"A Herd of Elephants Walks into the Room. . . "

In 1974, while I was busy trying to look cool in my Birkenstocks and denim vests, Philippe Petit was planning his illegal jaunt between New York's twin towers on a wire with the approximate girth of a closed fist.  The 2008 film "Man on Wire" recounts his stunning feat (he spent nearly an hour walking 1,300 feet above traffic).  Petit was 25 at the time.  

I knew nothing of his feat until I'd watched the documentary and, even then, it took me 4 or 5 years after its release to happen upon the film, putting me even further than usual out of the proverbial "in the know" loop.   

While I understand all the hoopla that was focused on Petit at the time, I no longer look at his feat as unrepeatable or even as a particularly impressive act.  

Apparently, that's what happens when you turn 53 and find yourself surrounded by people you love who are teetering far more precariously above the comfort of their own solid ground.   

From dire prognoses to the deaths of dearly loved ones--and everything in between--a lot of people I am nuts about are, I am sure, growing weary of the balancing act of their own current lives.  So you'll forgive me, Phillippe Petit, if I put you and your antics aside and turn my attention elsewhere.

Following the deaths of my dad and brother, I discovered firsthand that there is legitimate comfort to be had in a Hallmark card or a kind word uttered.  That is, perhaps, the best lesson I learned from those losses--the value of acknowledging the elephant in the room, even if it's uncomfortable to do.  And I am leaning heavily on that lesson these days, hoping that my own acknowledgments of others' hardship--acknowledgments that look quite lame from 1,300 feet above traffic--somehow continue to matter.  Otherwise, I'm doomed as a decent friend or family member, impotent, like a spent firecracker on July 5th.

Time and again, it is the act of getting out of bed--that willingness to look things (or people or circumstances) directly in the eyes--that strikes me as the bravest act of all. Surely, then, as the friend, I can reciprocate in my own, small way, hoping that my own eye contact relays the message that I know and I am walking with you.  

...not much of a movie pitch, I suppose.  But, somehow, enough, I hope.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

If I were to write a book about my life (perhaps "pamphlet" is a better description of the product), I suspect that I would structure it in the traditional ways, utilizing chapters and some sort of pervading theme to hold it all together.

Even if I never take on the challenge of putting it all to paper, I can't deny that there have been certain times in my life when I have sensed the turning of the proverbial page.   Take this week, for instance, when I could practically hear the sound of a cosmic finger running across the top of  my life's current page and flipping it over to see what's next.

"What's Next"  is what I suspect will be the final chapter of my current "I work in a school" trajectory.  This May, I will wrap up my rather long chapter as part-time journalism teacher/part-time librarian and turn, instead, to the task of becoming a full-time school librarian.

A lifelong fencewalker ("Jane Fencewalker" could've been a minor, no doubt forgettable, character in the "Star Wars" saga), this move is a surprising leap for me, despite the fact that I've spent the last 12 or so years happily dangling my toes in the library life.  Let's be clear.  I already know that I love being a librarian.  I work with awesome, fun, talented people, which makes it an easy job to love.  It's closing the other door that has proved to be a transition.

Yesterday, I told my Newspaper and Yearbook staffs that this would be my last year as their adviser.  Given that I had awakened for the day at 2 a.m. with these thoughts swirling in my mind, it would be fair to say that I was a bit nervous about the announcement.  Certainly, I didn't think that the world would cease spinning or that there would be old-timey gnashing of teeth or beating of breasts.  No, I figured that the discomfort would mostly be mine, considering that I'd spent the last 29 (!) years carrying the "journalism" label with me to school each day.

My post-announcement transition was made vastly easier when one student--after digesting the news for maybe one or two seconds--immediately (and, frankly, a bit too enthusiastically) hollered out the name of a person she considered to be the perfect teacher to take my place. Oh, the hoopla and cheering that ensued!

It's true that the pop-culture bridges spanning between me and my students have become worn and weathered.  It's also true that I have been a little slow and clunky in transitioning my students' storytelling to the world of social media ("tweet" will forever be a bird word, if you ask me).  But I cannot tell you--in any accurate way, at least--how much I have enjoyed spending my work days with this group of enthusiastic, funny, curious students over the past 29 years.  And, frankly, while it might be downright delusional to still consider myself youthful and relevant, it is a bit sobering to realize that, beginning next August, I will be writing what I am certain is the last chapter of my life as an educator.

Here's hoping I write it well.

Love Potion No. 9

Sometimes, when I hear bible stories--especially those zany, miracle-riddled ones--I wonder how I'm expected to take the rest of the book seriously.  I'm not a cynic, but I do like practical things, and walking on water--not to mention splitting it in half and taking all your friends right on through--well, those just aren't practical things to do.

Then again, I'm nuts about Finn, who is everything a dog shouldn't be, at least according to my pre-Finn self, and these feelings aren't particularly practical either.

This just goes to show you how much we are willing to fool ourselves in the middle of heartache, when all we really want is an exact replica of the dog we just buried, only alive. Hobbes, for all his quirkiness, made me fall in love with Wheaten Terriers.  He was soft.  He didn't shed.  He was handsome and kind.  And so, when he died three years ago, I began my search for Hobbes, Part 2.

After a few near misses and a couple of "ain't even closes," and just when I was starting to think I might have to try a cat or a gerbil or maybe even a poodle or something, there was Finn staring at me from his temporary home in Holt, Missouri (yeah, you heard right.  Kind of...miraculous, eh?).  They called him a Wheaten and I called them to put my dibs on him.

By the time we got him home, though, it was obvious that we'd been had.

1.  First of all, he most certainly wasn't--and isn't--a Wheaten.  I mean, his hair kind of looks like Shredded Wheat (and feels like it, too), but he most certainly isn't a Wheaten.
2.  Pet a Wheaten and you'll never think "hay bale."  Such is not the case with Finn.
3  Finn sheds.  Wheatens don't.
4. When we first got him, Finn had the size-zero waist of a super model, complete with visible ribs.  Our family's first anorexic.  Wheatens aren't scrawny.  Ever.
5.  Wheatens, when full grown, will not fit on your lap.  Or fit in neatly next to you at the breakfast bar.  Finn can do both, and in fact is doing so, as I type this.

So, why is it that this dog, who was everything I was not looking for in a canine, has so claimed my heart?  And when did he magically--miraculously--become so dadgummed cute?   This is where those bible stories come in.

Maybe, just maybe, love really does transform us.  Maybe Finn--who still looks about the same as when we got him--became beautiful to us because we fell in love with him.  Maybe all that love made his fur softer and his face more sparkly and his intelligence even more...intelligenter.

Or whatever.

So, what if all those crazy bible stories didn't really happen?  Who cares?  Maybe they are just supposed to represent the transformative power of loving someone or something.  I think that we can all agree that we are changed when we love or are loved deeply.  I know I felt like I could walk on water when Mark Holt finally noticed me standing there, with my jaw on the ground. And it goes both ways--we change those we love back, somehow making them even cuter or softer or smarter.

It's true, even with my own kids, who I'm crazy about.  When Eric was born, for instance, he had a little dip on the top of his head, a place where he could collect rain water, assuming I was holding him upright and he was keeping his head steady.  Sure, that little divot was a bit discombobulating at first, but I found that, the more comfortable I became as a parent, and the more time that I spent with my young son, the more beautiful he became until, suddenly, one day, the human rain barrel was gone.  Poof! Like that!

Like all good bible stories, my story has a lesson, as well:

I sayeth to you--Go and find yourself someone or something to love.  It matters not how scrawny or strange-looking or Republican he or she or it is.  Thou shalt simply set thy sights upon him/her/it and start loving. And ye shalt find yourself and the one that you have loved transformed, and slightly surprised at just how good-looking thou hast become, both inside and out.

Amen.

Turn the Page

One of my year-end rituals (really, "ritual" seems too big a word for this secretarial exercise) is to line up my weekly calendars--one year abutting the next--and nudge birthdays and anniversaries onto the fresh pages of the newest.  One bonus is that, as I turn the pages of last year, I am reminded of otherwise forgotten moments--Oh! A church workshop next Saturday!  The dentist at 11:30! My period started!  I also love seeing all those beautiful photos of the great big world outside--purple sea stars tickling each other on a beach in California, or a painted bunting sitting atop some bristle grass in North Dakota.

As I wended my way through calendars yesterday, though, what struck me most was the absence of my own handwriting.  Entire months were passed over, aside from the occasional name of a college acquaintance scratched into the corner of a particular date.  Otherwise, just great swaths of nature and whiteness, as though I had not been here at all.  Even big things--our trip to England and Scotland, Allison's move-in date for the dorm--brought no ink to paper.  This absence of a hand-written bread-crumb trail makes me fear I have lost last year entirely.

Is it no wonder that I walk purposefully into a room and suddenly can't remember why?

And so, I have resolved a few things on this first morning of 2015.  Three things, to be exact.  1.  I will read more poetry.  2.  I will try to savor whatever is before me.  3.  I will write down one thing on every single day of my Audubon 2015 engagement calendar, even if it seems like something insignificant.

Why the poetry?  Because a 53-year-old woman doesn't need all those restaurant-sized servings to thrive anymore.  Yes, I will continue to read fiction--plenty, I hope--but I will also treat myself to the refreshing tidbits that can come only from poetry.  Intellectual tapas, if you will--savory bites of life as I know it.  Easily consumed in one sitting.

And the savoring?  Well, I am not a dieter, even if I should be one.  And I have always favored short, memorable instructions over a lengthy lecture.  Give me three good words or less and I will do my best to follow them.  "Savor" is only one, and I think it'll serve me in all parts of my life--from the dinner plate (one cannot savor nachos and inhale them at the same time, you see) to the early-morning song of a screech owl, I will do my best to pay attention to what is in front of me.

Finally, the daily recording. . . this is both a practical and a selfish resolution.  Frankly, I can't bear to repeat yesterday's shockingly hollow secretarial exercise, so this resolution will guarantee that my weekly engagement calendar will be more engaging to review next December.  By the time I line up the calendars and pull out my pen next year, I want to be reminded of the moments that made up this year that is before me, the people and places and things that shaped and filled me.  Those moments are the stuff of a decent, quiet life and a pretty good poem, to boot.