of morphine moving through my body, I reconsidered my impatience, wondering what the heck I was thinking, bringing another infant into the world. Time, it seems, had compressed on me, and I fretted that I might not be able to keep up with its demands.
Allison Shepard Holt turns 17 in 3 weeks. Miraculously, she seems to have suffered little from all these years under her mother's care. Time has been good to her, thank God.
May 2010 Mark and I are sitting in folding chairs on the Lincoln High gym floor, along with hundreds of other parents. The place is packed. The entire school has turned out for this morning's event, one in which every LHS senior is acknowledged, their scholarships and achievements providing the exclamation points to the final days of high school for these 400 seniors.
Time is playing games in my head, yo-yoing between its molasses and hummingbird bookends. I spy Eric, and light up, as though I hadn't seen him in years. All morning, it's like that--an accordion of memories, squeezing and releasing, and me just trying to find my balance.
November 2008 The last time we'd put yard signs out front was in 2000, when we were battling Amigo's Restaurant, hoping to keep it away from the Sunken Gardens. "Adios, Amigos!" our sign announced. It was one of many failed campaigns I've backed in my life. But it was a campaign well worth supporting. That same belief led my family downtown one night four years ago, where hundreds of others had gathered to utter that still-strange name "O-BA-MA!"
The rally was electrifying...and time slowed down that night to let me take in the minutest details of the experience. When my family finally decided to head home, a car pulled up, the driver popping open its trunk, and he encouraged us all to take a yard sign. I was downright gleeful when we got home, plunking that sign deep into the ground, my intentions now a pronouncement.
November 2012 Time slinks along these days, bogged down by bitterness, divisiveness, fatigue. Nothing is fresh in this campaign. Inspiration has been replaced by expiration, and I am ready to call "uncle." Oddly, this divisiveness is a sure sign that the pundits have been successful. Our failure to communicate? Further proof that the lines have been clearly drawn, even if they are not honest lines. I am ready for the long slog to be over.
God help those who win on Tuesday. It will not be an easy job, especially since so many have made it their job to turn a deaf ear to the "other," proud in their stubbornness to revile common ground. And I wonder--what if the "other" turns out to be themselves?
Time has a funny way of clarifying things. I just hope we're up to the task of tackling them, head on.
With three days left before elections, I'd say time has been all cat and no jack, of late.
And, yet, now that we stand at the doorstep of The Big Day, I can't imagine life without cat fights and robocalls. How on earth will we "make nice" and put the partisan past behind us? I don't know the answer to that, but I do know that, when time has bent my mind in the past, I still managed to wake up and and get out of bed the next day. And there is something to be said for that.
November 1995. In my last month of pregnancy, my belly button but a faint, flat outline of the past, there were many days when I thought the pages of the calendar turned much too slowly. Tired of stretch-paneled jeans and pulsating nether regions, I was impatient for the next phase, pain and mess be damned. By mid morning on November 24, though, itchy from the dregs of morphine moving through my body, I reconsidered my impatience, wondering what the heck I was thinking, bringing another infant into the world. Time, it seems, had compressed on me, and I fretted that I might not be able to keep up with its demands.
Allison Shepard Holt turns 17 in 3 weeks. Miraculously, she seems to have suffered little from all these years under her mother's care. Time has been good to her, thank God.
May 2010 Mark and I are sitting in folding chairs on the Lincoln High gym floor, along with hundreds of other parents. The place is packed. The entire school has turned out for this morning's event, one in which every LHS senior is acknowledged, their scholarships and achievements providing the exclamation points to the final days of high school for these 400 seniors.
Time is playing games in my head, yo-yoing between its molasses and hummingbird bookends. I spy Eric, and light up, as though I hadn't seen him in years. All morning, it's like that--an accordion of memories, squeezing and releasing, and me just trying to find my balance.
November 2008 The last time we'd put yard signs out front was in 2000, when we were battling Amigo's Restaurant, hoping to keep it away from the Sunken Gardens. "Adios, Amigos!" our sign announced. It was one of many failed campaigns I've backed in my life. But it was a campaign well worth supporting. That same belief led my family downtown one night four years ago, where hundreds of others had gathered to utter that still-strange name "O-BA-MA!"
The rally was electrifying...and time slowed down that night to let me take in the minutest details of the experience. When my family finally decided to head home, a car pulled up, the driver popping open its trunk, and he encouraged us all to take a yard sign. I was downright gleeful when we got home, plunking that sign deep into the ground, my intentions now a pronouncement.
November 2012 Time slinks along these days, bogged down by bitterness, divisiveness, fatigue. Nothing is fresh in this campaign. Inspiration has been replaced by expiration, and I am ready to call "uncle." Oddly, this divisiveness is a sure sign that the pundits have been successful. Our failure to communicate? Further proof that the lines have been clearly drawn, even if they are not honest lines. I am ready for the long slog to be over.
God help those who win on Tuesday. It will not be an easy job, especially since so many have made it their job to turn a deaf ear to the "other," proud in their stubbornness to revile common ground. And I wonder--what if the "other" turns out to be themselves?
Time has a funny way of clarifying things. I just hope we're up to the task of tackling them, head on.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Cat Scratch Fever
I came down with a case of feline fever yesterday. I suppose I should have seen it coming. After all, cats fascinate me, although mostly from afar.
Growing up, I didn't have a lot of exposure to cats, aside from Boots Johnson, our most excellent next-door-neighbor cat whose name sounds like it belonged to a 70's jazz saxophonist. On the occasions I have actually gotten to pet a cat, I usually walk away grateful to have escaped with nothing more than a phlegmatic clearing of the throat and a slight swelling of the eyes.
Once, when face to face with a pair of Maine Coons, I simply didn't care what price I'd pay to pet those beautiful beasts. It was like being at the zoo and slipping into the cage of a lynx family, so exotic were these large, striped, wild-looking cats. They took my breath away. Literally. And my eyes were swollen for days. But I would not trade that experience for anything, even an epi pen.
But back to yesterday's fever, one tinged not with Claritin D so much as with grief and concern. My good friend Kristie awoke yesterday knowing that, by mid morning, she'd have to say goodbye to her fine friend Freckles, a formerly homeless cat who was lucky enough to find the key to Kristie's front door. And her heart. They became fast friends, delighting in their time together.
What a strange thing to wake with the burden of holding another's fate in your hands. There is a heaviness in knowing what the other does not--that this is the last bowl of milk, the final brushing, the words that mark the end. Her vet--who is mine, as well--was gentle and loving and quietly supportive during the final moments of Freckle's life. And there was a sense of peace, tinged with deep sadness, that came with that last act of compassion.
I know that my friend will be okay. I also know that some other lucky feline will slink its way into her front door and realize that he has found his nirvana. Lucky them.
I look outside as I type this, wondering when the day will finally break. It is 7 a.m. and still the inky black skies prevail. And so I wonder about the fate of another cat, a thin, black fellow who met Finn's enthusiasm, head on, yesterday afternoon. In the final leg of that chase, the cat skittered up the backyard fence and high into the neighbor's Oak, settling on a slim branch that offered just enough space between the cat and the dog to bring a bit of peace to that cat.
An hour later--close to the time when the sun would head to bed--that cat was still there, perched and alert, if not exactly comfortable.
And now I wonder if that cat spent the night in the tree, both safe and trapped. I look impatiently to the skies, waiting for the first rays of dawn to wend their way between the stars and bring me news of this cat.
I truly hope I won't see its dark outline tucked tight among the arms of those branches. It was a cold night, after all, and Finn was just playing. But, until the day lightens, I worry about a cat whose name I do not know, hoping, this time, that it is not me who knows what the cat does not yet realize. And so, I send a prayer to the heavens, for a lithe, black being whose agility is both gift and burden:
God, let there be absence where there was dark being.
Tell me that this young feline
is swatting young mice among the dead grasses of a backyard garden,
oblivious to the chase that
haunted its twilight moments.
Growing up, I didn't have a lot of exposure to cats, aside from Boots Johnson, our most excellent next-door-neighbor cat whose name sounds like it belonged to a 70's jazz saxophonist. On the occasions I have actually gotten to pet a cat, I usually walk away grateful to have escaped with nothing more than a phlegmatic clearing of the throat and a slight swelling of the eyes.
Once, when face to face with a pair of Maine Coons, I simply didn't care what price I'd pay to pet those beautiful beasts. It was like being at the zoo and slipping into the cage of a lynx family, so exotic were these large, striped, wild-looking cats. They took my breath away. Literally. And my eyes were swollen for days. But I would not trade that experience for anything, even an epi pen.
But back to yesterday's fever, one tinged not with Claritin D so much as with grief and concern. My good friend Kristie awoke yesterday knowing that, by mid morning, she'd have to say goodbye to her fine friend Freckles, a formerly homeless cat who was lucky enough to find the key to Kristie's front door. And her heart. They became fast friends, delighting in their time together.
What a strange thing to wake with the burden of holding another's fate in your hands. There is a heaviness in knowing what the other does not--that this is the last bowl of milk, the final brushing, the words that mark the end. Her vet--who is mine, as well--was gentle and loving and quietly supportive during the final moments of Freckle's life. And there was a sense of peace, tinged with deep sadness, that came with that last act of compassion.
I know that my friend will be okay. I also know that some other lucky feline will slink its way into her front door and realize that he has found his nirvana. Lucky them.
I look outside as I type this, wondering when the day will finally break. It is 7 a.m. and still the inky black skies prevail. And so I wonder about the fate of another cat, a thin, black fellow who met Finn's enthusiasm, head on, yesterday afternoon. In the final leg of that chase, the cat skittered up the backyard fence and high into the neighbor's Oak, settling on a slim branch that offered just enough space between the cat and the dog to bring a bit of peace to that cat.
An hour later--close to the time when the sun would head to bed--that cat was still there, perched and alert, if not exactly comfortable.
And now I wonder if that cat spent the night in the tree, both safe and trapped. I look impatiently to the skies, waiting for the first rays of dawn to wend their way between the stars and bring me news of this cat.
I truly hope I won't see its dark outline tucked tight among the arms of those branches. It was a cold night, after all, and Finn was just playing. But, until the day lightens, I worry about a cat whose name I do not know, hoping, this time, that it is not me who knows what the cat does not yet realize. And so, I send a prayer to the heavens, for a lithe, black being whose agility is both gift and burden:
God, let there be absence where there was dark being.
Tell me that this young feline
is swatting young mice among the dead grasses of a backyard garden,
oblivious to the chase that
haunted its twilight moments.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Here Ye, Hear Ye!
If you haven't been in a school library in awhile, you might be surprised. Gone is the tight-lipped, bun-wrapped, vulture-like schoolmarm shushing the students with an icy stare from her beady, little eyes. In her place is (I hope) a fun-loving, super smart and, really, surprisingly-trim-for-her-age librarian who "gets" students.
As with all transformations, though, there is a downside to today's accessible, active school library. Often, working in one feels a bit like running downhill with a stiff wind behind you and a really loud soundtrack thrumming in the background. Because of the library's propensity for craziness, I made myself a little pledge to do just one thing at a time this school year, and to look people in the eyes when they are talking to me.
Easier said than done. But a pledge well worth honoring. Unlike, say, all the pledges I've heard in the past few weeks. But that's another blog. . . .
It has been good for me to take my hands off the keyboard when someone's bidding for my attention. Sure, it probably means that the Pulitzer-worthy sentence I was typing will fall victim to my limited memory, becoming just another pile of broken Times New-Roman letters scattered at my feet. But this process of stopping, looking and trying super hard to really listen has been a healthy one for me.
And it would behoove me to adopt this goal at home as well, where, more often than not, a question from daughter Allison is met either with distracted silence or with the uttered gripe that "I've been on the same sentence for 10 minutes, dadgummit!!!" She is, after all, my housemate for just another year and a half, if all goes as planned.
And I really, really want things to go as planned.
Not that I'm hankering to convert her bedroom into a home spa or anything. But I do desire the chance for Allison to find her own way in the world, all my well-taught life lessons and super helpful suggestions tucked snugly in her brain, and her endless clothes jammed into a very packed van.
Both at work and at home, then, it just makes sense for me to focus on the here and now (or the "hear and WOW!," depending upon what exactly I'm hearing). Who cares about cataloging books when a kid leans over the counter to tell me her tales? Those are the stories I should be cataloging. The ones that are connected to the person who is standing in front of me, wanting--for whatever reason--to tell the 50-year-old librarian who can sometimes be cool a little something about herself.
After all, what's the point of all those stories unless someone's listening, really listening?
As with all transformations, though, there is a downside to today's accessible, active school library. Often, working in one feels a bit like running downhill with a stiff wind behind you and a really loud soundtrack thrumming in the background. Because of the library's propensity for craziness, I made myself a little pledge to do just one thing at a time this school year, and to look people in the eyes when they are talking to me.
Easier said than done. But a pledge well worth honoring. Unlike, say, all the pledges I've heard in the past few weeks. But that's another blog. . . .
It has been good for me to take my hands off the keyboard when someone's bidding for my attention. Sure, it probably means that the Pulitzer-worthy sentence I was typing will fall victim to my limited memory, becoming just another pile of broken Times New-Roman letters scattered at my feet. But this process of stopping, looking and trying super hard to really listen has been a healthy one for me.
And it would behoove me to adopt this goal at home as well, where, more often than not, a question from daughter Allison is met either with distracted silence or with the uttered gripe that "I've been on the same sentence for 10 minutes, dadgummit!!!" She is, after all, my housemate for just another year and a half, if all goes as planned.
And I really, really want things to go as planned.
Not that I'm hankering to convert her bedroom into a home spa or anything. But I do desire the chance for Allison to find her own way in the world, all my well-taught life lessons and super helpful suggestions tucked snugly in her brain, and her endless clothes jammed into a very packed van.
Both at work and at home, then, it just makes sense for me to focus on the here and now (or the "hear and WOW!," depending upon what exactly I'm hearing). Who cares about cataloging books when a kid leans over the counter to tell me her tales? Those are the stories I should be cataloging. The ones that are connected to the person who is standing in front of me, wanting--for whatever reason--to tell the 50-year-old librarian who can sometimes be cool a little something about herself.
After all, what's the point of all those stories unless someone's listening, really listening?
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Uncivil Engineering
A society can no longer be considered "civilized" when truth becomes inconvenient and facts are viewed as conspiracy. When "us and them" becomes the go-to mode, suddenly, no one's going to the middle anymore.
And, without that middle, there are no more conversations, only the echoing din of our own thoughts, costumed in the aping choir of the "us." I would no more wish a world of "us" upon others than I would wish to be a "them," especially if it meant losing the chance to meet each other.
So focused on the end, no one seems to notice that the body count is building.
Gone are the bridge builders, evaporated by the focused laser of cynical anger. Gone are the pure of spirit, muddied by invisible puppeteers whose hands move frantically to guide us. Even our dictionaries have changed, becoming lighter as words of compromise and community are nudged off the edges, deemed too quaint for such heady, important days.
Weeks away from the elections, I have never felt more used or less understood than I feel these days. I am on a speeding train not of my choosing, a faceless passenger whose voice is eaten up by the furious winds surrounding me.
I am tired of the machine. I yearn for the imperfection of human skin, a calloused hand to hold onto.
And, without that middle, there are no more conversations, only the echoing din of our own thoughts, costumed in the aping choir of the "us." I would no more wish a world of "us" upon others than I would wish to be a "them," especially if it meant losing the chance to meet each other.
So focused on the end, no one seems to notice that the body count is building.
Gone are the bridge builders, evaporated by the focused laser of cynical anger. Gone are the pure of spirit, muddied by invisible puppeteers whose hands move frantically to guide us. Even our dictionaries have changed, becoming lighter as words of compromise and community are nudged off the edges, deemed too quaint for such heady, important days.
Weeks away from the elections, I have never felt more used or less understood than I feel these days. I am on a speeding train not of my choosing, a faceless passenger whose voice is eaten up by the furious winds surrounding me.
I am tired of the machine. I yearn for the imperfection of human skin, a calloused hand to hold onto.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
The Magic of Music
Last week, a song eased its way out of my car's radio and pulled me to the curb, where I sat with my 14-year-old self, hunched over the turntable, my heart at my side. Never in my life had I imagined someone else would play Joni Mitchell's "Judgement of the Moon and Stars," especially on the airwaves.
I had thought this complicated, wrenching mess of a song was written just for me. It was my discovery, made all those years ago on the floor of my childhood bedroom. Hearing it again was like reading a long-lost diary, my toes dipping across the fence of time, my mind remembering how it felt to be me all those years ago. So in love was I with this song back then that, upon hearing it again, I have no idea if it's even good. I just know that it's mine.
I spent the last hour playing "For the Roses," the album that holds this song. It has been a fine hour indeed. Not only did Joni get me to clean the kitchen, but she helped realign my soul a bit.
Only a fool would label music as "entertainment."
Just yesterday, I sang myself home from a retreat set in the western hills of the Bohemian Alps, again finding myself in the company of old favorites. Crosby, Still, Nash and Holt had never performed better than we did on Highway 15, our harmonies tight, our joy obvious as it rushed its way out of my mouth. That Liz Phair and Aimee Mann could join us for a song or two? Icing on the cake.
I fall in love with song just like I fall in love with people--completely, hopelessly, joyfully. And my patience for those notes and words and voices is limitless. In the midst of my musical reverie, I think of nothing else except the satisfaction I'll get in pushing the "replay" button in three and a half minutes and doing it all over again.
My voice was raw by the time I got to Lincoln. But my heart was full and I was glad to have had the company of such magical songs.
I had thought this complicated, wrenching mess of a song was written just for me. It was my discovery, made all those years ago on the floor of my childhood bedroom. Hearing it again was like reading a long-lost diary, my toes dipping across the fence of time, my mind remembering how it felt to be me all those years ago. So in love was I with this song back then that, upon hearing it again, I have no idea if it's even good. I just know that it's mine.
I spent the last hour playing "For the Roses," the album that holds this song. It has been a fine hour indeed. Not only did Joni get me to clean the kitchen, but she helped realign my soul a bit.
Only a fool would label music as "entertainment."
Just yesterday, I sang myself home from a retreat set in the western hills of the Bohemian Alps, again finding myself in the company of old favorites. Crosby, Still, Nash and Holt had never performed better than we did on Highway 15, our harmonies tight, our joy obvious as it rushed its way out of my mouth. That Liz Phair and Aimee Mann could join us for a song or two? Icing on the cake.
I fall in love with song just like I fall in love with people--completely, hopelessly, joyfully. And my patience for those notes and words and voices is limitless. In the midst of my musical reverie, I think of nothing else except the satisfaction I'll get in pushing the "replay" button in three and a half minutes and doing it all over again.
My voice was raw by the time I got to Lincoln. But my heart was full and I was glad to have had the company of such magical songs.
Friday, October 5, 2012
A Hundred Veiled Voices
I’ve had voices in my head all
week.
It started with the funeral of my
friend’s brother, a man I didn’t know but quickly grew to respect. After all, there aren’t many people who
sing the closing hymn at their own funerals. His booming, emotion-tinged voice filled that place with
reverent silence, followed by a standing ovation. That same voice has been resonating in my head ever since.
Last night, as I drifted in the
in-between, waiting for Allison to come home from a volleyball game in Omaha, other
voices seemed to float from their graves, landing softly on my pillow. First was my dad’s, his cackling laugh
conjuring up images of long-ago stories well told. Naturally, his laugh led me to the hearty guffaws of my
brother, Mike, who shared my dad’s robust way of living.
In cluttered formation came a dozen others, eager to rise
from the dust, each distinct yet fleeting. Suddenly, my head was filled with strange snippets,
polaroids from days and people long gone:
Mindy, a Yearbook student cut short by leukemia, her slightly nasal
voice touched up with humor; Jerry,
a long-ago boyfriend, also shot down by cancer, his voice wavering between this place and another; Sarah’s
throaty, low voice, her laugh immediately recognizable, long ago buried by
Idaho snows on Christmas morning.
I thought of my grandpa, the
gentle, lumbering man whose photo adorns my Facebook page. But I could not quite find his voice,
tucked away in the pocket of his well-made suit coat. And I realized how many voices I’d lost over the years. Lives replaced by Gaussian-blurred
memories, voices silenced by time.
Just as I began to mourn all those
voices recorded in outdated, unreliable formats, I heard the familiar tinny
groan of the backdoor, a harbinger of a daughter returned. Minutes later, I was blanketed by her
strong, lean body, her whispering voice regaling me with stories of rude boys,
lunch-time tests, bus rides to Omaha, the air filled with the voices of chittering
girls, laughter exploding like fireworks against the highway.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
It's All Greek to Me
In my mind, I imagine it like an AA meeting. Tucked away in a midtown church basement, a semi circle of disparate people, held together by a tenuous thread, shuffle their folding chairs into position as the meeting begins.
"Hi. I'm Jane. And I'm a . . . Pi Beta Phi," I stammer.
"Hi, Jane!"
It's true. I am a Pi Beta Phi, even if I tend to reference it in the past tense.
So, why all the discomfort? It's not like I'm admitting to getting my thrills from huffing cans of whipped cream or something. After all, I did nothing during my four-year sorority tenure to be ashamed of. Well, that's not entirely true. But I did nothing terribly out of the ordinary during those formative years.
I mean, everyone occasionally goes the wrong way on a one-way street, right?
I think it comes down to image control. For some bizarre reason, long ago, in a Ford Galaxy far, far away, I settled upon an image of myself. Not an overly flattering image, but one I found peace in, nonetheless. It's an image of a plain girl, not prone to fancy things or ritualistic tendencies.
Stereotypically speaking, I settled on a non-sorority-going image of myself, even though I willingly pledged my faith to the wine and silver blue of Pi Beta Phi.
And I enjoyed those four years on campus, meeting nice folks from across the nation, most of whom had a better fashion sense than I ever would, but all of whom seemed to accept me for who I was. But I still tend to blush when word gets out that I once owned t-shirts with Greek letters on them. At lunch, when such truths unravel themselves between bites of day-old leftovers, the news is usually greeted first with a collective gasp and then, soon after, with great guffaws of laughter.
Well, so be it. I'm a 50+-year-old woman who's birthed me some children, had me some jobs and lived me some life. Why not complicate the simple picture others have of me and throw in a little Greek life?
Today, then, I pledge a new/old beginning, as I weave my way towards downtown for a Pi Phi reunion of sorts. Sure, there will be moments of weirdness, when I flash back to musty images of times spent in that grand, old house on 16th Street. And I'm certain to struggle with synapses as folks I haven't seen in 30 years come back into my circle of life, if only for an afternoon.
But I'm going to be open to it all, even if I take some ribbing. I'm going to let myself enjoy that strange sensation known as "reunion," laughing with folks who, long ago, accepted me despite my square peggishness, people who took me under their crisp, Polo-inspired wings and gave me second and third chances, as needed.
Who knows? I may even utter a few lines from some Pi Phi favorites, no longer embarrassed as the ditties come pouring happily from my unembellished lips, remembering what it was that I enjoyed all those long years ago.
"Pi Pi Beta Phi! P-I-P-H-I Pi Phi! Me for my for Beta Phi for I just love Pi Beta Phi!"
"Hi. I'm Jane. And I'm a . . . Pi Beta Phi," I stammer.
"Hi, Jane!"
It's true. I am a Pi Beta Phi, even if I tend to reference it in the past tense.
So, why all the discomfort? It's not like I'm admitting to getting my thrills from huffing cans of whipped cream or something. After all, I did nothing during my four-year sorority tenure to be ashamed of. Well, that's not entirely true. But I did nothing terribly out of the ordinary during those formative years.
I mean, everyone occasionally goes the wrong way on a one-way street, right?
I think it comes down to image control. For some bizarre reason, long ago, in a Ford Galaxy far, far away, I settled upon an image of myself. Not an overly flattering image, but one I found peace in, nonetheless. It's an image of a plain girl, not prone to fancy things or ritualistic tendencies.
Stereotypically speaking, I settled on a non-sorority-going image of myself, even though I willingly pledged my faith to the wine and silver blue of Pi Beta Phi.
And I enjoyed those four years on campus, meeting nice folks from across the nation, most of whom had a better fashion sense than I ever would, but all of whom seemed to accept me for who I was. But I still tend to blush when word gets out that I once owned t-shirts with Greek letters on them. At lunch, when such truths unravel themselves between bites of day-old leftovers, the news is usually greeted first with a collective gasp and then, soon after, with great guffaws of laughter.
Well, so be it. I'm a 50+-year-old woman who's birthed me some children, had me some jobs and lived me some life. Why not complicate the simple picture others have of me and throw in a little Greek life?
Today, then, I pledge a new/old beginning, as I weave my way towards downtown for a Pi Phi reunion of sorts. Sure, there will be moments of weirdness, when I flash back to musty images of times spent in that grand, old house on 16th Street. And I'm certain to struggle with synapses as folks I haven't seen in 30 years come back into my circle of life, if only for an afternoon.
But I'm going to be open to it all, even if I take some ribbing. I'm going to let myself enjoy that strange sensation known as "reunion," laughing with folks who, long ago, accepted me despite my square peggishness, people who took me under their crisp, Polo-inspired wings and gave me second and third chances, as needed.
Who knows? I may even utter a few lines from some Pi Phi favorites, no longer embarrassed as the ditties come pouring happily from my unembellished lips, remembering what it was that I enjoyed all those long years ago.
"Pi Pi Beta Phi! P-I-P-H-I Pi Phi! Me for my for Beta Phi for I just love Pi Beta Phi!"
Monday, September 24, 2012
A Good Conference Call
Most
people would think that there’s not a lot of joy to be had sitting on a
folding chair in a noisy gymnasium for three hours. Especially after
you’ve already put in a full day of work.
That’s the funny thing about Parent-Teacher conferences, though. Turns out that they actually are kind of fun (don’t tell my union rep). And the fun starts right after school, when some fine folks agree to feed the teachers.
I don’t know how food is treated at other work places, but teachers view food with a kind of rabid reverence that is not for the weak hearted. Come into the teacher’s lounge some day and set out a plate of day-old cookies. Heck, they could even be a week old. Within the hour, they’ll be gone. The plate, too, if it’s got a little life left in it.
Here’s the truth. It is impossible for a group of teachers to eat together without laughing. And not that polite, sniffling snickering, but great, heaping, snorting guffaws. Top that with the excellent food that our parents feed us on conference night, and you can see why I head to my hard, rusty chair in the gym with a smile on my face.
The gym, where the parade of parents begins, tall people wending their confused way between rickety card tables manned by tired teachers. Nine times out of ten, though, when those parents sit down and we start talking, I can’t wipe the smile off my face.
There is something wonderful about telling a parent that you love his or her child. Even if there are bumps in that child’s road, bumps that harsh my mellow, I can always find the silver lining, the beautiful essence of that child who is theirs. And I relish the job of reminding them just how swell their kids are.
Maybe that’s why it’s always hard for me to fall asleep after parent-teacher conferences. My stomach is happy digesting delectables and my head is buzzing from the good conversations I’ve had with parents.
It is good to love their kids, even when they can be aggravating knuckleheads who occasionally wear too much Axe. Truth is, I laugh as much with those kids as I do with my peers at lunch.
Lucky me.
That’s the funny thing about Parent-Teacher conferences, though. Turns out that they actually are kind of fun (don’t tell my union rep). And the fun starts right after school, when some fine folks agree to feed the teachers.
I don’t know how food is treated at other work places, but teachers view food with a kind of rabid reverence that is not for the weak hearted. Come into the teacher’s lounge some day and set out a plate of day-old cookies. Heck, they could even be a week old. Within the hour, they’ll be gone. The plate, too, if it’s got a little life left in it.
Here’s the truth. It is impossible for a group of teachers to eat together without laughing. And not that polite, sniffling snickering, but great, heaping, snorting guffaws. Top that with the excellent food that our parents feed us on conference night, and you can see why I head to my hard, rusty chair in the gym with a smile on my face.
The gym, where the parade of parents begins, tall people wending their confused way between rickety card tables manned by tired teachers. Nine times out of ten, though, when those parents sit down and we start talking, I can’t wipe the smile off my face.
There is something wonderful about telling a parent that you love his or her child. Even if there are bumps in that child’s road, bumps that harsh my mellow, I can always find the silver lining, the beautiful essence of that child who is theirs. And I relish the job of reminding them just how swell their kids are.
Maybe that’s why it’s always hard for me to fall asleep after parent-teacher conferences. My stomach is happy digesting delectables and my head is buzzing from the good conversations I’ve had with parents.
It is good to love their kids, even when they can be aggravating knuckleheads who occasionally wear too much Axe. Truth is, I laugh as much with those kids as I do with my peers at lunch.
Lucky me.
A Child Only To His Parents
What a
thing to have a child teetering on his twenties. And, really, Eric is
only a child in the familial sense. His bones no longer aching to grow,
his face long cleared of the acne of adolescence,
his mind far more settled than my own was at his age, Eric is more
"man" than "child" these days. And for all the days to follow.
It is very easy to love Eric Carlson Holt. And not just because I am his mother.
Throughout his life, his radar has carved out a space for others. I have always been wooed by his anchoring questions: How are you, mom? How was your day? Even as a young boy, he'd occasionally remember to ask me these things. And, each time, I felt bathed in his attentiveness, warmed by his ability to bounce back the questions that a parent is expected to ask.
Unlike his mother, who can be prone to attention-getting antics and whose voice has been known to pierce the very atoms in the air, Eric has never felt the need to turn the spotlight on himself. As such, he'll never take up karaoke, I suppose.
Ah, but it's to be expected that a mother faces occasional heartache. . . .
I love that Eric is neither Mark nor me. Not a blending so much as an emerging, like a butterfly emerging from the chrysalis, wet with possibility.
He is earnest, honest, kind, courageous. He is a very good friend to others. And his heart is good, through and through.
Long ago, I gave up trying to identify the tenuous strings that extend from me into my children, that strange, ego-driven desire to see me in them. Or maybe I've just quit expecting to locate that evidence.
And I must say that it is a pleasurable thing to simply enjoy the presence of another human being, one whose essence may be sprinkled with mine, but who has managed to dry his wings and fly despite that.
Like the butterflies I've been enjoying these days in our tired, diligent garden, I find hope in my offspring, knowing that they wake each day with a sense of who they are in this world and the ability to carve out a path for themselves.
I am a blessed bystander, whispering my well wishes into the breeze, my heart swelling with love.
It is very easy to love Eric Carlson Holt. And not just because I am his mother.
Throughout his life, his radar has carved out a space for others. I have always been wooed by his anchoring questions: How are you, mom? How was your day? Even as a young boy, he'd occasionally remember to ask me these things. And, each time, I felt bathed in his attentiveness, warmed by his ability to bounce back the questions that a parent is expected to ask.
Unlike his mother, who can be prone to attention-getting antics and whose voice has been known to pierce the very atoms in the air, Eric has never felt the need to turn the spotlight on himself. As such, he'll never take up karaoke, I suppose.
Ah, but it's to be expected that a mother faces occasional heartache. . . .
I love that Eric is neither Mark nor me. Not a blending so much as an emerging, like a butterfly emerging from the chrysalis, wet with possibility.
He is earnest, honest, kind, courageous. He is a very good friend to others. And his heart is good, through and through.
Long ago, I gave up trying to identify the tenuous strings that extend from me into my children, that strange, ego-driven desire to see me in them. Or maybe I've just quit expecting to locate that evidence.
And I must say that it is a pleasurable thing to simply enjoy the presence of another human being, one whose essence may be sprinkled with mine, but who has managed to dry his wings and fly despite that.
Like the butterflies I've been enjoying these days in our tired, diligent garden, I find hope in my offspring, knowing that they wake each day with a sense of who they are in this world and the ability to carve out a path for themselves.
I am a blessed bystander, whispering my well wishes into the breeze, my heart swelling with love.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Lobbying for a Hobby
Last weekend, when Eric was home on an 18-hour layover (i.e., he laid down over here between more interesting events), he spoke longingly about his desire to have a consuming passion. It surprised me, considering all the disparate and quirky interests he has--from politics to horror movies.
Maybe his interests aren't so disparate after all . . . .
Regardless, he spoke with fondness about the folks he knows who are obsessed with something. I reminded him that being around people with such a singular focus can be a drag, especially if that focus is, say, macrame or brown foods.
Secretly, though, I started to doubt my parenting style, one in which I have sought to raise generalists, rather than specialists. It's possible I've been a bit too obsessed about that outcome.
But it's not as though Eric hasn't had his own obsessions, beginning with "The Lion King." My god, I don't know what Disney put in those celluloid waters, but something tarry and dark wedged its way into my young son's brain. There even came a point when I pondered canceling my subscription to National Geographic, in hopes that all lions--even Nala and Simba--would just die off and go away.
Last weekend, Eric got a super-8 movie camera in the mail, thanks to a high bid on eBay. He thought that maybe this media relic would become the object of his affection, and I kind of got what he meant. Two of my brothers had super-8 cameras, which meant that I spent many a happy childhood weekend re-enacting scenes from "Superman" and "Kung Fu." Their filmmaking pursuits pulled in kids from every corner of the neighborhood, each one of us getting a delicious taste of my brothers' obsessions.
I, too, have had my laser-like loves, from swimming pools to Scrabble, bacon to beer (both the making and consumption of), I know what it's like to fall in love with something. And both Mark and I have felt like falling in love with something again. That's why, 15 years after having sold our first beer-making kit, we bought another one last week.
Mark bought me my first beer kit for my 30th birthday and I had five or six great years with that thing, loving the experimental nature of the beast, the way the malt bubbled up, dangerously close to the lip of our steaming pot, the way the yeast smelled, burping itself from the containers where magic--or mishap--was being made. The only reason I gave it all up was because of my children. With two young kids in the house, suddenly it seemed unreasonable to have to wait 5 weeks for a cold one.
But my kids are all grown up now. Which means I'm free to fall in love again with an old hobby. And, to that, I say "cheers!"
Maybe his interests aren't so disparate after all . . . .
Regardless, he spoke with fondness about the folks he knows who are obsessed with something. I reminded him that being around people with such a singular focus can be a drag, especially if that focus is, say, macrame or brown foods.
Secretly, though, I started to doubt my parenting style, one in which I have sought to raise generalists, rather than specialists. It's possible I've been a bit too obsessed about that outcome.
But it's not as though Eric hasn't had his own obsessions, beginning with "The Lion King." My god, I don't know what Disney put in those celluloid waters, but something tarry and dark wedged its way into my young son's brain. There even came a point when I pondered canceling my subscription to National Geographic, in hopes that all lions--even Nala and Simba--would just die off and go away.
Last weekend, Eric got a super-8 movie camera in the mail, thanks to a high bid on eBay. He thought that maybe this media relic would become the object of his affection, and I kind of got what he meant. Two of my brothers had super-8 cameras, which meant that I spent many a happy childhood weekend re-enacting scenes from "Superman" and "Kung Fu." Their filmmaking pursuits pulled in kids from every corner of the neighborhood, each one of us getting a delicious taste of my brothers' obsessions.
I, too, have had my laser-like loves, from swimming pools to Scrabble, bacon to beer (both the making and consumption of), I know what it's like to fall in love with something. And both Mark and I have felt like falling in love with something again. That's why, 15 years after having sold our first beer-making kit, we bought another one last week.
Mark bought me my first beer kit for my 30th birthday and I had five or six great years with that thing, loving the experimental nature of the beast, the way the malt bubbled up, dangerously close to the lip of our steaming pot, the way the yeast smelled, burping itself from the containers where magic--or mishap--was being made. The only reason I gave it all up was because of my children. With two young kids in the house, suddenly it seemed unreasonable to have to wait 5 weeks for a cold one.
But my kids are all grown up now. Which means I'm free to fall in love again with an old hobby. And, to that, I say "cheers!"
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Pro Choice, Even When I Don't Like the Options
"The thing about hiking the Pacific Crest Trail that summer, the thing that was so profound to me. . .was how few choices I had and how often I had to do the thing I least wanted to do." --from "Wild," by Cheryl Strayed.
Strayed's words, relating a profound realization atop the rugged trail, caught me off guard last night. Off guard and on alert.
I think I've needed an alert to sound for some time now. I'm grateful Strayed was up to the task.
Heaven knows others have tried to make their voices heard to me, no doubt having grown tired of my whining about new job duties that feel overwhelming and underfinanced. Ah, but apparently, I needed a woman broken by death and heroin, empty sex and divorce to pull me aside and remind me that, sometimes, we just need to man up.
"Man up." What a stupid expression. As though monthly bleeding, birthing humans and 2/3 pay for the same job somehow fall short in toughening up a person.
Alas, whatever term you want to use, the point remains the same--it's time for me to quit whining and just do my job. Surely I would have learned by now that the times I grow the most, the times I am most human, are the times when I do what's necessary, even when it's hard. Or not fun. Or unnoticed.
But I am a slow learner, having just discovered, at age 50, a foundation and blush that my daughter approves of. Half a century and I'm just now realizing that no one else is going to swish that ring off the toilet or walk the dog in the rain.
Tom Osborne often talked about the importance of delayed gratification, saying that, if he could teach his athletes--and, later, all those Teammates--to do the hard work first, then they will wake up some day--long before they turn 50, I'm sure--and discover the strength that is within them. Proof enough that the hard choice often is the best one. You just might need a pair of binoculars to remember that important fact.
Strayed's words, relating a profound realization atop the rugged trail, caught me off guard last night. Off guard and on alert.
I think I've needed an alert to sound for some time now. I'm grateful Strayed was up to the task.
Heaven knows others have tried to make their voices heard to me, no doubt having grown tired of my whining about new job duties that feel overwhelming and underfinanced. Ah, but apparently, I needed a woman broken by death and heroin, empty sex and divorce to pull me aside and remind me that, sometimes, we just need to man up.
"Man up." What a stupid expression. As though monthly bleeding, birthing humans and 2/3 pay for the same job somehow fall short in toughening up a person.
Alas, whatever term you want to use, the point remains the same--it's time for me to quit whining and just do my job. Surely I would have learned by now that the times I grow the most, the times I am most human, are the times when I do what's necessary, even when it's hard. Or not fun. Or unnoticed.
But I am a slow learner, having just discovered, at age 50, a foundation and blush that my daughter approves of. Half a century and I'm just now realizing that no one else is going to swish that ring off the toilet or walk the dog in the rain.
Tom Osborne often talked about the importance of delayed gratification, saying that, if he could teach his athletes--and, later, all those Teammates--to do the hard work first, then they will wake up some day--long before they turn 50, I'm sure--and discover the strength that is within them. Proof enough that the hard choice often is the best one. You just might need a pair of binoculars to remember that important fact.
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Walk This Way
I've been known to leave a book hanging with only a handful of pages left. Like a misbehaving sea dog whose shore leave is up, I can walk away, guilt free, and say "Last night was fun, but I've had enough, thank you." And I've also found out that Oprah's stamp approval often is a visual clue to me that I might not like anyone inside.
Endings, I believe, are very hard to write. As are compelling characters. And readers are a fickle bunch, each of us bringing our own brand of hopes, dreams and needs to the pages before us.
God help the author who delivers the wrong dish to our tables.
Ah, but to those whose writing is crisp, whose characters are not afraid of their humanness and whose plots possess the tenacity and wispiness of a spider's web? I bow down to thee.
As a reader, my own inclinations lean toward small lives whose stories are well told and whose days are courageously lived, despite everything. I think that's why "Olive Kitteridge," a Pulitzer-prize winner, slowly has found its way under my skin. After my friend Larry raved about it, I knew I'd read this collection of stand-alone stories, loosely held together by the feisty, sometimes frustrating title character.
There is no booming soundtrack to this book, but the collective effect of its stories is hard to ignore. Full of heartache and humor, lousy decision making and invisible good deeds, more often than not, "Olive Kitteridge" feels strangely familiar, despite its ocean-side setting.
This week, I also started the book "Wild," a biographical account of a woman's three-month trek across the West Coast's rugged Pacific Crest Trail. I fell in love with it by the third paragraph.
No surprise, I suppose, since I seem to have a propensity for books about walking (In "The Long Walk," Sławomir Rawicz recounts his harrowing, mind-blowing, 4,000-mile walk to freedom that began with an escape from a Siberian gulag; and in "A Walk in the Woods," I am transported to the wildness of the Appalachian Trail, entertained along the way by Bill Bryson's irresistible writing and often humorous recollections).
Walking, it turns out, represents--both symbolically and practically--what most moves me in life. It is of the earth, it requires no special equipment, it takes its time and it puts me in touch with both my self and my world.
True, you will find no piles of excess fat mixed among the leaves along those routes I walk each day. But, look close, and you might see a small mound of detritus from imagined arguments I've let go of, or tiny piles of problems mostly solved.
I feel hugged by all this smallness, from the way Olive miraculously wakes each morning and moves her lumbering, imperfect way through her ordinary days, to the devastating losses and moving revelations "Wild's" author tackles on a rugged mountainside, and, finally, in my own predictable, steadying walks with Finn each day. Aching feet finding their way to the ground to which they ultimately are rooted, one step at a time.
Endings, I believe, are very hard to write. As are compelling characters. And readers are a fickle bunch, each of us bringing our own brand of hopes, dreams and needs to the pages before us.
God help the author who delivers the wrong dish to our tables.
Ah, but to those whose writing is crisp, whose characters are not afraid of their humanness and whose plots possess the tenacity and wispiness of a spider's web? I bow down to thee.
As a reader, my own inclinations lean toward small lives whose stories are well told and whose days are courageously lived, despite everything. I think that's why "Olive Kitteridge," a Pulitzer-prize winner, slowly has found its way under my skin. After my friend Larry raved about it, I knew I'd read this collection of stand-alone stories, loosely held together by the feisty, sometimes frustrating title character.
There is no booming soundtrack to this book, but the collective effect of its stories is hard to ignore. Full of heartache and humor, lousy decision making and invisible good deeds, more often than not, "Olive Kitteridge" feels strangely familiar, despite its ocean-side setting.
This week, I also started the book "Wild," a biographical account of a woman's three-month trek across the West Coast's rugged Pacific Crest Trail. I fell in love with it by the third paragraph.
No surprise, I suppose, since I seem to have a propensity for books about walking (In "The Long Walk," Sławomir Rawicz recounts his harrowing, mind-blowing, 4,000-mile walk to freedom that began with an escape from a Siberian gulag; and in "A Walk in the Woods," I am transported to the wildness of the Appalachian Trail, entertained along the way by Bill Bryson's irresistible writing and often humorous recollections).
Walking, it turns out, represents--both symbolically and practically--what most moves me in life. It is of the earth, it requires no special equipment, it takes its time and it puts me in touch with both my self and my world.
True, you will find no piles of excess fat mixed among the leaves along those routes I walk each day. But, look close, and you might see a small mound of detritus from imagined arguments I've let go of, or tiny piles of problems mostly solved.
I feel hugged by all this smallness, from the way Olive miraculously wakes each morning and moves her lumbering, imperfect way through her ordinary days, to the devastating losses and moving revelations "Wild's" author tackles on a rugged mountainside, and, finally, in my own predictable, steadying walks with Finn each day. Aching feet finding their way to the ground to which they ultimately are rooted, one step at a time.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
A Case of Nerves
An addled adult brain is not a pretty thing. I know because it's 4:30 a.m. on a Saturday and I've been up for hours, emailing myself little "to do" lists that I've comprised in bed. When it's very, very dark outside and even the bad people have called it a night.
I have no idea why my addled brain is set to Pan-Pacific time while my body knows only Central Standard Time. It would be nice if the two were in synch. I can only imagine how clever and sharp and appreciated I would be if my brain weren't a night owl these days.
This night owl has mostly been hooting about a new job assignment I've been given this school year, one that has tested me to the limits. Which is ironic, because the assignment's focus is testing, of the standardized variety.
And, frankly, I feel like a flunky right now. Which should probably make all those students who are tested beyond their limits feel just a wee bit better.
I cry about every three years, whether I need to or not. Yesterday, about 8:30 in the morning, I was pretty sure that I needed to dump a load of tears. I felt stupid, overwhelmed, underpaid and off center, four feelings that should never come together on the same street corner, more or less outside a classroom.
I kept it together, but just barely. And now I'm left wondering how I will be able to navigate these unfamiliar waters for an entire school year. And all the school years that follow, assuming I am not removed from this new position. Not that that would be such a bad thing.
I didn't ask for this new assignment, but I want to do well at it. Not because I am a huge advocate of standardized testing (I have taken more of them than I've given, so my ignorance is both complete and very out of date). I want to succeed at this task because so many other people are affected by it.
But there have been several times this school year when I've felt like a paratrooper who realizes she forgot to pack the chute.
First and foremost, I want to be a good teacher. I have no illusions that I'll ever be great at it, but, like a doctor, I at least want to do no harm. With a work plate that never changes in its size, though, I am starting to think I took too much at the assignment buffet.
I'm not a complainer, but I have caught myself--more than once--sounding like the teacher in a Charlie Brown special. Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah, wah. I'm not a big fan of that imitation, so I guess I'd just better figure out how to do more, how to learn more, how to produce more than I've been doing, learning and producing during the first 23 years of my teaching career.
Certainly, I'm surrounded by great folks who are happy to help. But there are times when I feel boxed in by this new thing in front of me, and their offers are muffled by a strange sense of foreboding.
I suppose what I'm really feeling like is a student who's lousy at tests but is rifling through her backpack anyway, hoping to find a # 2 pencil.
I have no idea why my addled brain is set to Pan-Pacific time while my body knows only Central Standard Time. It would be nice if the two were in synch. I can only imagine how clever and sharp and appreciated I would be if my brain weren't a night owl these days.
This night owl has mostly been hooting about a new job assignment I've been given this school year, one that has tested me to the limits. Which is ironic, because the assignment's focus is testing, of the standardized variety.
And, frankly, I feel like a flunky right now. Which should probably make all those students who are tested beyond their limits feel just a wee bit better.
I cry about every three years, whether I need to or not. Yesterday, about 8:30 in the morning, I was pretty sure that I needed to dump a load of tears. I felt stupid, overwhelmed, underpaid and off center, four feelings that should never come together on the same street corner, more or less outside a classroom.
I kept it together, but just barely. And now I'm left wondering how I will be able to navigate these unfamiliar waters for an entire school year. And all the school years that follow, assuming I am not removed from this new position. Not that that would be such a bad thing.
I didn't ask for this new assignment, but I want to do well at it. Not because I am a huge advocate of standardized testing (I have taken more of them than I've given, so my ignorance is both complete and very out of date). I want to succeed at this task because so many other people are affected by it.
But there have been several times this school year when I've felt like a paratrooper who realizes she forgot to pack the chute.
First and foremost, I want to be a good teacher. I have no illusions that I'll ever be great at it, but, like a doctor, I at least want to do no harm. With a work plate that never changes in its size, though, I am starting to think I took too much at the assignment buffet.
I'm not a complainer, but I have caught myself--more than once--sounding like the teacher in a Charlie Brown special. Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah, wah. I'm not a big fan of that imitation, so I guess I'd just better figure out how to do more, how to learn more, how to produce more than I've been doing, learning and producing during the first 23 years of my teaching career.
Certainly, I'm surrounded by great folks who are happy to help. But there are times when I feel boxed in by this new thing in front of me, and their offers are muffled by a strange sense of foreboding.
I suppose what I'm really feeling like is a student who's lousy at tests but is rifling through her backpack anyway, hoping to find a # 2 pencil.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Seasons of Love
I'm trying to imagine one Lincolnite who wasn't talking about the weather around 5 this afternoon. Maybe a surgery patient deep in the throes of anesthesia. But that's about it.
As for those people who make fun of Nebraskans for the way we talk about the weather? I say they are the ignorant ones. They are the ones who see life simplistically, as though they have control over it, an app for it, a way around it.
In our fervent focus on what's happening outdoors, Nebraskans acknowledge that we are intimately tied to the larger world and we had best pay attention. We know that our very lives are tied to the land, tested by the sun, moved by the winds. Just as we know the sweetness of Spring's first hyacinth, its purple buds nudging through the hard earth, filling us with hope.
In fact, we Midwesterners actually pity those who live with the burden of a single-season year, one so dull, so framed in sameness, that its days do not distinguish themselves from one another. Rather, they stack themselves, one atop the other, like so many lounge chairs around the pool.
Give me the menopausal frenzy of a Midwestern year, its days punctuated by violence and relief, heat and cold, fear and giddiness. I want to feel the bookends of this life, not just the soft middle with its fuzzy edges. I want to wonder, each day, what that day will bring.
That kind of wonder is happiest smack dab in the middle of the country, where weather's crossroads meet up and exchange stories.
As for those people who make fun of Nebraskans for the way we talk about the weather? I say they are the ignorant ones. They are the ones who see life simplistically, as though they have control over it, an app for it, a way around it.
In our fervent focus on what's happening outdoors, Nebraskans acknowledge that we are intimately tied to the larger world and we had best pay attention. We know that our very lives are tied to the land, tested by the sun, moved by the winds. Just as we know the sweetness of Spring's first hyacinth, its purple buds nudging through the hard earth, filling us with hope.
In fact, we Midwesterners actually pity those who live with the burden of a single-season year, one so dull, so framed in sameness, that its days do not distinguish themselves from one another. Rather, they stack themselves, one atop the other, like so many lounge chairs around the pool.
Give me the menopausal frenzy of a Midwestern year, its days punctuated by violence and relief, heat and cold, fear and giddiness. I want to feel the bookends of this life, not just the soft middle with its fuzzy edges. I want to wonder, each day, what that day will bring.
That kind of wonder is happiest smack dab in the middle of the country, where weather's crossroads meet up and exchange stories.
Monday, September 3, 2012
Keepin' It Real (Time)
Mark and I had a friendly disagreement this morning. While throwing out ideas for how to spend this free day, I mentioned the usual suspects: Holmes Lake, Pioneers Park, "Frasier" reruns, all of which Mark was amenable to. But then he pointed out that we could watch "Frasier" reruns any time we wanted to, thanks to Netflix.
"It's not the same," I said, making an argument for the crap-shoot appeal of broadcast television. "I like that someone else will choose which episode we get to watch." And then, like I so often do, I took a bit of a cheap shot.
"Watching 'Frasier' on Netflix is like doing the Saturday crossword on a Tuesday," I said. "It's just wrong."
Now, I've been copying weekend crosswords for the past couple of years, stockpiling them for Mark, who spends his weekends at Duncan Aviation. And, while I'm glad to do it, I also have this tiny little opinion that sits on my shoulders, harrumphing the idea of not doing the puzzles "live."
This is petty, I know, but I like to think that something nobler sits just under the annoying crust of my opinion. After all, this focus on "live" vs. "taped" spills into other areas of my life as well, so it would be nice to think that there's some deep point I'm trying to make.
I remember when our school started showing live footage of the spring rock concert, airing it on two screens just off of the stage, while the kids were right there, dancing the night away. I was so confused by those screens, suddenly unsure of how a person watches a concert. Sure, I could see the kids' faces better, projected on the big screen. But I also felt more removed from the performers and the experience itself. I ended up leaving at intermission, feeling like I'd been cheated of something.
Even though there are a thousand things in my life that I've missed because I hadn't shown up or I showed up too late, I like the idea that these experiences were both deep and fleeting, that those who were there were in for a real treat. And the rest of us? Too bad, so sad. That's why I've loved the sunrises and sunsets so much these days...these short-run features that treat those who show up, and who show up at exactly the right time.
By the time I got home the other night, anxious to show Mark the incredible western sky, fiery oranges and reds had been replaced by humdrum greys and browns. He'd missed the show, and I hadn't taped it.
Living a "live" life isn't for the weak-hearted. Heaven knows, you miss plenty. But you also get something, too--once-in-a-lifetime experiences stacked upon countless tiny moments when being there means everything.
"It's not the same," I said, making an argument for the crap-shoot appeal of broadcast television. "I like that someone else will choose which episode we get to watch." And then, like I so often do, I took a bit of a cheap shot.
"Watching 'Frasier' on Netflix is like doing the Saturday crossword on a Tuesday," I said. "It's just wrong."
Now, I've been copying weekend crosswords for the past couple of years, stockpiling them for Mark, who spends his weekends at Duncan Aviation. And, while I'm glad to do it, I also have this tiny little opinion that sits on my shoulders, harrumphing the idea of not doing the puzzles "live."
This is petty, I know, but I like to think that something nobler sits just under the annoying crust of my opinion. After all, this focus on "live" vs. "taped" spills into other areas of my life as well, so it would be nice to think that there's some deep point I'm trying to make.
I remember when our school started showing live footage of the spring rock concert, airing it on two screens just off of the stage, while the kids were right there, dancing the night away. I was so confused by those screens, suddenly unsure of how a person watches a concert. Sure, I could see the kids' faces better, projected on the big screen. But I also felt more removed from the performers and the experience itself. I ended up leaving at intermission, feeling like I'd been cheated of something.
Even though there are a thousand things in my life that I've missed because I hadn't shown up or I showed up too late, I like the idea that these experiences were both deep and fleeting, that those who were there were in for a real treat. And the rest of us? Too bad, so sad. That's why I've loved the sunrises and sunsets so much these days...these short-run features that treat those who show up, and who show up at exactly the right time.
By the time I got home the other night, anxious to show Mark the incredible western sky, fiery oranges and reds had been replaced by humdrum greys and browns. He'd missed the show, and I hadn't taped it.
Living a "live" life isn't for the weak-hearted. Heaven knows, you miss plenty. But you also get something, too--once-in-a-lifetime experiences stacked upon countless tiny moments when being there means everything.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Keep on Trekking
Some days don't go as planned. And that's not such a bad thing, really.
I knew that today would have a few things that framed it, beginning with the Sunday paper and a long walk with Finn. I also knew that there was a pretty good chance I'd go to church. All three were satisfying activities, although they aren't what has made this day...different.
What made this day different took place after I "watched" (read "dozed through") the Nebraska-Notre Dame volleyball game on TV. In need of a little waking up, I took Finn on another walk, winding our way through the neighborhood and up to Woods Park, where I secretly hoped I wouldn't see Jim the homeless man.
Many of my summer walks included conversations with Jim. He is a pleasant enough man. Well spoken and friendly. Probably battling some mental illness and definitely taking a hit from the weather and trying to make it in a new city. Two weeks ago, Jim fell off my radar, only to return to the park last Sunday.
While I feel compelled to make connections to Jim when he is awake, I also have felt relief on those days when he isn't there, which is why a part of me took a deep breath this afternoon when I saw him on his bike.
(I never said I was a good person.)
I suppose it goes back to that "human insulation" thingy I talked about yesterday. Sometimes, I'd just rather not see the things and people that need tending.
Thing is, today, Jim tended to me.
After Finn and I had caught up with him, hearing about his struggles with false accusations, no jobs on the horizon and fears about keeping his bike safe, we walked home. On that walk home, I decided to put together a few things for Jim to eat and some other stuff for him to chew on, as well. Our church had given me two pamphlets designed for the homeless--one that listed low-cost and free services and the other that listed locations for food distribution.
I hopped on Allison's bike and headed back to the park, bag of goodies in my hand.
Jim was no longer at the gazebo, having claimed a spot on a bench under a tree just south of "O" Street. I pedaled Allison's noisy bike his way and stopped for a conversation.
Jim immediately felt her tires and declared them to be too low to ride. I weigh a little more than Allison, but figured they were probably too low for her, too. He said he'd take care of it.
He pulled a small pump from his bike (a well-stocked, well-loved bike that represents much of his personal worth), and began pumping fervently. He invited me to sit on the bench while he took care of the bike. He then gave me lessons in bearings and cables, showing me where I could make simple adjustments to improve the ride.
We talked bikes for another 15 minutes or so during which he offered to clean up her bike--or any Holt bike, for that matter--as needed. We also talked briefly about how to get him an ID so he can get a job. But mostly, he was the one schooling me.
By the time I rode away, I felt like that lucky student whose world had cracked open right there before her very eyes. I was moved by the experience, both literally and figuratively.
I knew that today would have a few things that framed it, beginning with the Sunday paper and a long walk with Finn. I also knew that there was a pretty good chance I'd go to church. All three were satisfying activities, although they aren't what has made this day...different.
What made this day different took place after I "watched" (read "dozed through") the Nebraska-Notre Dame volleyball game on TV. In need of a little waking up, I took Finn on another walk, winding our way through the neighborhood and up to Woods Park, where I secretly hoped I wouldn't see Jim the homeless man.
Many of my summer walks included conversations with Jim. He is a pleasant enough man. Well spoken and friendly. Probably battling some mental illness and definitely taking a hit from the weather and trying to make it in a new city. Two weeks ago, Jim fell off my radar, only to return to the park last Sunday.
While I feel compelled to make connections to Jim when he is awake, I also have felt relief on those days when he isn't there, which is why a part of me took a deep breath this afternoon when I saw him on his bike.
(I never said I was a good person.)
I suppose it goes back to that "human insulation" thingy I talked about yesterday. Sometimes, I'd just rather not see the things and people that need tending.
Thing is, today, Jim tended to me.
After Finn and I had caught up with him, hearing about his struggles with false accusations, no jobs on the horizon and fears about keeping his bike safe, we walked home. On that walk home, I decided to put together a few things for Jim to eat and some other stuff for him to chew on, as well. Our church had given me two pamphlets designed for the homeless--one that listed low-cost and free services and the other that listed locations for food distribution.
I hopped on Allison's bike and headed back to the park, bag of goodies in my hand.
Jim was no longer at the gazebo, having claimed a spot on a bench under a tree just south of "O" Street. I pedaled Allison's noisy bike his way and stopped for a conversation.
Jim immediately felt her tires and declared them to be too low to ride. I weigh a little more than Allison, but figured they were probably too low for her, too. He said he'd take care of it.
He pulled a small pump from his bike (a well-stocked, well-loved bike that represents much of his personal worth), and began pumping fervently. He invited me to sit on the bench while he took care of the bike. He then gave me lessons in bearings and cables, showing me where I could make simple adjustments to improve the ride.
We talked bikes for another 15 minutes or so during which he offered to clean up her bike--or any Holt bike, for that matter--as needed. We also talked briefly about how to get him an ID so he can get a job. But mostly, he was the one schooling me.
By the time I rode away, I felt like that lucky student whose world had cracked open right there before her very eyes. I was moved by the experience, both literally and figuratively.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
The Chilling Effects of Insulation
If I were to quit teaching today, I'd seriously consider going into the insulation business. Not for buildings, but for humans. Clearly, we humans love us some high R-values, when it comes to experiencing this world.
How else can we explain our seeming collective indifference to 11 years of war in Afghanistan or the ever-growing sandy fingers of an ever-shrinking Platte River?
Whereas insulation in a home's walls keeps in the desired air temperature, the focus of human insulation is to keep out the "out there." Thus the popularity of attached garages tooled with garage-door openers, which, really, we mostly value as door closers.
Truth be told, we don't really want to see what's out there or talk to those people. Heck, we don't even want to see or talk to our own kids, which is why texting is no longer the realm of just the young.
Because Americans have been so successful at keeping our distance from so many unpleasant things, we suddenly find ourselves facing a number of tipping points that we had never anticipated. Blindsided by our own insular ways, we can't believe that the drought restrictions apply to us or that our country's financial backbone is teetering on honest-to-goodness disaster. We can't believe that the government can't keep gas prices down or that acres of dead crops will translate into higher food prices.
That's the problem with conveniences like air conditioning and cable television--they instantly deliver us from the heat of the day, the harshness of our own realities. And, as a result, we lose our ability to imagine or experience the rest of the world, the "out there" that is standing at our doorsteps.
I'm no doomsayer, but I can't help believing that we insulate at our own peril. Better to face the elements than to be waylaid by them.
How else can we explain our seeming collective indifference to 11 years of war in Afghanistan or the ever-growing sandy fingers of an ever-shrinking Platte River?
Whereas insulation in a home's walls keeps in the desired air temperature, the focus of human insulation is to keep out the "out there." Thus the popularity of attached garages tooled with garage-door openers, which, really, we mostly value as door closers.
Truth be told, we don't really want to see what's out there or talk to those people. Heck, we don't even want to see or talk to our own kids, which is why texting is no longer the realm of just the young.
Because Americans have been so successful at keeping our distance from so many unpleasant things, we suddenly find ourselves facing a number of tipping points that we had never anticipated. Blindsided by our own insular ways, we can't believe that the drought restrictions apply to us or that our country's financial backbone is teetering on honest-to-goodness disaster. We can't believe that the government can't keep gas prices down or that acres of dead crops will translate into higher food prices.
That's the problem with conveniences like air conditioning and cable television--they instantly deliver us from the heat of the day, the harshness of our own realities. And, as a result, we lose our ability to imagine or experience the rest of the world, the "out there" that is standing at our doorsteps.
I'm no doomsayer, but I can't help believing that we insulate at our own peril. Better to face the elements than to be waylaid by them.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Going Steady
Enough of the Arid X-tra Dry. I'm ready for blankets and pants. Heck, I'm even ready for socks.
What is Fall, if not some kind of seasonal antidote to all that is dead and dry and far too sunshiny? Driving by Woods Park this evening, I wondered how all those Midget Football players were holding up, their bodies bruised by the cracked earth, their skin bloodied by the long fingers of sturdy, dead grass. My guess is that they've come to fear the earth more than the opponents standing opposite them.
I am ready for the cool steadiness of a new chapter, cicadas be damned.
The ironic thing about relentlessness--whatever form it takes--is that it leaves me hungry for something old and reliable. Like Allison's morning concerts. True, 5:30 a.m. is a bit early to be pounding on the ivories--just ask the neighbors--but her vocal escapades have become a nursery rhyme to me, lulling me into a happy place where everything is right with the world.
Whatever darkens her teenaged doors, it is shooed away with the lilt of her singing voice and, for a few minutes, at least, all is right with the world.
So, too, has Finn's enthusiastic love become a tonic in my days. Utterly devoted to his family, and infinitely more entertaining than anything on prime-time T.V, Finn reminds me that joy is the thing.
And the morning sky reminds me that this life of mine is small enough to be manageable, whatever the pressures I perceive. At 5 a.m., the eastern sky sparkles, Venus and Jupiter duking it out for top honors, while the stars of Casseopia, stretching out into a languid san-serif "w", wink at me from the north.
Many days, I do not know if there is a God or an afterlife, but these steady threads in my life--the music of my daughter's voice, the boundless energy of Finn, and the certainty of the planets and stars--remind me that I don't have to know everything. Maybe it isn't even mine to know.
It is enough to show up and pay attention. How else, after all, could we catch the moment when summer cedes to fall and the Linden leaves start to bleed yellow, certain that change is just around the corner?
What is Fall, if not some kind of seasonal antidote to all that is dead and dry and far too sunshiny? Driving by Woods Park this evening, I wondered how all those Midget Football players were holding up, their bodies bruised by the cracked earth, their skin bloodied by the long fingers of sturdy, dead grass. My guess is that they've come to fear the earth more than the opponents standing opposite them.
I am ready for the cool steadiness of a new chapter, cicadas be damned.
The ironic thing about relentlessness--whatever form it takes--is that it leaves me hungry for something old and reliable. Like Allison's morning concerts. True, 5:30 a.m. is a bit early to be pounding on the ivories--just ask the neighbors--but her vocal escapades have become a nursery rhyme to me, lulling me into a happy place where everything is right with the world.
Whatever darkens her teenaged doors, it is shooed away with the lilt of her singing voice and, for a few minutes, at least, all is right with the world.
So, too, has Finn's enthusiastic love become a tonic in my days. Utterly devoted to his family, and infinitely more entertaining than anything on prime-time T.V, Finn reminds me that joy is the thing.
And the morning sky reminds me that this life of mine is small enough to be manageable, whatever the pressures I perceive. At 5 a.m., the eastern sky sparkles, Venus and Jupiter duking it out for top honors, while the stars of Casseopia, stretching out into a languid san-serif "w", wink at me from the north.
Many days, I do not know if there is a God or an afterlife, but these steady threads in my life--the music of my daughter's voice, the boundless energy of Finn, and the certainty of the planets and stars--remind me that I don't have to know everything. Maybe it isn't even mine to know.
It is enough to show up and pay attention. How else, after all, could we catch the moment when summer cedes to fall and the Linden leaves start to bleed yellow, certain that change is just around the corner?
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