Donuts in the Library: A Sugar-Glazed Tale of Audacious Acts of Courage

They ate donuts in the library the other day.  And no one got kicked out.

It was one of the East High Library's finer moments, if you ask me, watching those kids--triumphant and sugar-glazed--hold their sweet rewards in one hand while they logged onto the computers with the other.

Why the blatant disregard of the age-old "No Food in the Library" rule?

The answer hunkered on the back side of the long row of computers, his head occasionally bobbing above the screen.  And he was holding two donuts.

People love to hate teachers, it seems.  We are too dumb, too standardized, not standardized enough.  We complain about our pay, whine about our dwindling summer vacations, moan about the unbearable workload we take home at night.

Wah, wah, wah. . . .

Ah, but what most critics don't know is that there are magical people among us.  Teachers like my friend Matt--a burly, bearded guy with a big, brassy belt buckle and scuffed-up rancher hands--who, despite his occasional cynical outbursts squeezed between pursed lips, can create a classroom safe enough so that a terribly fragile, utterly overwhelmed kid will take a deep breath and give a speech to his classmates.

When Matt stood at the library desk the other day and told us that this kid had actually stood up and given a speech, not a one of us could keep down the goosebumps or slow the flow of our now tear-filled eyes.  We high-fived Matt, and could not nod fast enough when he asked if it'd be okay for him to bring donuts to the library the next day.

He'd made a deal, after all, and Matt is an honorable man.

As for me?  I did nothing but nod my silly head "yes,"over and over again, knowing I'd just witnessed what is best about education--one of those magical moments when diligence and kindness and honor overcome all the impossible obstacles of working with imperfect human beings, and a kid stood up to say "I can do this" while his teacher and classmates cheered him on.

Mark, My Words

I'm married.

It dawned on me this morning that, if my digital presence were all you knew of me, you wouldn't necessarily know this fact.

So, allow me to introduce you to Mark Dale Holt, a man of quiet courage (a quarter century of living with me--it boggles the imagination!), kindness and quality.  Mark is not a man who seeks the limelight, which means that he does not have a Facebook page.  But, if he did, I would "like" all kinds of things about his status:

--Getting the purely superficial out of the way, I would "Like" his chiseled good looks, despite his belief that he is trending toward AARP-tinged influences.

-- I also would "Like" his steadiness of character, a quality that is not to be taken lightly, and one that I depend upon each morning, spending not a whit of time wondering who will show up today.

--If Mark had a Facebook page, I would "Like" our afternoon walks.  Sure, I like Finn the dog, but, really, these afternoon walks have more to do with Mark and me catching up and being silly than they do with encouraging Finn to poop on someone else's lawn.

--Despite what he may think, I would even "Like" Mark's odd and growing collection of antique office paraphernalia that threatens to overtake the Man Room.  Last week, he gave a tour of his collection to the men in our Movie Night crowd.  Lorvey, one of those men, commented afterwards:  "You know, Mark is a quiet man.  But he's got great stuff to share with the world."  I agree.

--Mark would also get an enthusiastic "Like" from me in the "parenting" department.  Every day, he is present, he is steady, he is gentle and loving, he is funny.  Over and over, Mark is a quiet example of how a man can be an excellent husband and father.  I trust that this kind of modeling will greatly influence our children's future decisions.

Mark periodically follows my Digital Road Trips, although, when I mentioned to him that this morning's edition would feature him, I wondered if he would steer clear of this one.  Too bad if he does, because he deserves this tiny, digital spotlight, the one that warms in his presence.  The one he never craves but truly deserves.

An American Easter, Reframed

I always struggle a bit with the Easter story.  But, for some reason, on this early Easter morning's walk, I found a way to make more sense of it.  Really, I told myself, it's the ultimate American story, a tale of second chances and obstacles overcome.

After making my peace with this reframing, I was nearly clipped by a great-horned owl, as it whooshed by me to begin its own egg hunt, this one framed deep within my neighbor's pine.  I stood-- breathless and silent--across the street from the mayhem as feathers fluttered and grackles complained mightily.  I have no idea who won in the end, and yet I knew this storyline well, rife with its second chances and obstacles overcome.

Yesterday, I was caught off guard when Allison asked if there'd be an egg hunt on Easter.  Their drivers' licenses alone were proof enough that she and Eric no longer qualified for certain child-like activities.  They can, after all, vote and buy cigars and head to war, if they so choose.  Surely, then, I have been freed from the expectations of certain childhood rites. . . .

A few hours later, awash in a bittersweet mix of guilt, nostalgia and my own love of a good treasure hunt, I stood in the candy aisle at Walgreens, elbowing my way past other delinquent parents to the mostly-empty boxes of Russell Stover marshmallow eggs, hoping for yet another second chance with obstacles successfully overcome.

Yes, there will be an egg hunt this morning at the Holt house.  And, like all good Raglins, I have made sure that the chocolate is real chocolate, not some waxy substitute that displeases the well-developed tongue of a genetically-predisposed candy lover.

It is not yet 7 a.m. and, already, I am content with this day, despite the absence of our Sunday paper.  Already, I have gathered up fond memories in my own brightly-colored Easter basket--the pleasure of standing in the pre-dawn dark with Mark, my bare feet relishing the coolness of our sidewalk;  the thrill of an owl's fierceness brushing my hair; the quiet joy of hiding foil-covered candies in the basement; the relief that comes with second chances and obstacles overcome.




 

The Fun of New Friends

I've made a handful of new friends this year and, still, after over a half century of living, that act of meeting fresh faces  feels all fresh and shiny to me, like I just want to run home and blabber to my mom about this great, new kid I met on the playground.

"...and, and, and then we played kick soccer at recess and--boy!--could she kick!  And she's funny and nice and super good with crayons, too...."

For whatever reason, I've never been one to find renewal in a day-spa experience.  Probably because I've never treated myself to one.  For me, the thing that fuels me most in life is that aha! moment of connecting with someone or something else for the first time.  And I like that this connecting process is not formulaic.  Some first connections roll out slowly over a few weeks of shared lunches in the staff lounge, each of us wondering what the other will bring to the table today.

That's how it was with new friend Lisa, whom, I'm afraid, I scared or grossed out through much of first quarter, because I can lack self control and too often let slip a saucy pun or a slightly-too-raw-for-mealtime story that feels good rolling off of my tongue.  Eventually, though, she found a way to nourish her body while also disengaging her senses so as not to be too disturbed.  In time, then, we forged a friendship, despite my best efforts.

Other connections are hurried along by a combination of sparkling recommendations coupled with an elongated first meeting.  Such was the case with Cathy, a friend still too new to pick up the phone and call, I suppose.  (Although I'm starting to think that no one really "picks up the phone and calls" anyone anymore).  Still, I was intrigued when others told me how much I'd like her--although we've all been burned before by the too-enthusiastic-to-be-real praise heaped upon a new acquaintance.  I suppose such praise can be hard to live up to.

Such was not the case with Cathy, though, who walked to our car with character and quiet confidence, despite the stranger in the front seat who stared at her with a sort of half smile pasted to her face.  After the exchange of basic information, by the time we arrived at the workshop and wandered around with bagels in our hands, we opened up enough to each other to decide that this thing just might happen.

...and I have no reason to think that it won't.

It is good to still be something enough (young enough? brave enough? desperate enough? lucky enough?) to make a new friend here or there.  That act is like a cool spring breeze, rife with hope and possibility.  And I welcome its refreshment, wrapped up in a stranger no more.

The Circle Game

Today, my son gave me his power-of-attorney document, required for his semester abroad.

Today, my daughter excused me from attending her last Prom photo shoot of high school.

Today, I stood next to Salt Creek and watched a man lift an ancient buffalo skull from the grassy embankment.

Talk about circle of life.

 There are times when I want to slow time down, to bend the arc of that circle of life just a bit.  And then, there are times when it bends all on its own.  For me, those times of slowing usually happen when I'm outside, either figuratively or literally.

I longed for a "pause" button last July when I was happily knee deep in mucky water at Spring Creek Prairie , knowing full well that I would not get out without falling.  And I felt it this afternoon as I watched Allison and her friend Kamaya walk across the street in their too-tall shoes and too-short dresses, their bodies long and full, their lives verging on self possession.

What is that feeling that is made of both longing and joy?  How do I explain the single note of a song that washes over and moves me?  I think my friend Jen would say that it is evidence of a thin place, where the ordinary and sacred meet up for a moment.

Thinking of Eric on his own in Sweden, of Allison navigating the social swirl of a high-school dance, of the bones of an animal that sat down for one last time a hundred years ago?  These are times when I feel both close and far away, connected and stretched.

I have a feeling that the year ahead of me will be a year of thin places, a swirl of time compressing and stretching itself out before me.  And, strange as it may be at times, I'd like to think I'm up to the task of living it.

Quit Pulling My String

I'm Your Puppet    By Marvin Gaye

 Pull the string and I'll wink at you
I'm your puppet
I'll do funny things if you want me to
I'm your puppet

Oh, I'm yours to have and to hold
Darlin', you've got full control
Of your puppet

When I was a kid, I had a couple of puppets and even a marionette or two.  I was pretty lousy at working them, although the puppets obeyed far more than the marionette, whose strings were untenable to me.  Mostly, I liked the idea of them.  I'd seen and enjoyed their more famous cousins on episodes of "Cap'n Kangaroo" and "Shari Lewis and Lambchop," which is why cheaper versions made their way onto my Christmas lists for a few years.

Now, as a 52-year-old woman, I have a hard time enjoying puppets.  Mostly because I have this sneaking suspicion that a few very powerful people have deemed the rest of us their puppets and they manipulate us seemingly at will.  

How else to explain our love affair with digital distractions?  Or our willingness to draw more than just lines in the sand when we disagree with someone else?  

The cynic in me--that portion of me that used to occupy a space the width of an eyelash but is now carrying some noticeable bulk--is certain that these distractions, these inflammations that ignite the most base of emotions within us are being created and fed to us by very rich people who want to quietly do what they've been doing all along.  Make money and skirt the laws.  I think that the more successful they are at keeping the rest of us distracted, the more likely they are to continue getting what they want. 

I mean, what middle-class person really believes that someone like the Koch brothers have the little guy's best interests at heart?  Surely, it shouldn't be hard to see through their ruse, and yet, millions of us are blinded to it.  How is that possible?  Because we are distracted and manipulated and fed simple, memorable lines about what and who is wrong in our country.

What bothers me most about this mass manipulation is that the rest of us are seen as nothing more than a bunch of simpletons by these powerful, shadowy people.  And why not?  After all,  we are all too willing to accept that title, happily and angrily and blindly tossing about venomous names for those with whom we disagree. 

We are mad.  Mad at "The Man," mad at gays, mad at insurance coverage and lack of insurance coverage.  We are mad about marriage, mad about taxes, mad about Mexicans. Mad has become our go-to emotion, and yet our arguments behind the anger feel thin and rehearsed.

What I really wish--what I find myself hoping against hope for--is that all of the rest of us--the hundreds of millions who must work to eat and who struggle to stay in decent housing--that we will wake up and realize that we have far more in common with our neighbors than we do with the powerful few.  When that day comes, I imagine a hundred thousand miles of puppet string yanked from our sleeves and loosed upon the ground in powerless piles.

Then, then we will gather in the streets and on the sidewalks, at our neighbor's table and in our churches, and start to talk to one another again.  We'll start to take back our lives, our intellect, our free will, no longer captive to the few who'd hoped to distract us all the way to their pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

...and darlin' we'll have full control

of our own lives.

   

The Impatient Parishioner

I'll be honest.  Church annoyed me today. 

I do not say that with any pride, mind you.  In fact, it's kind of embarrassing to admit that I would have preferred to clean the bathroom than to have sat through a worship service at a church that I happen to like very much.

But, today, for whatever reason, we were incommunicado. 

And I was such an impatient grouch that, when the little girl standing in the pew in front of me waved her chubby little fingers my way, I might have actually sneered at her.  For some reason, I was a babe magnet today, flanked by two other kids--a talkative tot sitting directly behind me that burbled and babbled her way through the service and her cry-baby baby brother who broke into teary spasms halfway through the service.

Sweet Jesus,  I had to sit on my hands at one point and practice some faintly-recalled Lamaze breathing techniques just so I wouldn't turn around and make a fool of myself.

What is it that harshed my otherwise churchy mellow this morning? 

I mean I had been in a fine mood up until the service began.  Heck, I'd happily wandered around the church courtyard just minutes before the service, saying hello and handing out hugs like the loving child of God that I was.

And just yesterday, I'd spent several fine hours with a few dozen women from my church, getting in touch with the great outdoors and feeling chock full of love by the time we'd left Spring Creek prairie. 

Maybe I had overdone "church" this weekend, then. Was that what it was?

Frankly, it would be very hard to overdo First-Plymouth, what with its awesome, smart, funny staff and all the great folks I've met there over the years.  I've never been happier--or more involved--at a church than I am right now.

After the retreat yesterday, my friend Jen was talking about the "thinness" of Lincoln, the palpable transparency between the physical and the spiritual that she believes exists in this town and its surrounding prairie. 

Applying a completely backwards interpretation of Jen's thoughts, maybe I was a bit too thin this morning, and I lacked the armor that would've helped me ignore the babies, the babbling, the slightly too-long sermon.  Or maybe I was simply a middle-aged, warts-and-all woman with a suddenly restless mind and a temporary aversion to cute children who was looking for a pause or a reset button while battling a case of her own humanity.

All I know is that, in the end, no children were harmed in the making of this experience.  And that, I suppose, is good enough for today.