Making Space for Time

I just finished reading a Smithsonian article about time and how there are scientists (Einstein included) who have questioned its existence.  Or at least its existence in an if a, then b sort of way.  The article read like a truffle, small but dense--almost too much for one sitting.   And, while I'm not sure I "get" the concept of a four-dimensional universe--one in which things coexist side by side rather than front to back--I can acknowledge that time and space are odd, evolving creatures.

It's why life sometimes feels bigger, as though someone polished all the atoms so they could shine a bit more.  That's how the last day has felt to me--not flashy, really, but expansive, in tiny ways.  And slightly slowed down, so that I can take more of it in. 

Whatever the reason for these thick, stretchy moments, I am glad for them and have volunteered to sign up for more, even if they don't register on anyone else's scale.

So much went into my yesterday that listing the things seems like an injustice, as though a reader could never possibly understand how nice all those tiny moments were. How much I enjoyed languishing over the Sunday paper, or sitting with friends at church.  How much I savored catching up with neighbors, chopping onions for soup,  watching Finn chase squirrels in the park.   Obviously,  commas are no help here, because they only cheapen those experiences, stacking them side by side like firewood waiting to be consumed.   

And I have yet to figure out what kind of punctuation to use when considering my children.

Exclamation points popped up just before dinner when Allison shared her Calc grade with me. And rightly so! But, despite all their showy enthusiasm, exclamation points always fall short in explaining the deep, thrumming love I feel for Allison.  I simply don't know how to properly punctuate that particular aquifer of feelings.  Instead,  last night, I just found myself staring at her, with a dumb smile on my face.  Imperfect, but a solution, nonetheless.

I suspect it will be an amped-up cousin of that smile that shows up tomorrow night, when Eric Carlson Holt moves his tired body through airport security.  That smile, too, will fall far short of my requirements, only hinting at the deeper rivers running under my surface.  And I'm sure that time will do that funny thing it sometimes does, bending itself just so, lassoing the earth's rotation just long enough so that the moment will stretch itself out a bit more, making room for everything. Absolutely everything.

And I will gasp, having seen all four dimensions laid out before me, the secrets of the universe momentarily uncovered in the lanky body of a 22-year-old man who has come home again.

How on earth does a person punctuate something like that?

A Simple Antidote

Wouldn't it be nice if there was a plumber we could call to stave the flow of all this rotten news?  And all that was required of us was to find that dog-eared corner of the Yellow Pages that leads us to Onslaught Sewer and Drain, Open 24 Hours a Day?

Onslaught, indeed, ironically punctuated by Christmas lights strung from the thirsty branches of the tree out front.

. . . but maybe those lights aren't so ironic after all.  Maybe they are the secret antidote, the flickering oasis that feeds and fills us.  That's what I've been telling myself these days.  Those lights are the reason I head downstairs in the pitch dark each morning, making a beeline for the Christmas tree. Like some sort of extension-cord Yenta, I clumsily introduce male and female plugs and cords as they gather underneath our Christmas tree with all of their untapped potential.

"Let there be light."

The bigger the bad news, the more important the little things. I know this.  We all do.  But it bears repeating.

Here, then, is my recipe for a good, quiet life, despite everything.  Please forward to 20 friends, sending it to the first name at the top of the page.  Actually, they don't have to be friends.  In fact, maybe it would be better if some of them were people you don't even like.  Anyway, if you could just do this in the next 48 hours, you will be amazed what arrives on your doorstep within the week.  Please don't break the chain!

Good-Life Stew. . . The perfect antidote for a cold, hard day
1.  One Dog (any brand will do)
Note:  if you don't have a dog, you can pet someone else's.  And, while I've never tried a cat, I've been told that they make a fair substitute, although I'd remove the nails first.
2.  One Good Friend  (again, any brand, as long as it's good)
Note:  Some people like to add several, but you really don't have to.  I find that if there is good marbling, one friend packs plenty of flavor.
3.  Four Cups of Fresh Air
Note: It's really important that you get fresh air.  Check the expiration date, if you're not sure.
4.   One Roof, preferably over your head
5.  A Handful of Songs
Note:  There are all kinds of songs out there.  Make sure you choose a few that you like, ones that won't come back to haunt you in the middle of the night.

Mix and warm over the stove, until stew begins to bubble.  Turn to Low and let simmer.  Feel free to add spices liberally (or conservatively), according to your preferences. Enjoy!

Death Be Not Proud

A school is a microcosm of the larger world.  In many ways, it's also like a snow globe or a model-train town set up in a department-store window.  And everyone, it seems, likes to press their noses against the window to see what's happening inside. 

I'm sure many people woke today quietly wondering what was happening inside the walls of East High School.   And, for once, I don't think a single one of us gave a moment's thought to all those noses pressed up against our windows.  No, we were very much focused on taking care of ourselves and each other.

That's how it is when a school wakes up to heartbreaking news.

While I would gladly swap today's hard news for a dozen days of mayhem and misbehavior, I must say that the people who make up East High made me mighty proud today.  And I am so thankful for all of those Spartan parents who had enough faith in our school to send their kids to us, knowing it would be a difficult day.

Whether or not you knew Tony Kirkpatrick directly--and I did not--it was impossible not to feel the reverberations of a young life--vibrant, complicated and involved--suddenly absent the next day.  The halls were quieter today, but everywhere there was a low thrum of grief and recollection and tender care.

Elementary-school teachers probably consider hugs to be a part of their regular school day.  We high-school folks, though, are a less touchy bunch, worried that a hug will result in a funny look or a terse email, so we tend to avoid them.

Not today, though. At times, I felt cosmically compelled to take hold of my student's shoulders and pull her into my embrace.

We are, perhaps, all of us, mama bears at times.

In addition to the students, plenty of East High adults cried today, men and women alike.  I know that it can be a little scary to see a teacher cry.  I can count on a single hand the times I've seen my own parents shed tears, and I remember each of those times with savant-like clarity.  But I really do believe that, in the raw aftermath of a young life lost, sharing our grief, which sometimes takes the form of tears, is an incredibly bonding experience.

In the snow globe that is East High, today--with our windows veiled in mourning--curriculum and tests and deadlines and expectations took a back seat so that we could ponder the life that was Tony Kirkpatrick's.  And, in the process, we each felt like the Grinch, our hearts having grown three sizes this day. 

Role Call

I have been in exactly two theatrical performances in my life--one when I was 11 (and in which I was demoted to a smaller part by my wise, wise teacher) and another when I was in my early 30s.  Apparently, I needed those 20 years in between performances to marinate as an actress.

Last Saturday, I revived two roles that had been underutilized of late--the roles of "sister" and "daughter."  And, while a person might expect a blip in quality, given my lack of practice, it was a delight for me to play myself again.  In fact, it was downright liberating to put away "mom" and "teacher," "neighbor" and "friend" and focus solely upon my earliest, deepest roles in this life.

If we are lucky--and I am lucky in this way--there are people in our lives with whom we have a "just add water" ease, even if months or years or many miles have separated us.  And, in those instances when we manage to bridge all that time and space, it is as though we'd been holding our breath all along.  And finally--finally!--we can let it go.

That's how I felt on Saturday, in the car with my mom and sister, looking out the window and marveling at how long Fall had hung on this year.  That's how I felt Saturday in the coffee shop below my brother's apartment, sharing a lemon muffin with the same people I share a genetic code with.  That's how I felt Saturday, lingering in front of a painting, listening to my siblings and mom debating whether or not it had been painted onto wood, and finally deciding that the artist had actually figured out how to make wood with nothing more than a brush and some colors.

Twenty years ago, while gathering up the nerve to begin a scene from "A Midsummer Night's Dream," I remember wondering--just moments before my character spoke--if the words I'd practiced over and over again would find their way out of me, preferably in the right order.  And marveling that--somehow--they tumbled out as if on their own.  It was all so strange and magical and natural, this bending of time and this coming together of dusty, old phrases.

That's how I felt on Saturday, abuzz from this ancient thrumming that had been there all along, patiently waiting to be called into action again.  Amazed and grateful that it felt so natural.  Mighty glad to be there for it.

Navigating the In Between

I woke today relatively healthy, in a home that has heat and a dependable roof, with a ridiculously devoted dog and a surprisingly dedicated husband at my side.  So why the feeling of longing? 

I blame it on the in between, that odd time when absence and presence duke it out in the larger world.   Maybe that explains all the odd things I've seen on my early-morning walks of late. . .

. . . a possum triggering my neighbor’s safety lights, and then standing frozen in fear of its own unknown powers.

. . . the  last crickets of summer humming one more line of their gregorian chant, the tune quieter and sadder than their October number.

. . .the sun and moon battling over the early morning sky, while Orion fades silently into the background.

. . .the first fingers of a season yet to come, holding hands with the last warm wisps of summer.

. . . my own thoughts, fretting over elderly parents and children, all in the same chilled breath.

. . . four days, three owls.  One shooting baskets, another standing watch over our patio, and a third bellowing its mighty song to me just outside of Northeast High School last night. 

I know now that I am, indeed, among the fence walkers, those who are sandwiched between aging parents and muscle-flexing children, financial freedom and pre-planned funerals.  It is an odd place, to be sure, and not for the faint of heart.  

But this is where I am these days, in the in-between.  And I do my best to make my peace with all the conflicting messages, missing my children and celebrating my new-found freedom in the same, strange breath that I selfishly hope will go on and on for a very long time.

Why I Root for the Salmon

On most days, it is a challenge to get students to seek out the "other."  In an election season, that task feels downright monumental, like a salmon weaving its way up Niagra Falls.

If we taught school the way politicians seek seats these days--with finger-pointing vitriol, basted in barrels full of vinegar--I doubt our students would learn much at all about themselves, more or less anything substantive about the "other" who is on the receiving end of those diatribes.

Oh, I suppose that's not entirely true.  They would learn, for instance, who's got the most bravado, the best marketing strategies, the snarkiest one-liners.

But I'd prefer working with mirrors that reflect rather than refract.

Color me crazy, but I love those moments when students suddenly see themselves--or, better yet, someone else-- as though for the first time.  It is like morning sunlight fractured into a thousand diamonds on a single blade of grass--breathtaking and symphonic.  And, invariably, in the aftermath of such experiences, these students are left looking over their shoulders, wondering if--hoping that--someone else saw what they just saw.

Even though today's journalists lack the reputation and luster of their muckraking, independent ancestors, there are still those who seek to do the job in that spirit--diligently finding and giving voice to the underrepresented.  Certainly, the most magical experiences in my own classroom often seem to involve "the other"--an idea, a person, a perspective, a medium previously unexplored.

The key is to expect  the students to move outside of their comfort zones, and to give them both the permission and the tools they'll need to muddle through these new things--even if failure or discomfort may follow.  My role in that process is to provide the occasional Google Map and then stay out of the way.

Despite what the politicians may be shouting on TV these days, the means really does justify the end. It is the process--the journey, the hard work of showing up each day with our eyes and minds and hearts wide open and working through the discomfort of our own inexperience--that gives meaning to our lives and to the lives of others.

Life is messy.  And there are good kinds of "messy" and bad kinds of it.  It would serve us well to focus on the former, even if it makes for lousy sound bites.

Mission Impossible: The Dangers of Working in a School

I know that people often think of East High as a rather bland place, at least from a cultural perspective.  And I suppose that, if a person is limited to strictly visual cues, such a judgment might seem reasonable.  But, hey, I'm a librarian, so you shouldn't be surprised that I'm pulling out the "don't judge a book by its cover" adage here.

After all,  as I consider the nearly 24 years I've spent as a teacher at East, I find myself looking at a surprisingly diverse pool of students who've crossed my path.  And, while I haven't always had a lot in common with those students, like most educators, I've worked darned hard to find a personal connection I could make with each one of them.

Whatever the outsider may think, it is not the subject matter that keeps me teaching.  Nor the curriculum, the standardized testing,  the continual evolutionary tweaks and reinventions of my profession that keep me showing up each day.  Heck, it's not even my peers--whom I love deeply--that keep me at it.

No, it is the students, that rag-tagged bunch of hooligans and geniuses (sometimes one and the same) that pull me out of my warm bed on a cold, dark winter morning. Even--sometimes especially--those with whom I seem to have nothing in common, besides the fact that we are both called "Spartans."

As a teacher, I am expected--mandated, really--to be a Democrat who respects and helps educate Republicans.  A Protestant compassionately connecting with Catholics.  A woman reaching out to young men.  A white person making connections to brown people.  A middle-class person building relationships with students who call the City Mission "home." 

The great balancing act of being a teacher is to somehow find a way to be both authentic to who I am and also remain distant from the parts of myself that might close me off from others.  My classroom should not be a forum for my personal agendas any more than it should be an antiseptic stage of regurgitation for someone else's ideas.

Somewhere between those ranges of experience is what it means to be human--that messy interaction of fact and fiction, love and hate, fear and courage.

It ain't an easy balancing act, folks.  If I were solely focused on the delivery of FDA-approved curriculum and EPA-approved testing measures, it still wouldn't be an easy schtick.  Throw in the desire to figure out how to bring in some humanity, to recognize and respect the myriad secret lives that each of us haul along each morning, and it can be either downright discouraging or incredibly invigorating to do the job each day.  But it's always a bit exhausting.

So maybe you'll understand if I sigh deeply and roll my eyes a bit when I hear the latest vitriol and clucking tongues hissed in my general direction, all in response to the impossible job that faces every educator every single day--building meaningful bridges across a human landscape that is wild and beautiful, varied and complex.

Believe me when I say that no school is as bland--or as scary or as broken or as perfect or as rotten--as the one painted by those who reside outside of it.

They Say It's Your Birthday...Not That You'd Tell Anyone

Some people seek the limelight.  They pull up their overfilled wagons, open their maws and let all the sunshine and energy and attention flow into them until you think they might burst from all the fuss.   These can be perfectly nice people, mind you.

But they are not Mark Holt.

No, Mark is one of those people who, if he happens to be in a photo, usually has his eyes half shut, or is tucked into the last row, content to blend in with the background. That's why it's amazing I found this photo of him, standing proudly by his man-room acquisition, an old mandolin that someone had forgotten about.  Mark saw that thing and realized that it still had some sparkle and life left in it, so he bought it.  Gave it a new life.

Quiet people are like that--patient and observant, forever able to see the potential in half-broken things that we noisier folks simply can't be bothered with.  Thing is, they also have a great capacity to enjoy the sunshine-sucking people who draw their energy from the clangy fuel pumps of crowds and chatter.

If Mark were of the earth, he'd be the Oglala Aquifer, running deep and cool beneath the sandy soils of us shallower types, quietly nourishing us in our wilder pursuits, a seemingly endless source of support and encouragement.

I am no prima donna, nor do my tastes run towards the higher end of things.  Still, I can think of no time in our 25-year marriage when Mark has said "no" to me.  No time when he has thrown up a barrier between me and my dreams or ideas, even if those things mean we will be hosting a party with 50 tired teachers in need of dancing and cold beer.

They say opposites attract and, given the satisfying life that Mark and I have made for ourselves--one in which we still get a daily kick from each other--I'm apt to agree with them, whoever they are.  I am steadier, happier, deeper and more content with Mark Holt in my life.  Yes, I still occasionally pull up my overfilled wagon next to the "sunshine" pump and milk it for all it's worth, but I know now that the fuel that really sustains me is back home, sitting quietly in his man room, admiring his collection of once-orphaned items, made shiny and new in his steady presence.

Happy 50th, Mark.  Mighty glad to have you in my life.

Stormy Weather

It is one a.m. and I have been awakened
   --roused, really, for who can sleep when the sky has been falling since noon?--
roused, then,  by paparazzi lightning and a drumline of rain,
relentlessly keeping beat upon my shelter.

As I shuffle across the hall,
my hand runs lovingly along the north wall
grateful for its vigilance against the storm.

And, where sleep should return, there is only an ache.
--A memory of Cardinals
tucked into the nest just outside our back room.
A not-so-distant storm, its long, wet fingers
forever rushing down the awning,
stopping finally--fatally--in the twiggy home just below it.

I wake the next morning to a yawning earth
burbling the remains of the night's long drink.
 And silence, too.  A nest of broken, quiet bodies
huddled against the odds.

That damned awning came down within days,
forever stained by the long, slow night of death it brought.
A Judas where a Noah was needed.

Fancy Schmancy, Know-it-all Nancy.

For someone who only knew how to make grilled cheese sandwiches and brownies for the first half of her life, I've developed a surprisingly intimate relationship with cooking magazines in the past decade or two.  Granted, simply subscribing to a magazine does not guarantee that a person becomes a master chef--or even a passable one-- but I have certainly learned a thing or two from these publications over the years.

. . . although I've never quite figured out how to say the word "Savuer."

Which is probably why I let that subscription expire recently.

As though it wasn't bad enough that I once had to look up the words "haricot verts" (what us simple folk would call "green beans"),  I don't even know how to properly reference the magazine that used that hoity toity term.  Yeah, I'm a fickle subscriber who actually expects to understand most of the words tucked between the glossy covers.

Truth is, I have always been suspicious of fifty-cent words stapled to penny-candy items.  And, really, who can blame me? I mean, I'm the daughter of a journalist, as well as a journalism teacher. That means I break out into an asthma attack simply glancing at a paragraph that includes more than 25 or 30 words.

All the more reason to pity me, considering that I swim in the professional sea of education, an ocean whose waters are gleefully stocked with polysyllabic poppycock.

Why say "work friends" when you can say "colleagues?"  And who wants to tell people "what I did today" when you can enlighten them with an impromptu lecture about your "pedagogical philosophies?"  Did I ever tell you how much I hate the word "pedagogy?"  The mere sound of it sends proletarian paroxysms shivering through my body. (Yeah, I know.  Those are big words.  Never said I was a purist)

I have the same reaction when Alex Trebek--who has all of the answers typed out in front of him!--has the gaul to say "Gaugin" like he just walked out of a Parisian pastry shop.

I'd originally set out to blog about the joys of savoring things, the pleasure of taking the time to take our time.  But nooooo,  I had to find some clever "in," a lead that would catch and captivate. Thus, the reference to Savuer Magazine.  And now look at me.   I've gone and blathered about fancy words instead, wasting my time on the top-tiered fancy cats and their two-dollar terms.

Alex Trebek would be proud.  But me?  I'm feeling a bit queasy.  Or "indisposed," if you will.

Meandering Through My Memory's Lane

The term "memory lane" must have been coined by someone who was wandering the streets of her childhood neighborhood.  As corny as it sounds rolling off the lips, the phrase takes on heady significance when your Nissan Altima is rolling by the only home you knew as a child, the windows cracked wide to let in all those sweet, long-ago days.

Such was my experience last night as I eased off A Street and slowly wound my way up Twin Ridge Road towards Jill's house. 

How is it that I can walk into the school office each afternoon, wondering what it is that I was supposed to do there, only to have a savant's gift for recollection three hours later, remembering names and faces, the sound of someone's long-ago cackling laughter?

. . . and when Duke-now-David looks up from his plate and calls Jill "Pill?"  It is as though someone has cracked open my skull and blown off the dust of some ancient file cabinet whose sun-starved contents finally come to light.

I am lucky indeed to have these childhood friends among me.  Like a favorite, thread-bare shirt, they are still so familiar, so comfortable against my skin.  Mike, whose long, sun-bleached hair is now close cropped, his words--still warm--slightly bent from all those years out east.  Duke-now-David, a heart hastily taped to his sleeve, unable to stave the flow of sweet memories played out in now-faded photos and notes scrawled in childish loops.  Jill-once-Pill--hostess extraordinaire--who, despite acrid memories of my sweaty, young feet, opens her home with the graciousness that only a strong woman knows.

Joy, too, forever Jill's younger, more fashionable sister.  Joy is there, too, now softened and warmed by a life that has not always been easy.  And, finally, there is Jeannie--Mrs. Johnson--whose quiet laugh and loving kindness have warmed me for so many of my 52 years.  That she, too, so readily shares the stories of our youth lived out on warm August nights on Sumner Street?  Her stories assure me that I have not made up the whole thing.  That these people, indeed, are real and my childhood was, indeed, that sparkly and that joyful.

Most friendships are tagged by the locations in which they were formed--we have our "school friends," our "college friends," our "work friends."  Many of these friendships ebb and flow, anchored by a timeline determined by that location.  My "childhood friends," though, should simply be called "my friends," for theirs is a love forged young yet strong, and set for life.  They have endured too much to succumb to the whims of time and place.

Shopping the Apocalypse

We narrowly averted a personal-products crisis in the Holt household earlier this week, when I mistook paper towels for toilet paper.  I have no idea what compelled Mark to buy an 8-pack of paper towels in the first place.  That he stored them where the toilet paper usually goes?  Well, now you're just talking crazy!

I don't believe I have bought 8 rolls of paper towels in my entire life of buying things.  I don't use them.  In fact, I'm always caught a bit off guard when I'm in a friend's kitchen and spy one of those wooden paper-towel holders on the counter  It's as though I've spotted some exotic butterfly I'd only seen in books. My God!   I think to myself, These people use paper towels!

So, given their bulk and odd location, a girl can be forgiven for assuming they were something else, right? 

I sent Mark back to the store yesterday to rectify his earlier mistake.  He came back with a 12-pack of Scott Single-Ply industrial toilet paper.  (I can practically hear some of your lips sneering in derision, you persnickety, two-ply snobs, you). Twelve double rolls of toilet paper for a two-person household.  The audacity!  As though Mark is just tempting the future to quit coming.

I'm nuts about Mark, but his apocalyptic-buying tendencies befuddle me.  It's as though he's finally hitched up the horses and is leaving the soddie for his quarterly trip into town for supplies.  I wave from the porch, hoping neither blizzard nor rattler will take him down before he makes it back home again with his 12-packs of soap, his industrial-sized detergent, his 8 rolls of paper towels.

He says seeing such bulk brings him some measure of comfort. I guess I can sort of see what he's saying. It's the same tenuous argument I occasionally make in defense of purchasing insurance.  It's just good to know we have it, in case we ever need it.  

For now, the Holt household is back in order, all things in their proper place.  And we face our future with the confidence that can only come from an abundance of single-ply prosperity, knowing we have what it takes to survive, until pa once again loads up the cart and heads into town.

Grateful for Owl Play

Local Screech Owls. Photo by Tim Brox

For the past few mornings, I have been regaled by the rhythmic mutterings of a great horned owl that has taken up residence in my neighbor's pine.  Now, I know that his song has not been limited to recent mornings any more than it has been directed towards me specifically, but I still feel fine about taking these serenades as signs for me.

And what exactly do these monotoned musical signs signal? Certainly, the answer is more complicated than the three-note calls I've been enjoying.  On the one hand, these pre-dawn songs act like a fishing lure,--an avian Daredevle Spinnie topped by a three-pronged trouble hook--snagging my mind and not letting go. Viewed through this lens, it seems obvious to me that the owl is pulling me outdoors, calling me to an afternoon spent in tall-grass prairie or tick-infested cottonwood stands.

On the other hand, those three notes leave me filled with longing, knowing my now-absent children are navigating the sometimes rough waters of life "out there"  while I lay atop cool sheets and listen. This interpretation is more difficult for me, since it is much harder to holler instructions from the sidelines than to just hop in the game and grab the ball myself.

But I do not want to live my children's lives for them.  I know this.  And so,  I repeat that thought when I need to, during those times when I hear the distress or isolation in their voices.

Fortunately, sometimes, the avian signs of an early-morning owl song intersect and I find both refreshment and resolution.  Take this afternoon, for instance, when Allison and I have a date with Pioneers Park, where, I suspect, we will alternate between calm silence and quiet anchoring.  It is a salve I am excited to apply.

Tonight, if I remember to pray before I fall asleep, I will give a nod to the neighborhood owls, whose songs both comfort and awaken me.

The Unexpected Advantage of Absence

My dad, a hopeless punster, once told me a drawn-out, miserable joke that ended with the punchline: An abscess makes the fart go "honda."  Like the sticky aftermath of a traumatic experience, I doubt I will ever be able to shake that punchline from my memory.  And, really, that's okay with me.

What I have been reminded of these past few weeks, though, is the original adage from which this bastardization emerged--Absence makes the heart grow fonder.  I realize that, in these cynical, post-modern, meh-riddled days we live in, such simple, old-timey adages can be viewed through a rather dismissive lens.  The fact that they endure at all, though, tells me that they are rooted in some sort of truth that can outlast even these brutal times we live in.

That truth has made itself known to me over and over again, ever since Eric and Allison departed the homey shores of their motherland. 

How else do I explain the solicitous attention both kids have given to Mark and me these past few weeks, framed in what seems to be something like accumulated gratefulness?  Remove them from the home and, upon their return, magical things emerge--dishes done without request or complaint, meals prepared with what almost seems like joy or satisfaction, questions asked about our days, our struggles, our lives.  And then, there's a strange hesitance, too, an unwillingness to let us buy them an outfit or pick up a few groceries for them.

Eric and Allison are not perfect, of course.  Far from it, thank goodness.  But they do seem to have done a pretty fair job of growing into post-Copernican humans who understand that it really isn't all about them.

Selfish as we are, Mark and I never chose a parenting style that was, ultimately, all about us--unless you consider our determination to hand off every rotten chore we ourselves had once been strapped with.  So we are left scratching our noggins of late, wondering how to explain this nice development in the family dynamic.

It almost has the feel of a Penn and Teller trick, something wonderful that lacks any apparent explanation.

This generosity of spirit, it turns out, has been the unexpected silver lining of emptying our nest, the quiet pleasure of watching our fledglings behave in loving, appreciative, grown-up ways that give us confidence in the future.

I won't hold my breath that this comfortable, surprising stasis will continue from here on, but I know now that this good stuff burbles beneath the skin of my children.  And, like a rotten yet well-loved punchline, it will make its appearance again and again in this life I live.

The Cicadian Rhythms of Late Summer

I, for one, am not looking forward to the upcoming Apocalypse that the guy in front of Marcus Theatres keeps announcing.  For one, I just bought a new pair of sandals and I'd really like to break them in before the Big Day. Who wants to meet her maker with bandaids on her heels? Not me, buster.

I'm curious if this doomsayer thinks he's doing us a favor, all wrapped up in his doom-and-gloom duds.  How could anyone possibly enjoy the remaining days knowing that the End Times are just around the corner?

I suppose some people welcome the pronouncement, using it as a wake-up call to start checking off their bucket lists.  But I don't keep a bucket list and, frankly, I don't foresee jotting one down in the near future.

That's why I'm so glad that the cicadas have finally returned!  Their absence, which most of us had noticed--with some alarm--seemed far more damning than any scriptural speeding ticket we could have received.  What did it mean, we asked ourselves in the privacy of our own minds, that our late-summer evenings were punctuated by the absence of droning?

Turns out that this year's crop of cicadas is like my newspaper carrier, not in any particular hurry to deliver the goods.  And, as the old adage goes, better late than never.  Unless it's the newspaper. . . .

Ah, but I digress.  Back to the cicadas and why I'm so dadgum happy that they've returned.

Even if we don't say it aloud, we Midwesterners love our seasonal rhythms.  And it's one of the most endearing things that our environment offers us.  Like sailors circumnavigating the globe using stars not sextants, we Midwesterners keep track of the passage of time with the height of a corn stalk, the first crocus, the meandering line of geese.  The drone of the cicadas.

Take these away or delay their arrival, and we start to get a little nervous.  Not that a Californian would ever recognize the sign of nerves in a Midwesterner. . . .

So it was with private revelry and an extra long sigh of relief that I celebrated this week's returning evensong of Periodic Cicadamorpha (I looked it up).

Turns out, the sky really isn't falling, Chicken Little.  Like their easy-going Midwestern neighbors, the cicadas were just taking their time this year.

Fly Away, Little Ones!

Dear Eric and Allison,

I imagine you in bed this morning, laying atop your sheets with the weight of a new world upon you, unwilling to move because of all that you perceive that is already lost--a rhythm, a steadiness, a place.  I imagine this and want to rouse you, to reassure you that these things run through you, always.

We have tried to raise you to be steady, competent, kind.  Now, lean into these things and trust them.  Let them help you build this new road, and don't be afraid to chink the gaps with new people, new experiences, new knowledge.  I promise that they will not replace what is always there--your family and friends, your sense of "home."  Rather, they will expand you and you will be left gasping, unable to believe that there was room for so much more.

Go and live your lives with courage and confidence, with a willingness to leap, for your wings have not been clipped.  Indeed, they are stronger than ever.

Feelin' Mighty Fine (Mighty Fine Blues) by the Eels

Slogan, Don't be Well. Be Better!

I love Walgreens.  I love most everything about that store--the width of its aisles, the fine selection of candies, the array of shampoos and end-cap bargains.  Compared to CVS--that Burger King to my McDonalds--Walgreens is a shining star.

. . . except for the seemingly endless checkout screens and its new slogan,  "Be well." 

Be well?  Are you kidding me? 

Every time I'm standing in line at Walgreens now, I find myself uttering a prayer for the clerk and the person ahead of me.  

Please, God, be with the person ahead of me in line, that their basket may not contain Tucks Medicated Pads or a prescription for a festering wound that just won't heal.  And give the clerk the courage to skip "Be Well" if such things are sitting in the basket.

Really, for a place that sells prescription drugs and Cheez Whiz, "Be Well" seems like the dumbest slogan ever.  Except maybe AT&T's "Reach out and touch someone," which seems hard to do over telephone wires, not to mention a little creepy. 

And what Walgreen's customer doesn't cringe when grabbing their receipt, just waiting for the teenaged clerk to murmur "yeah,  uh, be...well...uh"?  It's just awkward, even if the sentiment actually fits.  Better for Walgreens to have stocked their clerks' minds with adjustable slogans, if you ask me.

Buying cold medicine?  Get well.
Buying cigarettes?   You'll never be well.
Buying condoms?  She can do better.

Despite the great heaps of money that went into developing them, most companies' slogans roll off the tongue and out of the head like water on an oil slick.  True, a few have great sticking power.  But Walgreens has reminded me that a stupid slogan that employees are required to utter, regardless of what I'm buying, is, well, not only often inappropriate (Really?  I'm buying AZT and you're telling me to be well?!)  but also annoyingly memorable. 

And that is the worst slogan of all.

Pike's Peak

Four thousand three hundred and twenty two.  That's how many steps it took me to walk around Holmes Lake this morning.  And, while the walk took me less than an hour, I kept wondering to myself how it is possible for a person to complete the trek in anything under eight days' time. Had I brought my little magnifying scope with me, I doubt very much that I would have made it to the bottom of the dam by now.  

Although Finn and I have a semi regular habit of heading to Holmes Lake on Sunday mornings, it was a character in a novel who nudged us out the door this morning.  Boy, am I glad Ambrose Pike showed up on page 196 of Elizabeth Gilbert's "The Signature of All Things."  I was starting to wonder why I was sticking with this book.  Although I appreciate the botanical and biological aspects of the story, I've been unimpressed with the self-absorbed, emotionally girdled main characters.  Pike, though, is another breed altogether, an open-faced sandwich of a man who delights in the curiosities of the natural world.

It was because of Pike's unabashed joy that Finn and I headed out the door before most of my neighbors had awakened this morning.  By the time we pulled into the parking lot, I found Pike's joy to be infectious.

Wide-eyed, Finn and I stumbled out of the car, straining to get our feet off the pavement.
Immediately, we were rewarded; first, with the quiet sight of a nesting blue-winged teal, waking slowly atop its nest along the bank.  Its neighbors, the swallows, though, already were buzzing the air for a morning bite to eat, chattering about strange dreams from the night before.

Really, it's a miracle Finn and I clocked even a hundred steps on our outing!

By the time we topped the dam, we were overwhelmed by bulbous, orange-tinged clouds reflecting off the glassy, still lake.  And, for just an instance, as I looked towards some houses abutting the dam, I mistook a handful of pink surprise lilies for two resting flamingos.

And so it went from there.  I can provide a count for those who prefer numbers:  two herons, a half a hundred swallows, eleven Canada geese, two dozen ducks, six solitary fishermen, one kayaker, two bicyclists, one runner.  But the count falls short of capturing the pleasure of time spent quietly out of doors.

This was not the first Sunday morning on the lake in which I wondered why a person would bother to go to church when there is all of God's wildness just outside the door.

I can still feel that walk in my feet, not because it was rigorous, but because it was magical.  I like to think that a stranger passing me on the trail would see it on me, like flecks of dew refracting light.  I like to think that Ambrose Pike would have enjoyed tagging along with us.

Viscous Cycles

"Time keeps on slippin' slippin' slippin'
into the future."

You know it's a bad sign when a Steve Miller song seems profound to you.  Yet, life feels awfully viscous these days, and I'm trying like crazy to grab onto it.

A migraine and a list of realizations woke me around 3 this morning.  I could do little to appease either, so I finally gave up and got up.  And now I'm pondering that list.  The items that weigh most heavily on me include my children's impending departures, my friends' continuing struggles, my job's upcoming requirements.

 Try as I might, I've never been a particularly adept juggler.  And I can be downright pathetic when it comes to weight distribution, misguidedly putting too much emphasis on the lesser things.  A person could make a pretty decent argument, I suppose, that these are the sloppy realities of being human.  Still, it can be hard to make my peace with these discrepancies.

So, instead of fully committing to any one item on my list, I end up skirting them all.  Like a dragonfly alighting on the water for the briefest of moments, only to be drawn away by something fluttering off in the distance. Call it a form of pain management, this segmentation of things.

I can hardly imagine August 16th, when son Eric wakes up in Sweden for the first time.  And because I can hardly imagine it, I turn my attention elsewhere.  To friends whose days are filled with doctors' offices and question marks.  But those lives get heavy awfully fast and, well, my shoulders are shot.  So I let my eyes wander over to Allison, whose room is quickly filling with dorm-sized bedsheets and storage bins.  This sight, too, hurts my eyes and heart, though, so I let something else distract me . . . .

This is the cycle I find myself in, then, one of motion and deception and pain management. . . and joy and silliness, too, which is part of the problem.

Who am I, after all, to get a case of the giggles in the midst of all these real-world challenges?   But who am I to deny the healing power of a good belly laugh?

When sun meets earth and body finds bed each night, it is this complicated, lovely, aching mess called "life" that I lay down beside, my mind awhirl with a thousand conflicting thoughts and experiences.  And, most nights, I fall asleep easily, trusting that the good of others, coupled with my own imperfect intentions, is enough to keep it all together.

Finding the Favorite Moments

People keep asking me what my favorite part of the Britain trip was.  I should probably come up with something--true or not--that can be said in two sentences, since no one really wants to sit through the 24-page pamphlet of highlights that I'm keeping in my head.

I know what I should say.  I should say that the historic buildings were the best.   Yes, it was very cool seeing Shakespeare's grave, walking along Hadrian's Wall, and taking in Henry VIII's immense trail of ruin.

A part of me wants to say that the out-of-doors was my favorite thing.   Like the tucked-away villages of the Cotswolds, framed by fields of lavender.  Or the towering stands of trees punctuating the tiny, winding roads we drove upon.  Or the mysterious, expansive moors that welcomed us to Scotland.

And then there were the awesome people we met.  Funny, open, welcoming and generous, they certainly provided several highlights of my vacation.

But I'm not sure any of those was my favorite thing. 

Force my hand, though, and I know what I'd say.  My favorite thing about the trip is my favorite thing about life--the connections that were made--connections between me and history, me and the land, me and the people. 

Honestly, that's what gets me out of bed each day--the love of the synapse, that awesome feeling that comes when something or someone crosses my path and I happen to be paying attention.  And the more that I pay attention, it seems the more that life astounds me.  You'd think all that "rinse and repeat" would dull my senses, but it doesn't.  It only jazzes me more.

Isn't that amazing? 

Where we'd expect to find an inverse relationship--the rarer the recognition, the deeper the appreciation--we find instead a straightforward relationship between the two--the more I see, the more I love.  And, as if that isn't enough, it turns out that the more toned my observational muscles get, the more thrills I get from smaller and simpler things.

This is really good  news for me, because it takes me a long, long time to raise enough money to jump across the big pond.  And, while I hope to always make time to travel in my life, I also hope--more fervently--that I make time to take notice where it is that I am right now.  And to relish what it is that crosses within my sites each day.

Nailing It

I woke in a start around 4:30 this morning, my foggy eyes focused intently upon my fingertips.  Could it be true, or had I simply had some reality-bending kind of dream?

Indeed, each nail was blanketed in a rich swath of Indigo Blue.

I can recall exactly five times in my life when my fingernails have donned enamel paints.  Today, it turns out, is one of those times.  Really, though, what could I do but wander towards the next-door neighbor's home last evening, five wrinkled dollars jammed in my fist?  It was, after all, a legacy moment, the passing of a small yet significant torch, and I needed to support the event.

Six or seven summers ago, Allison and her friend Bailey started painting nails for the neighbor ladies (guys, too, on one occasion--an East High faculty function, in which a good cause was on the line and cheap beverages were available to provide courage).  The business, which flourished despite its sporadic operating hours, was evidence of at least two things:  These girls knew how to do nails and how to do them inexpensively; and our neighborhood was a happy place.

Still is.

Off and on, then--over the next two or three summers--a salon would appear in our tree-cooled front yard, and, like Kevin Costner in Iowa, the girls learned that, if they built it, people would come.

I could care not two whits about manis and pedis, but I know a glorious and symbolic thing when I see it.  Like some perkily stylish GDP indicator, this nail stand provided hard proof of the wellness of our local environment.  I'm happy to say that the indicators have been quite positive ever since.  And probably long before that stand first appeared, as well.

Which is why it was so heartening to see a new generation of nail artists emerge last evening.

What if it turned out that the answer to all the crud in the world--the cancers, the bombings, the immigrant children turned away--rested in a $3 bottle of OPI nail polish?  What if we could somehow find solace and strength and hope in the colorful brushstrokes of bright paint enthusiastically applied to our time-worn hands?  Who would turn away from such an offer?

...certainly not I, despite my general aversion to dolled-up fingernails.  Indeed, I think I would be first in line if such a simple act held even the tiniest prospect of tipping us back into the realm of a kinder, gentler, brighter way of living.  And I rather like the idea that a couple of pre-teen neighbor girls will be leading the charge.

Stay Calm and Be Happy

Travel is a sandwich made up of Remembering and Forgetting, held together with a thick swipe of Stuff I Did Not Know tucked in between.  It takes time and care to make such a sandwich, but it is always time well spent.

Typically, I start with  "Remembering," which is a hearty, whole-grain slice of research I whip up long before I leave home.  This slice serves two important purposes.  First, it lights my fire, jazzing me up for the trip ahead.  Second, it provides context for what it is that I'm about to experience, which will (fingers crossed) help encourage a few synapses to fire while I'm away.

The remains of the sandwich can be prepared on the road, although some people can't help themselves and give in to the urges of "Forgetting" long before they pull out of the drive.  These urges typically lead to the act of buying underwear or toothpaste in another state or country, which really isn't the worst thing on earth, if you think about it.

For me, though, that slice of "Forgetting" doesn't manifest itself in what I leave out of my luggage.  Rather, for me, forgetting is the conscious act of ignoring what is in my rear-view mirror--all those people and pets that I love, the joy of reading the paper on the back patio, the finally-decent mattress we just purchased--so that I can enjoy what is yet to come.  It is, for me, the most challenging part of the sandwich, the part I sometimes struggle to swallow.

As for all that Stuff I Did Not Know?  That part of the sandwich is always prepared on the road and on the fly,  and it is where a person will find the real meat of a vacation.

Below is some of that Stuff I Did Not Know that made my trip to England and Scotland a terrific one.

1.  The People in Britain are Really Nice
It's not that I thought they wouldn't be friendly, but, honestly, I had no idea that the British people would be as memorable as their history and their architecture.  Take Leo and Jane from Suffolk.  They let us invade their table at an outdoor pub even though it was the 4th of July and everyone back home was blowing up their old Barbie Dolls in honor of our independence from Britain.

Then, there was our London cabbie, a fascinating fellow who told us never to get another cab in London because we could walk around that city just fine on our own. 

There were other fine folks, too--like Briney and Paul, two pub patrons who let us sit with them and then spent most of the evening talking with us, swapping sips of drinks and generally acting like we were fun to hang with.

And I thoroughly enjoyed meeting Emily, a hiker I met along Hadrian's Wall out in the beautiful nowhere.  She was walking the width of England and asked if she could take my photo.  Apparently, she's doing paintings of people she meets.  Either that, or I met a major creeper. . .

. . . And then, on our last day--on the airplane of all places!--there was Linda, our flight attendant from heaven.  After moving Mark and me to more comfortable seating, she caught wind of our 25th anniversary, which was the day before our flight.  Soon, glasses of champagne, a package of United napkins, an entire bottle of champagne and little United "flight" wing pins were raining upon us.  I felt like I'd won the lottery.

2.  Bacon is not bacon is not bacon
Apparently, in the UK, "bacon" means "long slices of Canadian Bacon," or "ham," depending on your perspective.  It was one of the few disappointments of the trip. 

3.  Not All Hand Dryers are Made the Same
First, I learned that almost no bathrooms in Britain have paper towels.  Rather, they have those really loud air dryers--like leaf blowers mounted on a wall.  Most of them run for about 2 seconds, long enough to spatter the water on your pants.  Ah, but then, there is the Dyson Hand Dryer, the Mercedes of dryers...sleek, fast and effective.   I get goosebumps just remembering them.

Speaking of Mercedes. . . .

4.  They'll Give a Mercedes to Anyone
We picked up our rental car in Bath.  While I never mustered up enough courage to drive in Britain,  I did at least ride in style. Why?  Because the Alamo clerk said it was a slow day that day so she gave us a Mercedes.  When I have a slow day, I assign more homework or nap during my plan period.

5.  There is No Separation of Church and State in Britain
Every church we visited (and we visited a lot) included memorials honoring Britain's armed forces.  It was rather stunning to see the patriotism and appreciation, something I've not really noticed in American churches.  And it was very moving.  I was haunted by one, in particular, in Edinburgh's St. Giles Cathedral, erected for a son who died in war, given by his "proud and afflicted father.  My son was gentle, kind and died a hero."  We in this country would do well to do better at this.

6.  Haggis and Whiskey Will Not Kill Me
I knew I'd face both on this trip--we were going with our "Just Say Yes" friends, Barry and Jeanne, after all.  I did not know if I would survive either.  And yet, I did.  Barely.

7.  Greenland is Stunning
I don't know why I looked out the airplane window when I did, but I do know that I could barely turn my head away after that.  There before me was a stunning, mountainous landscape dotted with glacial slides and turquoise lakes.  It was amazing.


8.  Beer is Not Bound by the Clock
I suppose I knew this one was true on paper, but hadn't previously lived it out like I did during this vacation.  Brits, it turns out, like their pubs and their beer and are not averse to having a pint at lunch on a weekday.  Or after lunch.  Or after dinner.

Alas, through all of those lessons, I did my best to learn them well.  But I'm still only human at the end of the day.

Vacating the Premises

Five summers ago, I was knee deep in planning an October trip to Italy that fall.  My planning--which I'd started at least a year before departure--was surprisingly elaborate for a person who imagines herself to be fairly flexible.  But I happily swam in all those details. From studying train tables to chasing down great rentals-by-owner,  I enjoyed the planning almost as much as I enjoyed the trip itself (okay, that's a lie, but it was lots of fun!).  So, I'm curious why it is that I have approached my upcoming UK trip--a trip whose kickoff is in a handful of days--with such a casual attitude.

I have no idea what changed between then and now.  Is it me?  Have I grown--gasp!--blase'?  Or maybe it is the lack of a language barrier on my upcoming trip (although I've been told that English in Edinburgh is no more understandable than Italian in Vernazza).  Another explanation is that I'm in "avoidance" mode, knowing that, if I go on this trip, I inevitably will return to a house teetering on change, since the two young adults living in this house are anxious to write the next, Woods Avenue-less chapters of their lives just weeks after I return.  My inclination is to side with the common-language explanation, because I never, ever want to be blase' about life, anymore than I want to get in the way of my children's futures.

Fortunately, yesterday--rainy, unscheduled, slow-as-taffy yesterday--was the perfect day to gleefully lose myself in the unglamorous details of my upcoming vacation.  My heart rate goes up when I eye the growing pile of vacation paraphernalia that has gathered across the room from me.  Is it weird that the sight of miniature bottles of shampoo, hand sanitizer and lotion gets me kind of jazzed?  Maybe I should have been a model-train enthusiast. . . .

And, really, why wouldn't I be a different person than I was five years ago?  More confident about international travel, less concerned about bringing only carry-ons, even a bit defiant about the TSA and its 3-ounce pat-down dance,  I'm no longer a slave to the unknown, certain that I can make it up as I go.  Or at least, pretend enough to get by.

Ultimately, then, I approach this trip with more confidence--and a rapidly dwindling savings account--knowing the UK holds myriad adventures, ale-tinged giggles, awe-inspired silences and a shockingly blank slate of promises that there is no such thing as wasted moments when you are exploring the larger world.

Bring it on!

Bon Voyage, Life as We Know It!

June 18, 2014.  Let the lies begin.

Tomorrow morning, as I head with old friends to the Ozarks, Allison will head to Costa Rica, for an 11-day adventure that includes kayaking and sea turtles, humidity and zip lines. The only thing our vacations will have in common is the humidity.

While it's true that I have no idea what's in store for me down in the Missouri hollers (Andy Williams is dead, after all), I have a thousand more questions about Allison's time away from home.  Will she get sick?  Find food she can eat?  Will others annoy her?  Will she hurt herself or be lonely?

Not that I'm voicing these questions to her.

And that's where the lying comes in.

I would sooner eat my hand than tell Allison of all the challenges that I suspect await her.  And, long after she's nudged the last sea turtle to water,  those challenges will just keep on coming for pretty much the rest of her life, picking up intensity in August when she moves to campus.

Does it make me a bad parent that I keep these things to myself?  Are Mark and I cruel for wanting her to stretch her wings and struggle a bit?  For not warning her ahead of time that things might get hairy?

Depending on the day, Mark and I can seem downright giddy as we anticipate this next chapter of Allison's life.  Like a young sea turtle angling its way to the waters, Allison is in charge of this new path she will make for herself and our job is to stand on the sidelines, occasionally shouting our encouragement as she manages all the challenges.  And we couldn't be happier for her to face them.

Along the way, I suspect Mark and I will lie--or at least withhold evidence--at an astounding rate, telling her she'll be fine, saying it's no big deal to travel between campuses, wishing her well as she figures out Calculus 106.  These are her mysteries and I'm not sure we'd do much good if we walked in front of her as she navigated them.

Enough, then, with providing Allison shelter.  Enough with walking beside her or helping her forge the path.  It's time for bald-faced lies, sideline cheers and a house suddenly void of a young woman's messes.

It's time for the next chapter.  For all of us.

Father Time

My dad,  Jim Raglin (second from right),  died in October 1993--about a year after Eric was born.  As far as timing goes,  it wasn't my dad's best move, although I believe he'd just run out of fight and did what he needed to do.

Who knows why I just Googled him--an act that would be utterly foreign to this savvy, pre-Internet journalist who happened to be my dad.   Maybe I was just looking for some proof that this funny, thoughtful, bridge-building man who'd greatly influenced me still mattered, despite having died nearly 21 years ago.

What I found, though, caught me off guard.  Here's an excerpt that popped up from a website when I did the search:

I could find little else about this man--a Vietnam vet--that would offer some explanation of his gratitude for my father.

I rather like the idea of my dad possessing some dust-laden secrets, even now, when his bones have become food for the plants--at least those plants that are still allowed to grow at the local Catholic cemetery (mea culpa--I could not help myself).  Yes, I'd really, really like to know who this guy is and how it was that my dad's "courage and conviction saved my life in the fall of 1977."  But, mostly, I'm glad to know that my dad--and his published words, I suspect--made a positive difference in this man's life.

In honor of Father's Day, I'd like to thank my dad for some of the best things he left behind for his family, even now, when so much time has passed since his death:

--Humor  is a gift as well as a bridge.  And it is also a great source of release when you just can't imagine how it is that you will face tomorrow.

-- Labels are silly.  Screw popular opinion and make friends with folks who don't share your skin color, your religion, your political party, your income.

--Do a few good things in secret, even though you know how important storytelling can be.

--Pay attention and give life a whirl, because there are a million stories out there that are worth hearing and telling and experiencing.

I may be a warts-and-all kind of gal, but I know that I am a better person, having lived for 31 years  under the influence of my fine and funny father, Jim Raglin.

Dad, here's hoping you've found all the great fishing holes and funny folks, wherever you may be right now.