Ka Pow!

 

Wow! So much can happen in one week. Or, ONE BIG THING can happen in one day that becomes your whole week? Possibly to become your whole next month or year?

I rushed through the door after work last Thursday. Hardly even noticed Charles was sitting on the couch. My plan was to clean up the kitchen and pack  the camping food as fast as possible so we could get on the road man! Why fiddle-fart around when you could be in the Sequoias?!! I was banging around in the kitchen when I felt him stand in front of me. That “I’m here” stand. That “please look up and talk to me” stand.

So I looked up and still didn’t see anything. Until he grabbed my hands and once I noticed his palms were sweaty I noticed that his eyes were bloodshot. He told me he lost his job and I started laughing and repeating, “you’re kidding.”

I know I need to work on my reaction abilities.

And then the shock wore off and we were driving to his little office cubicle. Trader Joes cloth bags in the back seat, ready to collect and hold and separate everything that was his. Parting gifts? Or office junk that should not be coming home. Office stuff that should stay in an office. One of the items we’d hastily pack was Charles’ model airplane collection that canvassed his bookshelf; the model airplanes he picked up when he took a group of ten tweens to the air museum for flight camp.

Our next stage in life; at six months down, a lifetime to go. And here we are. Right. HERE. Smack dab baby.

Where will God take us? I wonder that everyday. I was wondering even before Charles’ position was “dissolved.” There is a plan. It’s God’s.

A busy bee, I go and go and go. It is hard for me to let go of my destiny– I’ve got it by the reigns and am pulling in tight!

It’s not destiny. It is not me even letting go because I don’t have ahold on anything but how to get myself all bent out of shape– it’s GOD knocking at the door asking me to please step aside so he can come in and be my handy man. He’s even asking politely; he humors me while I’m in frantic work mode- job searching, talking, doing, bringing home my paychecks, cashing, paying, planning, making it- he just waits patiently.

If I just step back and learn to say and do just enough- just enough- and to receive GRACE that says

God knows. Take his light and easy yoke.

Rest will enter.

the look of my desk is indicative

my desk… is crazy looking today.

I’ve got ungraded math tests and personal narrative essays piled to the right, bills and government papers in their respective piles, letters that are awaiting finishing touches, my Polaroid pushed up in a corner reminding me of my more free and creative self, and my application… yes, my application. Oh God. It’s mere presence… simply writing the word: application, here, on wordpress… feels ominous. Dangerous. Like eyeing, for the first-time-on-accident, an oil spot that has leaked from the car. Uh-oh, oops, it’s out there. Just like that- in that honestly, matter-of-fact, in trouble-y feeling way.

After a year of thought, consideration, endless pro and con lists, and precise calculation (“hmm… how many years can I squeeze in before Charles and I get intentionally/unexpectedly pregnant?”) I’ve begun the application process for the UCLA doctorate program for Educational Leadership.

I don’t feel giddy, as one should on the verge of a new adventure… but rather

naughty? Like I’m doing something … well, naughty. Like sneaking back into the fridge, after we’ve said good night, brushed our teeth and nestled  into bed, for just one or two giant scoops of that delicious double layered german chocolate cake I made? Which, at this point, it perfectly chilled. That kind of naughty, but on a bigger, less endearing scale.

It’s probable that I just feel guilty. Like the way I feel when I buy tulips at the grocery store for none other than me.

I’ve used about three or four too many similes.

 Nerves have left me with few examples and words.

May I

May I write my truth. And write authentically even after times that I might write falsely, timidly or with ulterior motives. May I embrace the challenges as well as the joys of writing.

I raced a man on the street today. I was running my usual loop. I’ve not gotten up to four miles in a long while because I am stuck on this loop. This loop, is perfect, perfect loop. See, I hit the ground running up a deep wedge, it hurts, knocks the breath out of my unsuspecting lungs, but I like to get the worst behind me. So I keep one foot in front of the other and trudge up the hill I call Myrtle Mountain.

It’s smooth sailing all the way home, once I get up that damn one mile grade. Tonight, I had just hit  my favorite spot (the spot where I get a slight runners high if I’ve been keeping a respectable pace) when this man rounded the corner in front of me, joining in my loop. He started off about ten feet in front me of, and then he was about six, and then about three, and then I had to, you know, pass him. God I hate passing people. Emabarassing. Like I’m staking my claim or something. Way too bold and assertive seeming for me, usually. But tonight when  I did it I intentionally pulled way out to the side, sort of off the sidewalk, and just sort of, began to (politely) pass.

Holy crap.

You would have thought he’d seen a toddler passing him. Or a granny… and he was Usain Bolt. The sudden shame and humiliation seemed to catapult him (in the mere blink of an eye it seemed!) ahead of me, again. Dang- where did the rocket speed come from? When previously you were running slow enough for someone like ME to pass? And… I forgot to mention. This was… a BIG man. Big. Man. Burly man. You can imagine that when he passed me back it wasn’t just a little pass, it was frontal attack, because, man, he did not only pass, he cut. He cut in front of me so that the tips of my toes nearly hit his heals.

At that point: GAME ON DUDE.

At that moment I bacame…. I don’t know WHAT I became, but God, it was raw and determined. I raced this guy, ALL OUT,  this big giant I don’t know from Adam, through the rest of my loop.

I was so relieved (I’d stopped breathing), when, a mile into our little impromptu Olympic championships on the streets of Monrovia, it came time for me to make a quick left and duck into the safety of my apartment complex.

Surprised and pretty much proud of my own gameyness, I drank two Rolling Rocks and considered it my cool down.

It’s that time of year.

I have come to a frightening conclusion.

I am the decisive element in the classroom.

It is my personal approach that creates the climate.

It is my daily mood that makes the weather.

As a teacher I possess tremendous power to make a child’s life miserable or joyous.

I can be a tool of torture or an instrument of inspiration.

I can humiliate or humor, hurt or heal.

In all situations it is my response that decides whether a crisis will be escalated

or de-esacalated, and a child humanized

or dehumanized.

-Haim Ginott, Teacher and Child

September.

I’ve prepped for three-and-a-half-weeks in a big old room without air-conditioning. But… I am more inspired than ever.  I am re-reading Harry Wong’s books and for fun (or torture) I’ve revisited my classroom journals from my first year. In October 2007 I wrote, “I can’t wait for my third year. In my third year I know I will be relaxed.” It took four years, but now, I can truly say, I am at peace and confident in what I do.

What will it be in 30 years? What will I take away from all the inservices and teacher books and my old journals? I hope in 30 years I will have ventured into some other work, stripping myself clean of know-how and routine once again to be novice… I am kind of sickly akin to the raw, vulnerable feeling of cluelessness. But who can predict the future.

So here I am, another year. A year where every day I get to use my gifts to love and hopefully inspire. What more can one ask for?

Every day millions of students arrive at American classrooms in search of more than reading and math skills. They are looking fora light in the darkness of their lives, a Good Samaritan who will stop and bandage a burned heart or ego.

                                                                                                             -Jim Frelease

“He makes me laugh.”

I say this a lot, usually with a little shoulder shrug and grin. 

The laugh factor was a major predeterminer of our marriage. Serial happy-go-lucky couple we are not, but, when it’s right, at those perfect, punchy moments, we can laugh until sweat pours from his forehead and I can’t catch my breath.  These bouts do not happen all the time, but often enough. I now snort in public, choke on my food, pee my pants (just a little).  Sexy.

You hear relationship experts talk about the essentials of a healthy relationship. A plus B equals C.

These days, I am coming to some ultra simple conclusions. One, that this life can sometimes be a hell of a life. The other, that what most people are looking for is someone who can enter into their shadows and shed a little light. Joy, laughter, humor, a general lightness, can be very (very very very very) good medicine for the soul.

So here’s to you, Charles. Speaking of medicine for the soul, I was going to find some way to tie in Bad Medicine, and maybe a line about how you and Matt would deliriously belt it at the top of your lungs at embarrassing times like in the middle of a crowded parking lot, but I couldn’t figure out how to get it in.

Satan’s fish baby

OK. Today Charles and I went to our favorite fish store, Tropical Fish, on Huntington in Monrovia. We love to pester the owner with questions and what-ifs about fish- the fish we have and the fish we imagine we have. He probably loves us. We started with a few goldfish in a fish bowl and lately we are thinking about taking it up a notch (or a few notches)to saltwater status, which is HUGE. For us at least. 

So if you haven’t been to this fish shop, you should. It is really ill-kept and trinkity, which I find to be the mark of really great fish stores… there are surprises in every corner. And today, one the most ordinary of days, when all we were looking to buy was a filter, we saw 

Satan’s love child fish baby.

There is no other accurate way to describe it. After googling this thing we still can’t come up with it’s true name. We just know it looks like Satan and it’s a horned fish from the Philippines.  

See for yourself.

 

New

I am going to try, put forth more of an effort, to write. I like writing, I’ve always liked writing, but sometimes I get stuck… stuck for long minutes while I stare at the screen, or the page, stuck for months while my head is blank or on overload. I will admit, there have been mornings when I open my eyes to see my desk– my magnificent, giant, new! hardwood desk, doused in morning sun. Outside the birds chirp. The coffee maker did what I’d programmed it to do (imagine that!) and the scent of fresh brew perfumes the room. Everything agrees and interesting thoughts pop into my head, pleasantly, willingly. This kind of writing euphoria happens, but sporadically. So sporadically I don’t remember the last time I had a morning like this. I hold the false belief that writing should start this way every time, which simply is a lie. Just like love or vomiting, writing comes in precarious moments, without choice, all on it’s own, in the best of times, in the worst of times. 

Writing about writing helps get me unstuck, so sometimes I just sit and do that until something else comes. Kind of like what I am doing now. Eating while writing sometimes helps too, although can backfire real bad into something fatally distracting… ever read If You Give a Mouse a Cookie?

One of my literary heroes is SARK. She writes from the heart. After reading Succulent Wild Woman andEat Mangoes Naked, I was forever hooked. Now I am reading Juicy Pens, Thirsty Paper and I hope it makes a difference in me and in my writing. We’ll see.

my work.

Kids… are in all that I do.

If I am not in the classroom, I am parading around greater Los Angeles with ten or so preteeners. I live and breath teaching. Prepping for the day, I enjoy my breakfast to the glory of it all- images of triumphal breakthroughs playing in my mind as I down my cinnamon toast topped with peanut butter. Chomp, chomp, chomp, full gulp of black coffee. “Yea! This is going to be a bitchin day! First we’ll…. then we’ll… and then by the time they’ve done…. we’ll… they’ll love it! It’s going to be so much fun!”

As we know in life, things don’t also go as planned.

 I think, about ninety percent of the time, I love working with kids… in whatever capacity, it’s really all the same; camp counselor, teacher, nanny, daycare. And then that other ten-percent is diced into smaller percentages of, “I can handle it,” “it can be very challenging at times,” and, “why did I choose to punish myself this way?!” As with any job  there are good days and there are bad days… some of the bad days turn into VERY VERY bad days. Days when your afternoon coffee crash turns into a headache that lasts through dinner. Days you try your damndest to forget.

I am going on my fourth year of teaching. Whoop de do. But I thought it would at least prepare me for what I had in store this summer– Specialty Camp director at the YMCA. Funny thing- camp setting is a different animal. Same kids, different boundaries. I find myself sometimes reverting back to behaviors of nervous teachers- those that enforce a short, short leash for the purpose of control. Those who are afraid to loosen the reins, allow for some experience. It’s a balancing act with kids- creating free space for choice, opportunity and spontanaity and upholding consequences, putting a mirror to their faces every once in a while.

This week was Movie Maker Camp, which meant we were in the studio four days of the week. KGEM, Monrovia’s small, local cable channel studio loving, graciously, amazingly! offered themselves to us. I was to guide my kids through the movie making process— on set, off set, control room, cameras, editing. Eleven preteeners on two-hour blocks working with technical camera equipment. It was crazy! It was so much fun! It was exhausting! So much of the time I spent being the better voice in my head, talking myself out of doing something rash, like yelling or strangling.

Just kidding.

Not really.

OK… but I’ve learned. I am learning. I’m being humbled. And I will say it, like we always do when something is a particular joy and challenge in the same right: it’s a process.

Tomorrow I will wake with new plans and then I will fail and triumph in new ways.

Mase-face, my champion of love

 

 

 

 

My little man.

Never knew I had it in me to love such a small person, a new person in my life, so deeply and unconditionally. I look forward to seeing him, and worry when he’s getting too big– that I am missing parts, important parts, of his life. Amazing how a tiny body has the power to hypnotize a room of adults- grandparents and teenage boys alike. One look into his sweet face, one brush of that baby skin on your cheek .. that’s all it takes, and soon you’re holding him, kissing him, talking to him in another language, whispering, getting all up close and personal, acting like a completely different person. Powerful, I tell you.

Suppose if Mason could talk and asked me to do him a favor, I’d have no choice but to answer: yes, anything, Mase, anything at all. I am that much in love, that much. From the minute he came into this world (and I’ll always remember that moment like it was yesterday; that crazy, unforgettable moment), I was rendered helpless to his will.

Looking so forward to my years as auntie…

Put people first

A Pace of Grace, the Virtues of a Sustainable Life  by Linda Kavelin Popov

Interesting thing, reading about vitues. Not sure when I started if I really believe they still existed, thought they’d been extinct since the early eighties and downfall of social capital. Popov’s chapter on the virtue of moderation struck me, brought me to a place of soul-understanding. A place I haven’t been in a long, long time.

On putting people first she reflects,

“In my work as a hospice spiritual care director, I find that only two things matter at the end of our time on this earth– love and service. As they are dying, folks seem to care the most about their relationships, and also about what difference they have made.”

It resignated, like a low gong.

So I get wrapped up; wrapped up in perception, expectations, me and my own needs and wants and this and that. Small, meaningless to the outcome of life, really.

But LOVE & SERVICE. That narrows it down. I can do that, my busy mind can stop and wrap itself around the concept. It’s not all the fancy things we do in life– the fun, the pretty, the respectable, the prestigious, the acceptable, the great. It’s the love we show and the service we do.

One day in hospice myself, I’ll want to know, “have I made a difference?” And no amount of really cool thrift store finds, great mountain escapes, completed units, friends and followers, or letters of rec will constitute an answer to such a question.