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.
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