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.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
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?
Sunday, August 19, 2012
A Warts-and-All Kind of Thing
Twenty five years of this and I have grown tired of the prairie chicken,
its puffed-up feathers cackling "Choose Me! Choose Me!"
Let the younger ones fill out their chests and holler.
I have found my ease in the soft, unspectacular facts.
In me.
I suppose there will always be that thing that hovers over me,
the one that whispers "be bigger, be brighter, be cleverer."
This business of teaching is a cocky one
and I am but a middling player
my strut an uneven cadence
betrayed by a faulty metronome
And still.
Still, I show up each day and play my song with confidence,
certain a teen or two will read my prospectus,
fingering those few coins of hope,
now tucked away in warm, linty pockets
I show up because I have a secret.
Sometimes, it is the freckled, honest skin hidden beneath those showy feathers
that others crave most.
The confirmation that they are not alone
in their doubts,
their flaws,
their dreams.
its puffed-up feathers cackling "Choose Me! Choose Me!"
Let the younger ones fill out their chests and holler.
I have found my ease in the soft, unspectacular facts.
In me.
I suppose there will always be that thing that hovers over me,
the one that whispers "be bigger, be brighter, be cleverer."
This business of teaching is a cocky one
and I am but a middling player
my strut an uneven cadence
betrayed by a faulty metronome
And still.
Still, I show up each day and play my song with confidence,
certain a teen or two will read my prospectus,
fingering those few coins of hope,
now tucked away in warm, linty pockets
I show up because I have a secret.
Sometimes, it is the freckled, honest skin hidden beneath those showy feathers
that others crave most.
The confirmation that they are not alone
in their doubts,
their flaws,
their dreams.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Ain't What it Used to Be
Is it just me or are girls' shorts really, really short? Like the word "short" doesn't quite do it anymore?
I suppose it's no surprise that, the older I get, the more confused I feel. Granted, there are times when resignation nudges out the confusion. Not that that's any better. But it is different, which counts for something. Right?
All kinds of things seem to be transforming before my eyes these days, and I'm never quite sure if it's me or them who's changing. I just know that things are different.
This slow transformation has been going on a long time. About 12 years ago, for instance, I remember mistaking my friend Gail's soda container for a gas can, thanks to its sheer immensity and punchy red color. When she told me it was filled with soda, not ethanol, I was certain she was lying, because, surely, no one would sell--or buy--a silo filled with cola.
From there, my descent was a rapid one. Three or four years ago, "Hot and Heavy" became a physical description more than an emotional one for me. I'm still hot and heavy, although I'm hopeful that, with the advent of menopause (fingers crossed!), I'll just be. . . heavy.
Son Eric moves out of the house this Thursday--the Man Room returns! A year ago, I submitted a blood test and a letter of dispensation to the public schools' equivalent of the Pope just to take the day off and help Eric move. This year? I have every intention of leaving him a note scratched out on a sticky pad, wishing him well and reminding him that the room should be returned to its former glory.
I feel bad that I don't feel worse about his impending move.
Maybe I should write him that note tonight. Just to be sure.
My day job sure seems different to me, as well. Gone are the days of casual indifference, replaced with the rigidity of standardized testing and similarly-paced lesson plans, lest a young one wander or switch teachers at semester. Even though I know there is good behind this push for uniformity, I'd be lying if I said I don't occasional miss the days when I could send a student out with a dollar or two to pick me up a donut on her way to the photography-supplies store.
More and more, I'm finding my clothes at Shopko rather than Dillards, even though I'm not averse to trying to fancy it up a bit. Just yesterday, for instance, I went to Von Mauer's, looking for a decent pair of khaki pants, only to leave discouraged, wondering if they use a different set of numbers than my store of preference. And what was with all those frilly, see-through, wildly patterned shirts? They looked more like scarves than shirts and I was scared. And that man playing piano in the middle of the store? He kind of creeped me out.
Somehow, though, I know that, come tomorrow, I will show up at school dressed pretty much appropriately, hopefully wearing underwear whose elastic rests below my pant line, and greet the new freshmen with an open heart, an honest smile and an outdated theme song raging in my head. And it will all be okay, regardless.
I suppose it's no surprise that, the older I get, the more confused I feel. Granted, there are times when resignation nudges out the confusion. Not that that's any better. But it is different, which counts for something. Right?
All kinds of things seem to be transforming before my eyes these days, and I'm never quite sure if it's me or them who's changing. I just know that things are different.
This slow transformation has been going on a long time. About 12 years ago, for instance, I remember mistaking my friend Gail's soda container for a gas can, thanks to its sheer immensity and punchy red color. When she told me it was filled with soda, not ethanol, I was certain she was lying, because, surely, no one would sell--or buy--a silo filled with cola.
From there, my descent was a rapid one. Three or four years ago, "Hot and Heavy" became a physical description more than an emotional one for me. I'm still hot and heavy, although I'm hopeful that, with the advent of menopause (fingers crossed!), I'll just be. . . heavy.
Son Eric moves out of the house this Thursday--the Man Room returns! A year ago, I submitted a blood test and a letter of dispensation to the public schools' equivalent of the Pope just to take the day off and help Eric move. This year? I have every intention of leaving him a note scratched out on a sticky pad, wishing him well and reminding him that the room should be returned to its former glory.
I feel bad that I don't feel worse about his impending move.
Maybe I should write him that note tonight. Just to be sure.
My day job sure seems different to me, as well. Gone are the days of casual indifference, replaced with the rigidity of standardized testing and similarly-paced lesson plans, lest a young one wander or switch teachers at semester. Even though I know there is good behind this push for uniformity, I'd be lying if I said I don't occasional miss the days when I could send a student out with a dollar or two to pick me up a donut on her way to the photography-supplies store.
More and more, I'm finding my clothes at Shopko rather than Dillards, even though I'm not averse to trying to fancy it up a bit. Just yesterday, for instance, I went to Von Mauer's, looking for a decent pair of khaki pants, only to leave discouraged, wondering if they use a different set of numbers than my store of preference. And what was with all those frilly, see-through, wildly patterned shirts? They looked more like scarves than shirts and I was scared. And that man playing piano in the middle of the store? He kind of creeped me out.
Somehow, though, I know that, come tomorrow, I will show up at school dressed pretty much appropriately, hopefully wearing underwear whose elastic rests below my pant line, and greet the new freshmen with an open heart, an honest smile and an outdated theme song raging in my head. And it will all be okay, regardless.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
I Love to Tell The Story
Anyone know where I can pick up a few synapses? I seem to have left mine at the store.
Last Friday, I took part in a lively conversation that was utterly void of people's names. Four otherwise intelligent adults talking about things and people that we supposedly know a thing or two about. And not one name.
"You ever have that one kid?" asked my friend, Brian. "You know, he was, uh, kinda short, I think. . . . "
Twenty minutes later, we were laughing at our inability to tell a story--any story--that included a face and a name. God help us when school revs up.
This morning, I saw a friend at the lake, recognizing her immediately and, after going through the alphabet for another 20 minutes, locating her name at the intersection of Normal and South streets. Here's a little secret about me--if we run into each other and I've got a friend you don't know, I don't know you either (at least at that moment) if I don't introduce the two of you. I think this is why my dad taught me to introduce myself frequently to others, to give them a chance to enjoy a synapse or two.
It's a strange thing when words evade us. I suppose it's stranger still that we have words for all these people and things in our lives. I mean, take "rhutabega," for instance. Who thought of that? But this inability to access my mental files is a disheartening development. Sure, I laugh it off, for the most part. But there's this residual tug that I can't quite ignore.
Heck. I'm 50. It's entirely possible that, from a literary point of view, I'm smack dab in my denouement, the downside of things. I'm shorter than I used to be. Wrinklier. More forgetful. I'd like to think that I still have a lot going for me--you ought to see me do the daily jumble!--but I'm afraid that whatever it is that is still going isn't all that interesting to anyone else.
I keep coming back to my dad, someone who was interesting to me every single day that I knew him. He and I were in the same hospital when I gave birth to Eric. My dad was there for prostate cancer. When I heard that he hobbled down to my hospital floor the night that Eric was born, I feared that someone who didn't know him would see only this old, sick man in an ill-fitting hospital gown, not the vital man who'd filled my life with laughter and stories.
I don't ever want to forget that story of my dad and Eric meeting for the first time. I don't ever want to forget anything--even the ugly, hard stuff of life.
I want to swim in the stories, to relish their plots. I want to lay on my back in the cool grass and imagine each character, every detail of even the smallest of stories. Stories are what make life come to life for me. They make it real and unreal, believable and unfathomable, worthwhile and too much to take.
I don't like it, then, when names escape me, a plot slipping through my fingers. I don't like those gaps at all.
Last Friday, I took part in a lively conversation that was utterly void of people's names. Four otherwise intelligent adults talking about things and people that we supposedly know a thing or two about. And not one name.
"You ever have that one kid?" asked my friend, Brian. "You know, he was, uh, kinda short, I think. . . . "
Twenty minutes later, we were laughing at our inability to tell a story--any story--that included a face and a name. God help us when school revs up.
This morning, I saw a friend at the lake, recognizing her immediately and, after going through the alphabet for another 20 minutes, locating her name at the intersection of Normal and South streets. Here's a little secret about me--if we run into each other and I've got a friend you don't know, I don't know you either (at least at that moment) if I don't introduce the two of you. I think this is why my dad taught me to introduce myself frequently to others, to give them a chance to enjoy a synapse or two.
It's a strange thing when words evade us. I suppose it's stranger still that we have words for all these people and things in our lives. I mean, take "rhutabega," for instance. Who thought of that? But this inability to access my mental files is a disheartening development. Sure, I laugh it off, for the most part. But there's this residual tug that I can't quite ignore.
Heck. I'm 50. It's entirely possible that, from a literary point of view, I'm smack dab in my denouement, the downside of things. I'm shorter than I used to be. Wrinklier. More forgetful. I'd like to think that I still have a lot going for me--you ought to see me do the daily jumble!--but I'm afraid that whatever it is that is still going isn't all that interesting to anyone else.
I keep coming back to my dad, someone who was interesting to me every single day that I knew him. He and I were in the same hospital when I gave birth to Eric. My dad was there for prostate cancer. When I heard that he hobbled down to my hospital floor the night that Eric was born, I feared that someone who didn't know him would see only this old, sick man in an ill-fitting hospital gown, not the vital man who'd filled my life with laughter and stories.
I don't ever want to forget that story of my dad and Eric meeting for the first time. I don't ever want to forget anything--even the ugly, hard stuff of life.
I want to swim in the stories, to relish their plots. I want to lay on my back in the cool grass and imagine each character, every detail of even the smallest of stories. Stories are what make life come to life for me. They make it real and unreal, believable and unfathomable, worthwhile and too much to take.
I don't like it, then, when names escape me, a plot slipping through my fingers. I don't like those gaps at all.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Ollie, Ollie! In Come Free!
I see Congress is taking a recess. Most working adults take vacations. Not Congress, though. But at least they're using the right word--"recess"--what with their playground antics and all.
Ah, but as much as I'd like to rail on Congress, I have to give those people credit. Like teachers, they too understand the beauty of a long pause. (An aside: While we teachers have been harangued for years about our work schedule--which, in Lincoln Public Schools, includes about 188 contract days-- members of Congress work a mere 150 days or soa year.) I don't know what Congressmen do in their off hours, but I'm sure they--like teachers--find a rhythm that is at once different and refreshing.
Heck, they may even get some things done on their days off. Not me, though.
Besides, this isn't a political piece. This is a piece about peace. Peace of mind, to be specific. The kind that comes from a long, fuzzied string of unscheduled days.
The problem with a weekend--even a three-day one--is that you can never quite find your rhythm. Too often, adults seem compelled to accomplish something on a weekend, which I happen to think is a rotten idea. While I'm a lover of lists, they can make me break out in a cold sweat when utilized on a day ending in "Saturday" or "Sunday."
Ah, but give me 60 uninterrupted days, . . . .
Recently, the Lincoln Public Schools Communications folks asked teachers to share what they did this past summer. It's an interesting question to pose, to be sure. But their request was framed in such a way that it was assumed what we did was to develop professionally.
For obvious reasons, I have not submitted a response to that question.
What would people say if they read that I played 38 games of Scrabble, took Finn on 150 walks, watched 30 "Frasier" reruns and took about 96 naps? Oh, I know what they'd say: "THIS is what's wrong with our school system. We give teachers time off and PAY them for it! And they do absolutely nothing worthwhile with that time."
Alas, for me, anyway, that's a pretty apt description. Where I depart with these critics, though, is in their belief that nothing good comes from doing nothing worthwhile.
What if I told you that I believe with all of my heart that I am a better teacher because I don't teach year-round? Would you believe me? Have you spent any time with a roomful of teenagers recently? I didn't think so. What kind of a person would, after all?
Actually, I would, at least for 180-ish days a year.
But I can't do it without those two months between "hello" and "goodbye." I just can't.
I need a long pause, a glorious string of unattached days that are free of schedules and bells, homework and professional development. I need big heaps of "Jane Development" to get the job done the other nine months a year.
Frankly, I don't see how other professions do it, putting aside two weeks a year to let their people unwind. Sure, after two weeks, I'm feeling pretty good. But, come Week Four, I'm a veritable puddle of Buddhist bliss, existing only in the moment, even if I have no idea what that moment is. Five weeks in and I've established my napping routine--a quick, mid-morning snooze to fortify me for "Frasier," a post-lunch lounge to shake off fresh tomatoes and hummus. By Week Six, I can't remember the last time I've had a real weekend, and I couldn't care less. Six weeks in and I have no interest whatsoever in time or date or day of week. It is simply "a day." And that is enough.
The interesting thing is that, by Week Seven, I start looking for signs of another season. My wandering mind, ambling along beside me as I wander through the neighborhood park, starts remembering what a football Saturday feels like. It starts aching for the thin, long clouds of an Autumn evening, the memory of a two-blanket night in bed.
And all it takes to get me back into "work" mode is a $6 pack of Uniball Deluxe pens, my hopes and dreams tucked safely under its cellophane seal. I am, after all, a simple person, one who requires some down time before I have to get up again.
Ah, but as much as I'd like to rail on Congress, I have to give those people credit. Like teachers, they too understand the beauty of a long pause. (An aside: While we teachers have been harangued for years about our work schedule--which, in Lincoln Public Schools, includes about 188 contract days-- members of Congress work a mere 150 days or soa year.) I don't know what Congressmen do in their off hours, but I'm sure they--like teachers--find a rhythm that is at once different and refreshing.
Heck, they may even get some things done on their days off. Not me, though.
Besides, this isn't a political piece. This is a piece about peace. Peace of mind, to be specific. The kind that comes from a long, fuzzied string of unscheduled days.
The problem with a weekend--even a three-day one--is that you can never quite find your rhythm. Too often, adults seem compelled to accomplish something on a weekend, which I happen to think is a rotten idea. While I'm a lover of lists, they can make me break out in a cold sweat when utilized on a day ending in "Saturday" or "Sunday."
Ah, but give me 60 uninterrupted days, . . . .
Recently, the Lincoln Public Schools Communications folks asked teachers to share what they did this past summer. It's an interesting question to pose, to be sure. But their request was framed in such a way that it was assumed what we did was to develop professionally.
For obvious reasons, I have not submitted a response to that question.
What would people say if they read that I played 38 games of Scrabble, took Finn on 150 walks, watched 30 "Frasier" reruns and took about 96 naps? Oh, I know what they'd say: "THIS is what's wrong with our school system. We give teachers time off and PAY them for it! And they do absolutely nothing worthwhile with that time."
Alas, for me, anyway, that's a pretty apt description. Where I depart with these critics, though, is in their belief that nothing good comes from doing nothing worthwhile.
What if I told you that I believe with all of my heart that I am a better teacher because I don't teach year-round? Would you believe me? Have you spent any time with a roomful of teenagers recently? I didn't think so. What kind of a person would, after all?
Actually, I would, at least for 180-ish days a year.
But I can't do it without those two months between "hello" and "goodbye." I just can't.
I need a long pause, a glorious string of unattached days that are free of schedules and bells, homework and professional development. I need big heaps of "Jane Development" to get the job done the other nine months a year.
Frankly, I don't see how other professions do it, putting aside two weeks a year to let their people unwind. Sure, after two weeks, I'm feeling pretty good. But, come Week Four, I'm a veritable puddle of Buddhist bliss, existing only in the moment, even if I have no idea what that moment is. Five weeks in and I've established my napping routine--a quick, mid-morning snooze to fortify me for "Frasier," a post-lunch lounge to shake off fresh tomatoes and hummus. By Week Six, I can't remember the last time I've had a real weekend, and I couldn't care less. Six weeks in and I have no interest whatsoever in time or date or day of week. It is simply "a day." And that is enough.
The interesting thing is that, by Week Seven, I start looking for signs of another season. My wandering mind, ambling along beside me as I wander through the neighborhood park, starts remembering what a football Saturday feels like. It starts aching for the thin, long clouds of an Autumn evening, the memory of a two-blanket night in bed.
And all it takes to get me back into "work" mode is a $6 pack of Uniball Deluxe pens, my hopes and dreams tucked safely under its cellophane seal. I am, after all, a simple person, one who requires some down time before I have to get up again.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
The First Day of August
Viscous dreams,
Too slick for me to grab onto,
ease me into this day
framed in gold by sun and cloud
I am buoyant today
made light by the little things
that astound me
The rhythmic chirp of a cricket, its legs Olympian in their steady song
The chatter of house wrens, bickering in the ivy
The brief scent of rain, telling tales of thunderheads
far off to my west
My feet find the earth,
cracked and dry
yet steady
And I stand here, in wonder,
certain that a marching band is just around the corner,
instruments to lips, waiting for the signal to begin.
Too slick for me to grab onto,
ease me into this day
framed in gold by sun and cloud
I am buoyant today
made light by the little things
that astound me
The rhythmic chirp of a cricket, its legs Olympian in their steady song
The chatter of house wrens, bickering in the ivy
The brief scent of rain, telling tales of thunderheads
far off to my west
My feet find the earth,
cracked and dry
yet steady
And I stand here, in wonder,
certain that a marching band is just around the corner,
instruments to lips, waiting for the signal to begin.
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