Of Caterpillars and Chrysalises

Two weeks into the school year and I find myself surrounded by teenaged souls in various stages of formation.  Already, I've worked with more than 20 classes of these kids, and, while it has at times felt like running downhill, I've really enjoyed the hubbub. Yesterday, as the big hand of the clock inched towards 3, I turned to Helen and said "The library feels really happy this year, doesn't it?"  She agreed.

East is as full as it has been in many, many years, with 1,900 young caterpillars, chrysalises and butterflies slogging,  sitting and flying through this space each weekday.  We adults in the building--ourselves in various stages of transformation--are expected to meet the kids where they are.  As I've said many times before, working in a school is not for sissies.

Earlier this week, an English class was sitting before me, in the library to choose personal-reading books.  I shared my recipe for finding a good book, pointed them to our collections, and wandered with them as they decided which ones to choose.    One girl, lovely and olive-skinned, quietly asked if we had any books about Syria.  When I pulled out the one fiction book set in Syria that we had, she teared up and said 'That's Arabic on the cover."  Nodding, I was feeling pretty good about myself, until she followed up with "I don't want anyone to know that I speak Arabic."

Sometimes, caterpillars feed on hatred.

Helen and I quickly conferred in my office, deciding to tear the cover off the book.  I handed her a plain, red book and she left.  And then, we got to work looking for other fiction books we could buy that were set in a country so far away from my own.

The next afternoon, the girl returned.  I had no idea what to expect.  She smiled shyly, held up the book and said "I love it!  I have been to many of these places!"

Sometimes, butterflies emerge from desolation.

Wednesday morning, this same student came into the library before school.  She printed a poem she'd written and handed me a copy.  There, in those sparse words, was her own arc, a timeline filled with bullets and fear, hope and heaps of courage.

Sometimes, young butterflies inspire 54-year-old caterpillars to be transformed once again.

Four Little Words By My Doorstep

Beloved.
Be loved.
Be. 
Love.

Those words--just four in all--landed on my shoulders during my walk the other morning.  I found myself playing with them for the rest of that walk, chewing on them, moving the emphasis from one syllable to another,  applying them to what I was seeing and feeling.

I don't know why this meditation found me, but I'm mighty glad that it did.

Turns out that those four unique words--ingredients, if you will--are just about everything I need to live well in this world.  They are the perfect recipe for a grateful, grounded life.

Beloved.
A lifelong lover of lists, I'm glad that this was the first word to alight on my shoulders.  It is a word that pulls me out of myself and shines a warm light on everything and everyone else.  Beloved dog. Beloved neighbor.  Beloved tree.  Beloved sky.

Be loved.
I am taken aback when I realize just how many people have my back.  And when I open myself up to their love, I am a better version of me.

Be.
Of all the crazy summers in life, this one has felt like the wildest.  Unbearable heat, ridiculous news, heartbreaking violence, dwindling lives.  The what ifs too often nudged out the moment.  Be reminds me that being present is a sacred duty that can help us manage or put aside all those what ifs.

Love.
Boy, this one is the silver lining, the ultimate transformative ingredient.  A verb that requires repeating.  As Lin-Manuel Miranda uttered at the Grammys, "Love is love is love is love is love."

For someone who is a lousy pray-er and whose memory bottoms out more and more these days, these four little words that landed on my doorstep seem like a tonic. A mantra.  A meditation for me and a mediation for living in this world.  And I will do my best to lean into them each day and see what it is that they have to show me.

Pretty in Pink

Last night before bed, I told Mark that I was going to sleep until 9. I have never in my life slept until 9, but because I made the claim with some forcefulness, I was a little disappointed when the clock read 5:34 this morning.  My disappointment evaporated 45 minutes later, though, when the eastern sky oozed pink.

I'm not a runner, but Finn and I nearly ran out the door when I saw that sky, bolting to Woods Park for a clearer view of a beautiful start to a new day.  --Isn't that what we all crave--a clearer view of a beautiful start to a new day?

As we entered Woods Park, just in front of the cowboy statue, we were given a bonus--half a rainbow arcing its way downward to meet us.  I don't use the word blessed very often, but that's how I felt.  Blessed and grateful that I didn't sleep until 9, because, as any sky-gawking Nebraskan knows, rainbows and pink clouds and perfect lighting are all so fleeting.

We wended our way through the park twice this morning, filling up on everything, imagining that the churr of crickets was actually the sound of satellites whizzing through the universe above our heads.  Or at least that's what I was imagining.  Finn was probably thinking about bunnies lurking in the uncut grass along the perimeter.    And by the time we found ourselves at the cowboy statue again, I realized that the half rainbow had grown into two rainbows,  giddy cousins trying to show each other up.

My morning walks feel like air to me--utterly necessary to my continuation upon this earth.  They center and calm and fill and energize me.  These walks jolt stories and concerns, joy and to-do lists out of me and remind me that--despite all the hard news of this life--there is always a softness to this world, a gentleness and rhythm that are immensely comforting.

I feel bad for all those folks still slumbering this morning.  Already, they have missed so much--the call of the great-horned owl that woke me, the pretty-in-pink sky, the rainbows, the sprinkles that were like gold flecks falling through the morning light.

All that goodness, and it's only 7:21.