Worker's Comp

I work with some terrific people.  Funny, committed (the good kind of committed), hard-working and generally kind to teens (not always an easy task), these folks make the school what it is.  That's right. It's not about the content so much as it is about the relationships.  And that holds true for the adults, as well as the kids.

Especially fun are all the new folks on staff.  Now, I admit that, when I first heard that East High would have nearly 25 new adults in its halls this fall, I was a bit wary.  Realizing I'm in the last chapter of my life as a teacher, the idea of all those youngsters swooping in made me feel, well, a little dusty.  I started to envision myself as that old couple on the block, the last holdouts of another generation, the ones that were keeping the neighborhood from being cool again.

But then I got to know these folks and, even if everything I feared about myself is true, the newbies have flexed their altruistic muscles just enough to make me feel welcomed and nearly relevant!

Because I haven't held a job in another profession for so long, I'm making a leap here, but I wonder if the pressure-cooker feel of a school lets people get to know each other a bit quicker.  Like speed dating, new and old teachers quickly figure each other out, skipping many of the formalities and hoops of a traditionally-timed friendship.

And I'm all for it, frankly.

Since meeting these new folks four months ago, I'm delighted to say that one has opened my bathroom stall, mid-stream, causing near-fatal fits of laughter; another has stolen my team's Scrabble Scramble trophy;  several have found their way to the staff lounge for laughter and leftovers.  Why, just yesterday, one of the newcomers brought a lovely, delicious pumpkin cheesecake on a gingersnap crust--and shared it!  And last week, another newbie--possibly tricked into it by the library staff--made us biryani for lunch.  

We have shared beers, swapped stories, made fun of each other.  Why, we've even managed to collaborate, that most adult thing a staff of teaching professionals can do with each other!

It's possible that, in the afterglow of five days away from work, I'm feeling extra generous in my praise of my workmates.  A little distance does wonders, after all.  But, really, when you come down to it, even on the worst days--maybe especially on the worst days--I wouldn't trade this bunch for anyone.  They are always better than a poke in the eye.

And I haven't even talked about the work friends I've had for several years.  Oh, my.  The stories I could tell!

Super Savor

It's funny.  We live in a world where "more" is supposed to be "better" and yet, it's often the pauses that intensify my experiences or feelings.  Like the love of a child or an appreciation for a sunset, my feelings often grow stronger because of absence.

That's no secret, of course.  Regret, however twisted an emotion, is proof of this.  Take something away from me and I suddenly can't fathom my life without it.  Or believe how rich my life was because of it.  Or realize how stupid I was because of my casual past interaction with it. 

But I'd hate to give regret all of the power.  It is, after all, such a debilitating condition.

No, I'd like to give the nod to something more positive, something like the act of savoring, for instance.  A person can't savor anything if her mind is elsewhere, after all.  No, to savor something, I have to be fully present, and utterly unconcerned about the moment that came before or the one that surely will follow. 

Now that Eric is on his own, for instance, when he does find his way home, I'm amazed by the excellent colors we chose to put upon our walls.  And the way our chairs so comfortably hold a young body.  When he's in the house, the house becomes something more--something brighter, something steadier, something warmer.  And I savor the low hum that thrums through my being, that monastic chant of a soul well tended.

I think that this is one reason I love Thanksgiving so much.  It is an unpretentious holy day--holiday--focused on two of the most basic and necessary things in life--food and loved ones.  It is about sustenance, not bangles and buying more.  It is a holiday that lets us savor--savor a good meal, a stretched-out day, time with our loved ones. 

Even in the aftermath of hardship--death and disease, loss of jobs and separation--because of its simple structure, Thanksgiving manages to nudge from us the tiny gold threads of good things that run through our lives.  And we are left to savor the ordinary, made bright and shiny by the simple act of taking the time to acknowledge it.

GIving Thanks, and a Few Birthday Gifts, as Well

I have always loved Thanksgiving,  but never as much as I did 18 years ago.  That year,  I relished my "two Thanksgiving" schedule, happily (and literally) bouncing from one household to the other, one feast to the next. 

Like the turkeys I was ravaging, I, too, had popped my red-plastic timer, officially "done" and ready for the next stage.  Unlike my poultried friends, though, the next morning, it would be a doctor's knife that would make the first cut across my skin.

I have had 18 years to adjust to being a mother of a daughter, a situation I was ill prepared for, both then and now.  A person would think that I might have a better understanding than I do of what it means to raise a daughter.  Alas, most days, I find myself as naive as I was when told by the surgeon that "It's a girl!  It's a girl!"

Fortunately, "naive" is not a feared or unfamiliar state for me.  In fact, I have lived much of my life cloaked in the warmth of unknowing and I rather like it.  Because I am naive, for instance, I have seldom felt the compunction to shape Allison Shepard Holt into some idealized feminine representation.

Never one to have a pink bow in my purse--more or less, a purse to put one in--I mostly have made it up as I go.  And it is a tribute to Allison's essence--her flexibility, her kindness, her innate smarts and well-roundedness--that she has approached this life as my daughter in a way not unlike Ella Fitzgerald facing a long, as-yet-worked-out scat session.  And the results have been surprising and enjoyable.

It is ironic when a parent first realizes the depths of her love, when she knows--beyond a doubt--that she would set aside her own life to extend or enrich that of her child's.  And then, in the next breath, to already start missing that child.

Come 7:30 a.m. tomorrow--November 24, 2013--Allison Holt officially takes over her own life.  Suddenly old enough for cigars, tattoos and a life in the military (my own selfish fingers crossed that none of these might lure her),  the mere act of waking up entitles her to more time in the driver's seat (not that we're buying you a car, Allison. Because we're not.  Keep pumping those bike tires!) 

And me?  Well, I'd best find a comfortable spot along the roadside, one in which I can catch a clear view of her from time to time, as Allison pumps her legs and arms, running into the future that is hers.  Whatever level of faking it I've practiced so far in her life (and it is a commendable, at times significant level), I'd better be ready to ramp it up even more.

After all, high-school graduation, college, an apartment, a career, heartbreak and new loves all await her, each looking to her for its cue.  As for the parents?  The rear-view mirror is a position few parenting books warn us of.  I suppose that's because such a stark and certain reality might stifle the further production of the human race.

Ah, but Thanksgiving is hardly a time for stifling.  Rather, it is quite the opposite--a time to pause and pile on, a time of feasting and loving and reflecting on all the ways that we are blessed, followed by a nice stretch on the couch, laying warm in the afterglow of so much good. And, for me, Thanksgiving also is a time when, somehow, I manage to cram inside me even more love for Allison Shepard Holt, the daughter who has filled my life with so much laughter and joy, love and generosity.

Happy birthday, Allison.  I'm mighty glad you are here.

Love, Mom

Let's Break Bread, Instead of Heads

It's 4 a.m. and I'd hoped to still be sleeping, so excuse me if I feel like pointing fingers.

But something is clearly wrong here.  Like rainless summers and tornadoes in November, the evidence is mounting and I want to know why.  Why did Trinity McDonald die?  Why did Sara Piccolo lose it one morning in early October?  Why do I kind of feel bad for Bo Pelini?

And, while I'm at it, why can't that mayor in Canada see the forest through the trees?    Why did a baseball bat end two lives this past summer?  And who on earth wants to go shopping on Thanksgiving?

These are unrelenting times and I'm not sure humans can thrive in such conditions.  When "floodwaters" is our go-to position, the detritus of such raging power gets personal.   It's as though our culture is having one massive nervous breakdown and a billion hand-held devices are recording our collective downward spiral on tiny two-inch screens in glorious HD detail.

Stop the presses.  I want to get off.

And, while I'm at it, I also want to gather up all the cell phones, close down the 24-hour restaurants, and shut off the wi-fi for awhile.  Seriously.  Every single one of these things only adds to the unrelenting pressure to always be "on."

Hungry?  Eat.  Mad?  Post.  Bored?  Kill.

Who, in the midst of such floodwaters, has the time to sit down and discuss such things around the dinner table?

And yet . . . .

I am sure many will consider this quaint and laughable, a solution far too simple in such cynical times, but I really do believe that a little more table time would do us all some good.  Like my friend Barry said at dinner last night, our culture seems to have forgotten the power of coming home each day to a place filled with family and food and the utterly dull but incredibly powerful routine of a little dinner with people we love.

There's a reason that the basics are called "meat and potatoes."  And, yes, I know that we should cut back on our red meats and starches.  But that doesn't mean we should forego regular time with those we love, those routine pauses in our days when we can finally breathe a little.  Breathe and recollect the mundane, the overwhelming, the tests and trials and tiny joys that made up the moments that led up to this one.

If you want me to get all Biblical on you, it might be good for us to recall that the last thing Jesus did with his peeps before he died was to break some bread and share a little wine with them.  And it sounds like it wasn't even much of a meal.

And yet,  it meant everything to them, this pause amidst the unrelenting waters of their lives.

An Educated Guess

It was 2008 and I was seated on a hard, plastic chair in the basement of Redeemer Lutheran Church when I cast my vote for Barack Obama as president of the United States.  What on earth was I thinking, voting for a man with that kind of name, whose blood included that of a black man's?  It was an outrageous and utterly hopeful moment when #2 pencil met the cardboard bubble that afternoon.

And yet, it also felt like I was setting up the guy.  After all, the United States was a mess and perhaps it would have been kinder to Obama if I cast my vote for John McCain and let him muddle through the next four years.  But I voted my heart anyway.

I felt similarly conflicted last week when son Eric told me he planned to take advantage of a 14-month Master's of English Education program at UNL, after graduating in a year and a half.

My son wants to be a teacher!

My son wants to be a teacher?!

I have no doubt that Eric will be a terrific teacher.  He's loved his time at the Malone Center, after all, where he's worked with elementary-aged kids in an after-school creative writing program.  And I think he's felt successful at UNL's Writing Center, helping fellow students tackle term papers and research projects.

And heaven knows that the teaching field could use more good men in it.

Like most professions, though, the teaching field has a knack for shooting itself in its own foot, and being its own worst enemy.  In the past decade, educators have quit writing and telling their stories, stepping aside to let for-profit corporations, legislators, and really, really rich people do it for them.  For a guy who loves a good story, I wonder how Eric Holt will react to that sad fact.

What to do, then, with all of Eric's enthusiasm, the hope he holds within that he can make a difference, build a bridge, change the life of a young person?

I already knew the answer before I even asked it.

I suck it up, keep my lips closed and vote my heart, which says that this outrageous and hopeful act of standing behind my son is the only choice I have.

Moving to the Volunteer State

I confess.  I am a muddling, below-average volunteer.  For years, I've pointed to my career (teaching) or my pursuit of a master's degree (library science) or the work of raising my children (now nearly 18 and 21) as excuses when approached by others to lend a hand.

Mostly, though, it's been a combination of selfishness and my fear of a full calendar that have kept the do-gooders at bay.

Fortunately, last school year provided the fodder I needed to start doing things a little differently.  Feeling confined by a career that so many devalue and criticize--including those who work within the profession--I sought a way out of my 7-to-4 self. 

Yesterday, among the low hills of the prairie, I was tucked into a ravine clotted with Sycamores and Elms, my cheeks ruddy with joy as I encouraged a broken line of runners to keep up the good work.  And when the runners ceased, I could not help myself, letting loose a string of guttural turkey gobbles and peacock songs, giggling to myself that this is the place I want to be.

Who would've thunk that it would be Sandhills and Brome grass, Tiger Beetles and Sunset Maples that would save me?  Thinking back, though, what else could make a human feel more alive than the million beautiful beings that are not human themselves?

I have been saved this year by returning to my roots--to the elements, the land, its plants and creatures--and have found a new self along the way, one that is less defined by what I do for a living than how I go about making a life.

I think that's why I'm happy to start giving back a little, finally.  Yes, my master-naturalist's certification requires me to volunteer.  But those geniuses behind the program know something that I hadn't learned until recently.  They knew that, there, standing on the prairie or hunched over in the back room at the zoo, I would be doing something much richer than maintaining a status.

There, among the grasses and Tiger Beetles, I would begin to write a new chapter of my life.  And my legs would hum with the joy of being connected to something much larger than myself.

My Beloved Mother

**I would like to thank my mother, Jane Holt for, A) Leaving her blogging account logged in, and B) for being a marvelous mother.**

She has raised me to become an independent human being,
something I believe our world greatly lacks.

She has shown me how to live my life in a positive manner,
ignoring the dark clouds that seem so apparent in your teenage years.

She has guided me with open arms and a heart full of warmth,
to the distant lands where flowering marigolds grow as far as the eye can see.

She has protected me under her feathered wings,
which stretch to cover over the farthest seas where the great herons feed.

With that, I thank you Mom, for all that you do.

Love,
Allison Holt

Too Windy for Kites, And Yet

Driving home from church today,
I saw a woman clutching her young child to her breast,
bound up by coats and  mittens and scarves and hats,
standing in the middle of a field
while her young son knelt on the ground in front of her,
working the wooden dowel into the slots of his paper kite.
A whirl of leaves and wind
clouds and too-light birds
dancing, unchained, about him

It was hopeless, I knew
--for all three of them--
too cold, too windy, and a ball of string too measly
to keep things afloat

It was hopeless and yet I felt heartened.
For they showed up, didn't they?
With kite and string and child in hand.
They showed up, despite everything.

This, I thought, is the strength of the human spirit,
looking beyond everything that is in front of us,
plotting and plodding along, all the same.