Stranger Danger

I suppose it's human nature (or, in my case, middling human nature) to want to gloss over the uncomfortable details of living this life and instead lean heavily on the "just fine and dandy, thank you" side of things.   If medals were given for such wimpy acts of voluntary blindness, I would be hard pressed to raise my neck each day, given all that damning hardware hanging from my shoulders.

Fortunately, I still manage to possess a [nearly rusted-through] safety mechanism that occasionally activates whenever I display too many signs of such delusional tomfoolery.  I am sure that this mechanism would see a little more action if I could just remembered to replace its batteries every six months, but who can be expected to remember such things . . . ? 

What, then, is it that calls to life this overlooked moral device in its otherwise sad and neglected state?

Frankly, I blame my womb, despite its own generally underutilized role in my life.  How else to explain those times when my inner mama bear is finally roused from her cave, grown angry and impatient at the inconvenient truths that have roused her?  I suspect that there is some kind of  life-preserving residue that still resides in there that has a "just add holy water" quality to it, because, when my ursine side emerges, I swear I can feel my womb throb.

That must be why I've felt like a human drum machine all week. 

Recent news of a young person who'd simply like to be noticed and counted has caused my mama bear to shake off its winter doldrums and prepare for a fight.  Well, not a fight, per se, because I tend towards Michael Jackson's "I'm a Lover, Not a Fighter" camp. But I cannot deny the vivid, visceral desire for motherly protectiveness that has flooded my bloodstream this week.


I fervently hope that I am up to this task of human bridge builder, because, really, there are few things that affect me more than those stories of people who would simply like to have a few more people in their corners. 

The good news?  I am absolutely incapable of building a bridge alone.  And I am an excellent leaner (see above reference).  That is why I have tremendous faith in all the good people around me to recognize that here is a person I'd like to know, one that I can count and count on.  I predict that many a mama bear will be roused from their sleep today, happy to love the young cub that quietly crosses their paths.

My Funny Valentines

Yesterday, two males students who, from all outward signs, appear to be both balanced and well connected, provided a wistful, plaintive, and ultimately good-humored soundtrack to the Valentine's Day hubbub that inevitably sweeps through the hallways and classrooms of a school this time of year.

One spoke longingly of his elementary-school days, recalling the elaborately-decorated paper sacks he and his dad would create, in anticipation of the almost Communist-inspired class-wide distribution of Walgreen's-approved greetings that filled them.  With any luck, there'd be a lusty Conversation Heart or maybe even a waxy, foiled Palmer "chocolate" glued--glued!--to the glossy card.  Who could blame the guy for so fondly recalling his sucrose-laden fever dream? 

The other?  I'd just handed him--along with all of his other classmates--a perforated, 60s-themed Valentine from Walgreens, each one personalized with their names and signed by me, complete with a hand-drawn red heart before my name.  (Yeah, I know--"How does she do it?!")  After a minute of looking over his classmates' Valentines, he turned to me and said "You put a heart on everyone's?  I thought mine was special. .  ."  And then we giggled.  Kind of a lot.

Did I ever tell you how much I enjoy working with teenagers, who--when you get right down to it--are a vastly more appealing crowd than, say, the 114th Congress or a roomful of wealth-management advisers?

Valentine's Day is a beast of a holiday, though--too often, the ultimate have-and-have-not event in which lines are drawn not in sand so much as they are in $40 rose petals and spent Godiva-chocolate wrappers.  You can understand if a guy or girl who heads home on the wrong side of that line might mistake him/herself as unloved.  As a teacher, I have learned to wade these waters with care and a fair bit of that nostalgic spirit that my one student recalled. 

Had I not just returned from a three-day stay at the Holt House for The Virally Suspect, I would have given each of those students a motherly hug along with their cards yesterday.  But I think that they ultimately knew my sentiments were true--I really do love them.  Despite all that Axe and angst, the acne and antics, they are worth loving and paying attention to.   

I want them to know that I see them. That they count.  That I am richer for these concentric circles we share.

Call me nostalgic, but these are the messages people need to hear today--that they are among the counted, flowers and candies be damned. 

Shedding My Skin...Again

Is it just me or does getting older actually come with a deep, dark, delicious secret? . . . because, these days, I kind of feel like a chameleon who is less worried about fitting in than it is with living with its true colors.  And I have to say that this contentment feels pretty good.

Maybe it all started with my friend's recent retirement announcement and the inevitable change that it brought to my own life.  Suddenly,  I see a professional future without journalism in it;  a more grown-up future with big budgets and weekly meetings and maybe even new clothes and added responsibilities in it.

Despite those scary things, though, the newness of this chapter feels pretty revitalizing.  And that's when I realize that I kind of like being older.  More experienced.  Less worried about success and failure than I am about showing up, paying attention and keeping it real.  I don't know if that means that the hoops have become more difficult to jump through or more freeing.  I suppose it depends on one's perspective.

Sometimes, I think we foolishly resist the urge to just jump out of the airplane and enjoy the view. Well, I must say that I am enjoying the view these days.  Even from these scary heights that have life-and-death-and-everything-in-between tucked within them.

I say "Bring it!"

Who'da thunk that I would reach the point in my own life where I sort of felt sorry for those friends who are younger than me?!

But that seems to be where I am these days--in a funny, unexpected place where I find the calm that comes with having lived a bit; the joy that comes from recognizing the pleasure of simpler things; the confidence that is fed by stretches of time tinged with failure,  and the ability to look those things in the eyes without blinking.

. . . you'll hear no complaints from me. Not today, at least.