It's the end of another year and I find myself as reflective as ever, hours spiraling away like cottony dandelion heads blown by breezes far too warm for any self-respecting December afternoon in Kansas.
Nothing and I mean nothing feels real today.
I could chronicle in grisly and gothic detail the year that ends tonight, I could recount months spent coming to terms with myself as a divorced woman, as a woman who experienced a transformative return to faith, a woman who loved a man so desperately she nearly lost her mind when he disappeared, a woman who had to hunt through the dark, cold and alone and terrified, to find the only light she could ever actually be guided by lived and lives inside her own heart. I could tell all those stories, but none of them alone says what I need to say today.
I keep wondering, would it be better if I'd made this choice instead of that one, if I'd said no instead of yes, if I'd spoken instead of stayed silent, sung instead of whispered...in the end, though, a year is a drop in the path of a human life, not even enough of a rock to impede your path unless you let it. I am choosing, today, to walk past this last year, to give it back to the earth, to say no thank you and to happily, and hopefully, accept the next stretch of time as one that will be better. I deserve it. You deserve it. We deserve it.
1957, Milo Greene
31 December 2011
23 December 2011
Light
First day of holiday break. Shopping/errands, laundry, "Crimes & Misdemeanors" on HBO, Charlie Rose w/Angelina Jolie, some new Caramel Chai tea, gave the dog a bath, now watching "You've Got Mail."
I love this movie for so many reasons.
1. It's New York, and though I don't think I could ever live in that city, it is incredible and I have been itching, itching, itching to revisit it for a very long time. I especially want to go here: The Strand
2. It's about bookstores, and people who love books, and smart people who love to talk about books.
3. It's about falling in love with someone whose heart and mind speak to you on a level you didn't know existed.
4. But most of all, it's about hope. That everything will get better, that life can be beautifully rich and lovely and full of warm sweet tenderness and I love this movie because I want all of that. All all all of that.
So, happy holidays, all. Here's to light in 2012.
I love this movie for so many reasons.
1. It's New York, and though I don't think I could ever live in that city, it is incredible and I have been itching, itching, itching to revisit it for a very long time. I especially want to go here: The Strand
2. It's about bookstores, and people who love books, and smart people who love to talk about books.
3. It's about falling in love with someone whose heart and mind speak to you on a level you didn't know existed.
4. But most of all, it's about hope. That everything will get better, that life can be beautifully rich and lovely and full of warm sweet tenderness and I love this movie because I want all of that. All all all of that.
So, happy holidays, all. Here's to light in 2012.
18 December 2011
Dark
I can't tell yet if the malaise I've been feeling lately is tied to the holiday season and it's lack of snow/good cheer/general kindness, or the strained relationships with some of the people I love most, or if I'm just in a particularly undefinable but completely unsettled mood, but--whatever the root cause--I find myself stunned to tears by the smallest gestures of kindness lately. I think I'm hungry for something more beautiful and less complicated than my own life.
I cry at commercials, at bad television shows, inspirational videos, my dog playing with me, so effortlessly happy in her running around that I want to choke on my own inability to be--simply--joyful. Where did that go? Honestly. I have no idea. I used to count myself a pretty joyful person, optimistic, hopeful, ready to believe that all would be well with little to no encouragement because beauty and possibility trumped darkness and fatality at every turn. But, now...
Not so much.
The person I want to be--strong, intelligent, kind, thoughtful, loving, loved, inquisitive, trusting--is in here somewhere, I know. I've met her and she's pretty outstanding. It's just that lately she is buried under this scared little girl who wants guarantees that everything will work out okay. And because those guarantees don't exist, much as she loves the sun, she'd rather sit in the dark and wait it out, knowing in her heart that all the magic she imagines may be nothing more than illusion, and that these dark hours are all she can count on.
All I want is a little joy. A little safety. A little assurance that everything is going to be okay. I know I can't have it without trusting myself, trusting God, trusting the people I love. I know that. It's just easier said than done.
I cry at commercials, at bad television shows, inspirational videos, my dog playing with me, so effortlessly happy in her running around that I want to choke on my own inability to be--simply--joyful. Where did that go? Honestly. I have no idea. I used to count myself a pretty joyful person, optimistic, hopeful, ready to believe that all would be well with little to no encouragement because beauty and possibility trumped darkness and fatality at every turn. But, now...
Not so much.
The person I want to be--strong, intelligent, kind, thoughtful, loving, loved, inquisitive, trusting--is in here somewhere, I know. I've met her and she's pretty outstanding. It's just that lately she is buried under this scared little girl who wants guarantees that everything will work out okay. And because those guarantees don't exist, much as she loves the sun, she'd rather sit in the dark and wait it out, knowing in her heart that all the magic she imagines may be nothing more than illusion, and that these dark hours are all she can count on.
All I want is a little joy. A little safety. A little assurance that everything is going to be okay. I know I can't have it without trusting myself, trusting God, trusting the people I love. I know that. It's just easier said than done.
09 December 2011
An Open Letter to Jay-Z
Dear Mr. Carter,
I want to first thank you for the amazing contributions you have made over the past five years towards the lessons I teach in my high school classroom. I've used "99 Problems" to discuss the need we all have to name our issues. When my students were learning about allusions, we spent a day studying "Empire State of Mind." And, just this semester, I've been teaching the concept that words matter, that they have value, so when my Midwestern male high school students use the word SWAG over and over again in an effort to establish they have swagger, I remind them that you are the poster boy for swagger in part because you never need to say you have confidence or infuence. You have it, so people know you have it and, conversely, people know you have it because you do.
I read today that you recently told reporters you would be happy to pay higher taxes if the cause were a just one: education, children in poverty, etc. I impressed with your specificity here, making our poorest children and the intellectual concerns of our American children such an important piece of you life.
As a high school teacher (with a masters degree in my content area--English), I make less than $50k a year and am crippled by student loan debt. This letter, Mr. Carter is my way of asking your charity to start smaller. No need to rush to the IRS to amend a return, there is a faster way to begin contributing to education.
I'm asking you to choose ten teachers from around the country who owe over $100k in student loans, and then you pay off their debt. It would cost over a million dollars, but you would be guaranteeing decades of lower stress for people doing one of the country's most exhausting and thankless jobs.
I recognize that you are busy with your own child on the way, you are on the throne so many of us are watching, and I am certain you have many projects to address at this time. I only ask that, now, at the holidays, you consider giving a gift very few people are capable of giving. Give ten teachers their lives back, keep us from scrambling paycheck to paycheck, let us love what we do without that love crippling us financially.
Finally, you could have read anything else in the world today, but you read this from me, and I appreciate that.
---Ms. D
I want to first thank you for the amazing contributions you have made over the past five years towards the lessons I teach in my high school classroom. I've used "99 Problems" to discuss the need we all have to name our issues. When my students were learning about allusions, we spent a day studying "Empire State of Mind." And, just this semester, I've been teaching the concept that words matter, that they have value, so when my Midwestern male high school students use the word SWAG over and over again in an effort to establish they have swagger, I remind them that you are the poster boy for swagger in part because you never need to say you have confidence or infuence. You have it, so people know you have it and, conversely, people know you have it because you do.
I read today that you recently told reporters you would be happy to pay higher taxes if the cause were a just one: education, children in poverty, etc. I impressed with your specificity here, making our poorest children and the intellectual concerns of our American children such an important piece of you life.
As a high school teacher (with a masters degree in my content area--English), I make less than $50k a year and am crippled by student loan debt. This letter, Mr. Carter is my way of asking your charity to start smaller. No need to rush to the IRS to amend a return, there is a faster way to begin contributing to education.
I'm asking you to choose ten teachers from around the country who owe over $100k in student loans, and then you pay off their debt. It would cost over a million dollars, but you would be guaranteeing decades of lower stress for people doing one of the country's most exhausting and thankless jobs.
I recognize that you are busy with your own child on the way, you are on the throne so many of us are watching, and I am certain you have many projects to address at this time. I only ask that, now, at the holidays, you consider giving a gift very few people are capable of giving. Give ten teachers their lives back, keep us from scrambling paycheck to paycheck, let us love what we do without that love crippling us financially.
Finally, you could have read anything else in the world today, but you read this from me, and I appreciate that.
---Ms. D
23 November 2011
Thankful
I am thankful for:
--My relationship with God. I feel such strength in acknowledging and actively participating in my life as a woman of faith. I had doubts for a very long time--I still do, in fact--but I believe anyway. Isn't that what true faith is?
--Therapy. The couple of months I spent talking to a complete stranger about the fears I've carried for years helped me to let down so many burdens. I feel lighter, freer, and more capable of loving myself than I ever did before.
--My job and my students. I wake up every morning excited about my day, thrilled that I get to speak to inquisitive young men and women who are learning about the world and their place in it. Their optimism and curiosity is the greatest byproduct of my job; I am so proud to be a teacher.
--Love. Over the last year, I have discovered real love cannot be denied or ignored, hidden or masked, forgotten or undone. This is quite possibly the most shocking and breathtakingly beautiful lesson I have ever learned. It is also without a doubt the hardest.
A few lamps are lit, the house is aglow with warm yellow light, the only sound in the room is the breathing of my sleeping dog. In this stillness I hear my heartbeat thumping out two words, over and over: thankful, thankful, thankful.
--My relationship with God. I feel such strength in acknowledging and actively participating in my life as a woman of faith. I had doubts for a very long time--I still do, in fact--but I believe anyway. Isn't that what true faith is?
--Therapy. The couple of months I spent talking to a complete stranger about the fears I've carried for years helped me to let down so many burdens. I feel lighter, freer, and more capable of loving myself than I ever did before.
--My job and my students. I wake up every morning excited about my day, thrilled that I get to speak to inquisitive young men and women who are learning about the world and their place in it. Their optimism and curiosity is the greatest byproduct of my job; I am so proud to be a teacher.
--Love. Over the last year, I have discovered real love cannot be denied or ignored, hidden or masked, forgotten or undone. This is quite possibly the most shocking and breathtakingly beautiful lesson I have ever learned. It is also without a doubt the hardest.
A few lamps are lit, the house is aglow with warm yellow light, the only sound in the room is the breathing of my sleeping dog. In this stillness I hear my heartbeat thumping out two words, over and over: thankful, thankful, thankful.
20 November 2011
Reading
This morning I (1) finished a novel, (2) read a tongue-in-cheek manual on how to be a good boyfriend, and this afternoon (3) I read another novel.
I find, often, that words are the escape I need when I can't articulate what's happening in my own life. It's not that I don't know what I want to say, it's that the language with which to say it is so evasive it may as well be a boy--okay, boys--I made out with at parties in high school who, come Monday, look at me like I am a visitor from another planet. Words can be just that distant, with that same glassy 'please don't talk to me and make me admit we were close in any sort of way once' stare. I have loved language longer than I have loved boys, but that doesn't make it any easier to adore.
When I read something that makes me vocal--a sigh, an inward 'mmm hmm,' a catch of breath at something to beautiful to be real--I know that work is good. Maybe not all 215 pages are well crafted, but that one sentence or phrase that gives pause, that yanks sound from deep within my chest and forces it through the thick red wall of my throat until the noise escapes, hanging in the room like yardsale curtains, lovely and thrilling for being cheap but always somehow feeling like they belong in someone else's house.
Emily Dickinson said to Thomas Wentworth Higginson--a man she saucily propositioned with the a version of the question "Tell me sir if you think my poems might be alive?"-- that she only knew if a thing were poetry if "...it makes my whole body so cold no fire ever can warm me I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only way I know it. Is there any other way?" (and even she was stealing--this is apparently paraphrased from her sister-in-law with whom it is rumored Emily was quite enamored). My point is, all of us, at one time or another, get the itch, the bug, the burn. the wild hair to express just what it is these magical expressions of others have done to us, and even we--writers by choice, word lovers by fate--don't always know how to do it without paraphrasing.
These are three things that got me today. I hope you read something that moves you soon, and I hope you share it with me.
1. "We have a great belief, those of us who live in this income bracket and this postal district, in the power of words: we read, we write, we talk, we have therapists and counselors and even priests who are happy to listen to us and tell us what to do. So it comes as a bit of a shock to me that my words, big words it seemed to me at the time, words that would change my life, might just as well have been bubbles: David swatted them away and they popped, and tehre is no evidence anywhere that they ever existed.
So now what? What happens when words fail us?"--How to be Good--Nick Hornby
2. "Think of the first boyfriend, Adam. You think he wasn't baffled by his girlfriend? You bet he was. Now, there's a guy who could have used this book. You may not think he needed it -- after all, he was alone in paradise, had some snacks, and Eve was already naked. But we beg to differ.
Their problems weren't over money, getting out of dinner with her parents, or his addiction to online poker. No, their issues revolved around a small piece of red fruit. God said, "Don't eat it." Eve said, "If you love me you'll bite." The poor guy had God on one side and Eve on the other; talk about a rock and a hard place. Adam tried to reason with his girl, warning her of the dangers of breaking the one rule God had made, but she wouldn't listen. From her point of view it wasn't about the apple or God (she wasn't hungry and had never even met the Big Guy in the sky), it was about whether her boyfriend took her seriously and understood her feelings. Sound familiar? In her mind, Adam was trying to control her … again. Talk about a power trip. Who died and left him in charge? There he was telling her what to eat, what not to eat, and by the way, was this "don't eat the apple" thing his way of letting her know he thought she was fat? Great."--The Practical Handbook for the Boyfriend--Felicity Huffman & Patricia Wolff (I bought this for the 50s noir book covers that corresponded to each chapter title but decided to read the dang thing before I cut the book apart)
3. "Lying in bed, at night, my stomach growled. I rolled over and tucked my knees to my chest. I saw myself smaller and smaller, like a seed in the black night soil of the earth. Here were the stars and here was the city. Here was the net of the world and I was waiting deep down inside it.
In the morning, I took one piece of strawberry-blond hair and cut it with a razor, zigzag bangs across my forehead; I hemmed my skirt three inches above the bare knee; I blacked out my eyes with kohl, just like Astrid did. I had always been such a nice girl; I was still such a nice girl. My mother took one look at me and asked, "Why would you want to be like that?"
I ask you, why, why not?"--Whores on the HIll, Collen Curran
14 November 2011
New Words
I am buried by grading which tends to exhaust and irritate me. However, I learned two new words today--thanks to the inexpert editing of my students--that I simply must share with you.
MULTIPUBLE, as in "he had done so multipuble of times", and PANTYHOES, as in "he kept his girlfriends pantyhoes to remind him of home".
Who's got the OED address? These are in dire need of being added.
MULTIPUBLE, as in "he had done so multipuble of times", and PANTYHOES, as in "he kept his girlfriends pantyhoes to remind him of home".
Who's got the OED address? These are in dire need of being added.
13 November 2011
Whitman
Most days, I believe there is something in me greater than myself. A capacity to love, an inclination towards compassion, an ability to empathize. Most days, I am confident, secure in the truths I know about my strength, my talents, my worthiness of love. Most days, I can shake off a bad dream, the kind that wakes me in a sweat, hair sticking to my neck, mouth dry, throat parched as if I've been screaming. Most days, I know everything is going to be alright, that all will be well, that the dreams I have will come true.
On the other days, I read Whitman. From "Song of Myself" (section 51):
On the other days, I read Whitman. From "Song of Myself" (section 51):
There is that in me... I do not know what it is... but I know it is in me.
Wrenched and sweaty... calm and cool then my body becomes;
I sleep... I sleep long.
I do not know it... it is without name... it is a word unsaid,
It is not in any dictionary or utterance or symbol.
Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on,
To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me.
Wrenched and sweaty... calm and cool then my body becomes;
I sleep... I sleep long.
I do not know it... it is without name... it is a word unsaid,
It is not in any dictionary or utterance or symbol.
Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on,
To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me.
05 November 2011
Long Overdue
Music has been a part of my life longer than I can remember. The story around my house is that the first song I ever learned was "She's Always a Woman" by Billy Joel from the '77 record The Stranger. I don't recall my parents owning this record, but I learned it somehow--radio most likely--and would wander around the house, two years old and already crooning, the word 'woman' over an over again. As in, 'woman woman woman.' Even then, I knew what I was going to grow to be.
For a while this year, I've had a hard time listening to music. So much of it inspires such bone deep reactions--from tears to melancholy to the unbridled wildness inspired by Heart's Barracuda. Seriously, if I'm ever pulled over for speeding it will probably be because I was listening to this song and singing at top volume. There are moments in life when my own emotions are so close to my skin that I simply cannot hear a song that will push me over the edge. But, I'm not having any of those moments right now.
In fact, I can't get enough of my music. I was wandering through old cds last night and realized how much good music I own that I never listen to simply because I get caught up in whatever's current in my ipod or cd player. Today, grayish cold and windy, I am going to wallow in my music collection, cassette tapes, vinyl, and all nearly 1000 cds will get a peak, what to keep, what to retire. I haven't been this excited about a long indulgent Saturday in a while. Here's the gem from the morning--if you haven't heard this in a while, you--like me--are long overdue for a listen:
For a while this year, I've had a hard time listening to music. So much of it inspires such bone deep reactions--from tears to melancholy to the unbridled wildness inspired by Heart's Barracuda. Seriously, if I'm ever pulled over for speeding it will probably be because I was listening to this song and singing at top volume. There are moments in life when my own emotions are so close to my skin that I simply cannot hear a song that will push me over the edge. But, I'm not having any of those moments right now.
In fact, I can't get enough of my music. I was wandering through old cds last night and realized how much good music I own that I never listen to simply because I get caught up in whatever's current in my ipod or cd player. Today, grayish cold and windy, I am going to wallow in my music collection, cassette tapes, vinyl, and all nearly 1000 cds will get a peak, what to keep, what to retire. I haven't been this excited about a long indulgent Saturday in a while. Here's the gem from the morning--if you haven't heard this in a while, you--like me--are long overdue for a listen:
03 November 2011
The Book of Love
There is a song by The Magnetic Fields called "The Book of Love," that Peter Gabriel covered (I know, there's humor in the original, Gabriel's is more of a ballad). And every time I hear the Gabriel version (and I mean EVERY time)--brings me to tears. There is something in it that grips my heart and pulls it up into my throat until I am gulping back sobs that want to take over my whole body.
The first time I heard it, and the time tonight that prompted this post, was in the film "Shall We Dance" with Richard Gere, Susan Sarandon, and Jennifer Lopez. I have a thing for Sarandon--ever since Bull Durham I have wanted to, in one way or another, be her--and I secretly love Lopez, too. I think she is simply beautiful, and I believe her in films. Is she the greatest actress? Well, she's certainly no Sarandon, but there's something likable about her. And so, I watch this movie whenever I see it is on, and the song slays me again and again.
The thing is, every time I hear this song, I imagine someone saying these words to me or--better yet--proposing while this song plays. I know, I know. Silly. But, see, I never had a real romantic proposal. I love my ex-husband, he is a good man, a wonderful friend, but we both played at marriage like two kids who felt like it was what grown ups did; neither of us really knew what that meant. So, the proposal wasn't thought out or romantic at all, it just sort of happened. And I didn't think I minded at the time because I'd convinced myself I didn't need or want some elaborate thing, but honestly, I did.
I do.
So, silly as it may sound, I want every damn thing in this song. Someone to love me like this. It may be a long time before I have that, but I believe I will someday because I deserve it.
We all do.
The first time I heard it, and the time tonight that prompted this post, was in the film "Shall We Dance" with Richard Gere, Susan Sarandon, and Jennifer Lopez. I have a thing for Sarandon--ever since Bull Durham I have wanted to, in one way or another, be her--and I secretly love Lopez, too. I think she is simply beautiful, and I believe her in films. Is she the greatest actress? Well, she's certainly no Sarandon, but there's something likable about her. And so, I watch this movie whenever I see it is on, and the song slays me again and again.
The thing is, every time I hear this song, I imagine someone saying these words to me or--better yet--proposing while this song plays. I know, I know. Silly. But, see, I never had a real romantic proposal. I love my ex-husband, he is a good man, a wonderful friend, but we both played at marriage like two kids who felt like it was what grown ups did; neither of us really knew what that meant. So, the proposal wasn't thought out or romantic at all, it just sort of happened. And I didn't think I minded at the time because I'd convinced myself I didn't need or want some elaborate thing, but honestly, I did.
I do.
So, silly as it may sound, I want every damn thing in this song. Someone to love me like this. It may be a long time before I have that, but I believe I will someday because I deserve it.
We all do.
01 November 2011
An Open Letter to 6th Hour
Dear Students,
Today I had to speak to you in tones harsher than I have had to use with you before. You all sat, wide-eyed, silent, knowing my words of admonishment were founded, that your behavior yesterday--when I was gone for a district meeting and you had a substitute--was completely uncalled for. You knew, with every word I spoke, that you had done wrong. In fact, you confessed to it even before my take down began, saying you knew you had been "really bad" yesterday.
You told me you missed me. Several of you, as you walked into this room, said you had missed me yesterday because I make you laugh, or because you like hearing me lecture--this one nearly floored me--or because you look forward to seeing me all day. You said such nice things, it made me sick to think of all the negativity I was about to rain down on you.
But, 6th hour, I have to put you on lockdown. I had to tell you how disappointed I was, had to make you see that your behavior was wildly disrespectful to the substitute, to yourselves and to me--the teacher so many of you profess to love. I had to do this so that you would understand our dynamic, laughing and relaxed and open, is one to be valued and honored, not taken for granted.
You should know I hate speaking to you like that. Telling you that I was sick all day thinking of the speech I was going to have to give you, how hurt my feelings were that you would act like that, that any help you needed would have to be solicited through email or before or after school because you had lost the privilege of getting my help today. And now, watchin gyou work so seriously, trying so hard to prove you are better than the humans you were in this room at this time yesterday afternoon, my heart is so full of love for you all that I am having to bite my tongue not to say so.
You are a good class, 6th hour, a great class even, fun and curious and full of energy--all things I encourage and that will serve you well in the future--but today's lesson is one knowing hte right time and place and audience for such exuberance. It is an awful, sad lesson to learn, and I am so sorry to have to be the one to teach it to you, but that is my job. I don't want you to just be better writers, better readers, better critical thinkers; I want you to be better humans. I want us all to be.
Love--Ms. D
Today I had to speak to you in tones harsher than I have had to use with you before. You all sat, wide-eyed, silent, knowing my words of admonishment were founded, that your behavior yesterday--when I was gone for a district meeting and you had a substitute--was completely uncalled for. You knew, with every word I spoke, that you had done wrong. In fact, you confessed to it even before my take down began, saying you knew you had been "really bad" yesterday.
You told me you missed me. Several of you, as you walked into this room, said you had missed me yesterday because I make you laugh, or because you like hearing me lecture--this one nearly floored me--or because you look forward to seeing me all day. You said such nice things, it made me sick to think of all the negativity I was about to rain down on you.
But, 6th hour, I have to put you on lockdown. I had to tell you how disappointed I was, had to make you see that your behavior was wildly disrespectful to the substitute, to yourselves and to me--the teacher so many of you profess to love. I had to do this so that you would understand our dynamic, laughing and relaxed and open, is one to be valued and honored, not taken for granted.
You should know I hate speaking to you like that. Telling you that I was sick all day thinking of the speech I was going to have to give you, how hurt my feelings were that you would act like that, that any help you needed would have to be solicited through email or before or after school because you had lost the privilege of getting my help today. And now, watchin gyou work so seriously, trying so hard to prove you are better than the humans you were in this room at this time yesterday afternoon, my heart is so full of love for you all that I am having to bite my tongue not to say so.
You are a good class, 6th hour, a great class even, fun and curious and full of energy--all things I encourage and that will serve you well in the future--but today's lesson is one knowing hte right time and place and audience for such exuberance. It is an awful, sad lesson to learn, and I am so sorry to have to be the one to teach it to you, but that is my job. I don't want you to just be better writers, better readers, better critical thinkers; I want you to be better humans. I want us all to be.
Love--Ms. D
31 October 2011
Trust/Doubt
“Trust the instinct to the end, though you can render no reason."--Ralph Waldo Emerson
I love Emerson. I love his transcendental point of view, his affirmational writing style in Self-Reliance, his awe of nature, his conviction that there was a better way for society to progress and that we, as members of it, were the key to that success. Not just our elected officials or representatives, but we ourselves were the voices and vehicles by which change must occur.
But this quotation, this concept of trust, is rankling me tonight. I am a woman of faith, more active now in that regard than I have been since my childhood, and I am a woman of forgiveness, believing that in order to move forward, to progress, I have to forgive the transgressions of those who have hurt me if only so that I can be set free from the pain of their prior acts. And yet, despite my faithfulness and forgiveness, I am grappling with my own ability to forget the things that have happened in the past and so trust is taking a back seat to Doubt which, it turns out, is a pretty loud and ominous passenger.
Doubt climbs into the car with all of its bags haphazardly packed and won't let you throw them in the trunk or in the backseat. Doubt carries all its baggage in its lap, right out in the open. Doubt's bags make it hard to see out the side mirror, to maneuver the air vents, to change the cd or radio station.
Doubt takes up so much space; don't even think about using the cupholder.
Doubt does not want to talk to you. Or, more accurately, Doubt doesn't want you to talk. Doubt sucks up all the air in the car and sets loose on a long and winding story that never seems to end, circling back again and again to that point in time that led you to invite Doubt in in the first place, a time so dark you don't remember what day it was, what the weather was like or whether or not you remembered to eat.
Doubt has no interest in current affairs, future plans, or the good news of the day; Doubt wants to rehash the past, to scratch and claw at those old wounds until the scars left behind are jagged, weeping welts of pain, oozing and open to the elements, unable to heal without immediate and expert attention that you, driver, cannot see to just now.
I want to kick Doubt the hell out of the car. I want to go back to the rest area where I fist met Doubt and avert my eyes when Doubt looks my way. I want Doubt to sit in the rain, cold and lonely, waiting for some other poor sucker to come along and pick Doubt up. I want to, but I am having the damnedest time making it happen and that may be because Doubt is one rational son-of-a-bitch. All of Doubts arguments make sense. Doubt says, "this happened before, it could--and probably will given your luck--happen again, so don't get your hopes up." Doubt is a master of empirical and anecdotal evidence. That's what makes Doubt so popular at conventions.
But, I am sick of Doubt. I am sick of the way Doubt smells--sour like laundry you forgot in the washing machine overnight--and I am sick of Doubt's heavy breathing when Doubt sleeps. Mostly, though, I am sick of being unable to hear myself think as Doubt huffs and puffs and sighs through our journey together, so I think it's time to pull over, open the door, and run for my life, trusting I'll find a path worth taking before too long.
I never liked that car anyway, and besides, I feel like walking.
I love Emerson. I love his transcendental point of view, his affirmational writing style in Self-Reliance, his awe of nature, his conviction that there was a better way for society to progress and that we, as members of it, were the key to that success. Not just our elected officials or representatives, but we ourselves were the voices and vehicles by which change must occur.
But this quotation, this concept of trust, is rankling me tonight. I am a woman of faith, more active now in that regard than I have been since my childhood, and I am a woman of forgiveness, believing that in order to move forward, to progress, I have to forgive the transgressions of those who have hurt me if only so that I can be set free from the pain of their prior acts. And yet, despite my faithfulness and forgiveness, I am grappling with my own ability to forget the things that have happened in the past and so trust is taking a back seat to Doubt which, it turns out, is a pretty loud and ominous passenger.
Doubt climbs into the car with all of its bags haphazardly packed and won't let you throw them in the trunk or in the backseat. Doubt carries all its baggage in its lap, right out in the open. Doubt's bags make it hard to see out the side mirror, to maneuver the air vents, to change the cd or radio station.
Doubt takes up so much space; don't even think about using the cupholder.
Doubt does not want to talk to you. Or, more accurately, Doubt doesn't want you to talk. Doubt sucks up all the air in the car and sets loose on a long and winding story that never seems to end, circling back again and again to that point in time that led you to invite Doubt in in the first place, a time so dark you don't remember what day it was, what the weather was like or whether or not you remembered to eat.
Doubt has no interest in current affairs, future plans, or the good news of the day; Doubt wants to rehash the past, to scratch and claw at those old wounds until the scars left behind are jagged, weeping welts of pain, oozing and open to the elements, unable to heal without immediate and expert attention that you, driver, cannot see to just now.
I want to kick Doubt the hell out of the car. I want to go back to the rest area where I fist met Doubt and avert my eyes when Doubt looks my way. I want Doubt to sit in the rain, cold and lonely, waiting for some other poor sucker to come along and pick Doubt up. I want to, but I am having the damnedest time making it happen and that may be because Doubt is one rational son-of-a-bitch. All of Doubts arguments make sense. Doubt says, "this happened before, it could--and probably will given your luck--happen again, so don't get your hopes up." Doubt is a master of empirical and anecdotal evidence. That's what makes Doubt so popular at conventions.
But, I am sick of Doubt. I am sick of the way Doubt smells--sour like laundry you forgot in the washing machine overnight--and I am sick of Doubt's heavy breathing when Doubt sleeps. Mostly, though, I am sick of being unable to hear myself think as Doubt huffs and puffs and sighs through our journey together, so I think it's time to pull over, open the door, and run for my life, trusting I'll find a path worth taking before too long.
I never liked that car anyway, and besides, I feel like walking.
30 October 2011
The Thread
This morning, at church, my pastor read a William Stafford poem to end his sermon. He spoke on the nature of the relationship between God and ourselves, that we are called to hang on to the thread that connects us to God, that keeps us even and steady even in the midst of great suffering and storms.
I have not always had an easy time feeling that thread. I have always felt a pull to something greater than myself, but I spent some years in a state of serious doubt brought on by academia and personal trauma that seemed to be impossible if God truly existed. But, then, the moment of faith came--the one that showed me nothing but prayer and belief was going to make me feel better--and I knew, deep in my bones, that my faith was one that belonged to me. That it wasn't just a faith I was raised with or of my parents and grandparents, it was and is mine.
I have a hard time with my faith, often wondering how the miracles God has worked in my life can be given that some of them seem in such direct opposition to biblical teachings, but I have never been one to take the Bible literally, and so I am working on it. It is hard to love your neighbor as yourself when you struggle, on occasion, to do the latter. It is hard to turn the other cheek when they've both been slapped so long, and it is hard to practice perfect love and compassion in a world so intent on revering fear and isolation.
But, I am trying. I am trying to hold on to the thread that connects me to God, to answer His call in my life, to have faith not only in Him but in myself and in the actions and words of those around me. I am stuck, today, in a particular relationship that is not moving as I would like it to, but I need to let go of my attachment to the outcome and trust that--as He has seen fit to do so far--God will lead me where I am supposed to go. Until then, I'll keep holding on to the thread.
The Way It Is, William Stafford
There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.
I have not always had an easy time feeling that thread. I have always felt a pull to something greater than myself, but I spent some years in a state of serious doubt brought on by academia and personal trauma that seemed to be impossible if God truly existed. But, then, the moment of faith came--the one that showed me nothing but prayer and belief was going to make me feel better--and I knew, deep in my bones, that my faith was one that belonged to me. That it wasn't just a faith I was raised with or of my parents and grandparents, it was and is mine.
I have a hard time with my faith, often wondering how the miracles God has worked in my life can be given that some of them seem in such direct opposition to biblical teachings, but I have never been one to take the Bible literally, and so I am working on it. It is hard to love your neighbor as yourself when you struggle, on occasion, to do the latter. It is hard to turn the other cheek when they've both been slapped so long, and it is hard to practice perfect love and compassion in a world so intent on revering fear and isolation.
But, I am trying. I am trying to hold on to the thread that connects me to God, to answer His call in my life, to have faith not only in Him but in myself and in the actions and words of those around me. I am stuck, today, in a particular relationship that is not moving as I would like it to, but I need to let go of my attachment to the outcome and trust that--as He has seen fit to do so far--God will lead me where I am supposed to go. Until then, I'll keep holding on to the thread.
The Way It Is, William Stafford
There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.
29 October 2011
Light
"The poem...is a little myth of man's capacity of making life meaningful. And in the end, the poem is not a thing we see--it is, rather, a light by which we may see--and what we see is life."--Robert Penn Warren
Tonight is our last performance of The Laramie Project at LHS. Directing this show has been an incredibly emotional experience for me not only because of the subject matter but because, during this process, I have come to appreciate a part of myself that I do not always see as positive.
I am a very emotional person. Very. Commercials, movies, stories people tell, stories I read, the look on a sad dog's face, just about anything can make me tear up. I have a heightened sense of empathy--I learned there's a word for this, it's called being an empath or being an empathic person--which means I soak up the energy of those around me and reflect it back, sort of like an emotional mirror. This is great when I am surrounded by joyful, creative, positive energy--as I have been much of the past few weeks--but it can be exhausting, too, when the energy surrounding me is negative or anxious or fearful.
Any time I direct a show, I try to settle the students on the nights of performances with a positive message that, sometimes, takes the form of a guided meditation. I ask them to close their eyes, hold hands, breathe deep, and focus on the light within them, the positive message they're sending, the joyful act of creation of which they are a part. As I say these things to them, I am, of course, speaking to myself, my voice rippling over them in waves, carrying them to what I hope is a more centered, peaceful place from which to bring the show we're working on to life.
And now, after weeks of nervous anxiety, elated successes, tearful worries, and joyous celebration, it is almost over. I find I am terribly tired and--while happy to have been the director of the process as well as the overseer of the product--I am grateful the end is near. This does not mean I haven't enjoyed the work--I have, immensely--it's actually been one of the best processes I've been part of in that I gave up so much control and just let it all breathe itself into existence that I never totally lost myself, which is a first. But, like the Robert Penn Warren quotation at the beginning of this entry, I am ready to allow room for something else to make my life meaningful. And that something is me. I want to find meaning not just in the work I do, but in myself. My shining, emotive, overly sensitive, often anxious little self.
I am ready to accept the myth of myself as poem, as poetry, as motion, as music, and see what kind of light will shine once all the other noise and light quiets and dims. So, tonight, when the final bow is taken, the last set piece struck, the lights turned out for the final time on this run, I believe a new light will begin to sparkle in the distance. May it be just bright enough to shine me home.
Tonight is our last performance of The Laramie Project at LHS. Directing this show has been an incredibly emotional experience for me not only because of the subject matter but because, during this process, I have come to appreciate a part of myself that I do not always see as positive.
I am a very emotional person. Very. Commercials, movies, stories people tell, stories I read, the look on a sad dog's face, just about anything can make me tear up. I have a heightened sense of empathy--I learned there's a word for this, it's called being an empath or being an empathic person--which means I soak up the energy of those around me and reflect it back, sort of like an emotional mirror. This is great when I am surrounded by joyful, creative, positive energy--as I have been much of the past few weeks--but it can be exhausting, too, when the energy surrounding me is negative or anxious or fearful.
Any time I direct a show, I try to settle the students on the nights of performances with a positive message that, sometimes, takes the form of a guided meditation. I ask them to close their eyes, hold hands, breathe deep, and focus on the light within them, the positive message they're sending, the joyful act of creation of which they are a part. As I say these things to them, I am, of course, speaking to myself, my voice rippling over them in waves, carrying them to what I hope is a more centered, peaceful place from which to bring the show we're working on to life.
And now, after weeks of nervous anxiety, elated successes, tearful worries, and joyous celebration, it is almost over. I find I am terribly tired and--while happy to have been the director of the process as well as the overseer of the product--I am grateful the end is near. This does not mean I haven't enjoyed the work--I have, immensely--it's actually been one of the best processes I've been part of in that I gave up so much control and just let it all breathe itself into existence that I never totally lost myself, which is a first. But, like the Robert Penn Warren quotation at the beginning of this entry, I am ready to allow room for something else to make my life meaningful. And that something is me. I want to find meaning not just in the work I do, but in myself. My shining, emotive, overly sensitive, often anxious little self.
I am ready to accept the myth of myself as poem, as poetry, as motion, as music, and see what kind of light will shine once all the other noise and light quiets and dims. So, tonight, when the final bow is taken, the last set piece struck, the lights turned out for the final time on this run, I believe a new light will begin to sparkle in the distance. May it be just bright enough to shine me home.
26 October 2011
Having It All
For the past five weeks or so, I have been directing The Laramie Project at the school where I work. The cast and crew are some of the most incredible kids I've ever worked with, genuinely kind and full of compassion, truly committed to the material, and tomorrow night we will open what I think is easily one of the most powerful plays ever written. I could not be more proud of them.
But, even in the middle of all the enthusiasm and excitement surrounding the show, I find myself sad. Heartbreakingly so. Each night, I come home to my sweet dog who I love, crazy though she may be, and we play for a bit, I feed her, we go to bed. I try to sleep but don't always manage it. This is one of the most hectic weeks of the year for me, juggling job and rehearsals. My house is a wreck, Z threw up sometime today so I had to clean that up when I got home, by the time I emptied the dishwasher and reloaded it, I was too tired to do laundry so I took a bath...and promptly fell asleep in it for ten minutes before hauling myself out to go back to rehearsal. And, now home, I'm exhausted but all I want is someone to talk to. I could crawl into bed, but I don't want to just yet because it's so damn lonely.
I have a good life, a full life, a life with friends and family and people who love me, students who make me laugh and think and care more than I ever thought I could. I do. I like being me, but I want to share my life with somebody. I really want to. I want to talk about my day and hear about his, I want to laugh and joke and feel so right next to someone that it never occurs to me to want to be anywhere else. I want companionship, friendship, love, listening, sharing, presence. I want someone here when i come home and am so tired to ask what they can do for me, to care for me, to treat me with kindness and concern. I want that.
I used to think admitting that I wanted all of that would make me seem weak, that somehow I had to just put my head down and do it all by myself and pretend like that was enough because wanting support was weakness. I know now that it isn't. Weakness stems from asking for no help. For trying to do it all on your own. I know I need help, I just don't have any at the moment.
I'm trying to have faith. Hope. I want to believe I'm going to get to have it all. I really do.
But, even in the middle of all the enthusiasm and excitement surrounding the show, I find myself sad. Heartbreakingly so. Each night, I come home to my sweet dog who I love, crazy though she may be, and we play for a bit, I feed her, we go to bed. I try to sleep but don't always manage it. This is one of the most hectic weeks of the year for me, juggling job and rehearsals. My house is a wreck, Z threw up sometime today so I had to clean that up when I got home, by the time I emptied the dishwasher and reloaded it, I was too tired to do laundry so I took a bath...and promptly fell asleep in it for ten minutes before hauling myself out to go back to rehearsal. And, now home, I'm exhausted but all I want is someone to talk to. I could crawl into bed, but I don't want to just yet because it's so damn lonely.
I have a good life, a full life, a life with friends and family and people who love me, students who make me laugh and think and care more than I ever thought I could. I do. I like being me, but I want to share my life with somebody. I really want to. I want to talk about my day and hear about his, I want to laugh and joke and feel so right next to someone that it never occurs to me to want to be anywhere else. I want companionship, friendship, love, listening, sharing, presence. I want someone here when i come home and am so tired to ask what they can do for me, to care for me, to treat me with kindness and concern. I want that.
I used to think admitting that I wanted all of that would make me seem weak, that somehow I had to just put my head down and do it all by myself and pretend like that was enough because wanting support was weakness. I know now that it isn't. Weakness stems from asking for no help. For trying to do it all on your own. I know I need help, I just don't have any at the moment.
I'm trying to have faith. Hope. I want to believe I'm going to get to have it all. I really do.
23 October 2011
Church
I'm getting ready to head out to church this morning for the first time in, I think, about two months. I have listened to the sermons online or on the radio each week, but I haven't been able to go. In part, my reluctance has been because I hate sitting there alone, and in part it's because I have had some crises of faith over the last six months.
The being alone part...well...when I was growing up, even if my dad had been out playing with the band the night before and reeked of cigarette smoke and booze, even if his eyes were blood shot and he hadn't had more than three hours of sleep, my mom hauled his ass out of bed and made him go to church with us. It was a family affair. And the two churches we went to in Salina--First Christian and Belmont--were both the churches my grandparents went to, Grandma Olive (dad's mom) to the former, Nanny and Grandad (mom's folks) to the latter. So, I associate church with family.
Or, when we moved and went to Falun Lutheran, it was for family but also for me. I loved the husband and wife pastors there, her sermons were always relevant and made me think God was listening to and watching me. I knew when I was there in that small country church that I wasn't alone.
But, in this big building, I feel alone a lot of the time. I don't know many of my fellow congregants, and I joined by myself a few months after my divorce became final last year because I knew I needed a place to feel safe and I knew I needed to be in a space each week where God and I could find each other more readily than we do in the car, in the shower, in my classroom, at the grocery store (all places I pray).
My crises of faith over the last few months left me breathless. I kept wondering how I could feel God so strongly and then events that I thought He had set in motion could fall so wildly apart. Now I see that all the falling apart was steps along the road to His plan and I have to trust Him completely if I am to navigate the world in any meaningful way.
So, today, to church I go. I'm announcing our fall play, The Laramie Project, and asking the congregation to support this message of hope in a difficult time. It occurs to me that while I'm doing so, I'm also asking God to give me back my hope, to see me through the rest of my life, to help me practice love in the face of moments and obstacles that threaten to break me.
As long as I have faith, as long as I believe, I know I will be okay.
There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. We love because He first loved us. (1 John 4:18-19)
The being alone part...well...when I was growing up, even if my dad had been out playing with the band the night before and reeked of cigarette smoke and booze, even if his eyes were blood shot and he hadn't had more than three hours of sleep, my mom hauled his ass out of bed and made him go to church with us. It was a family affair. And the two churches we went to in Salina--First Christian and Belmont--were both the churches my grandparents went to, Grandma Olive (dad's mom) to the former, Nanny and Grandad (mom's folks) to the latter. So, I associate church with family.
Or, when we moved and went to Falun Lutheran, it was for family but also for me. I loved the husband and wife pastors there, her sermons were always relevant and made me think God was listening to and watching me. I knew when I was there in that small country church that I wasn't alone.
But, in this big building, I feel alone a lot of the time. I don't know many of my fellow congregants, and I joined by myself a few months after my divorce became final last year because I knew I needed a place to feel safe and I knew I needed to be in a space each week where God and I could find each other more readily than we do in the car, in the shower, in my classroom, at the grocery store (all places I pray).
My crises of faith over the last few months left me breathless. I kept wondering how I could feel God so strongly and then events that I thought He had set in motion could fall so wildly apart. Now I see that all the falling apart was steps along the road to His plan and I have to trust Him completely if I am to navigate the world in any meaningful way.
So, today, to church I go. I'm announcing our fall play, The Laramie Project, and asking the congregation to support this message of hope in a difficult time. It occurs to me that while I'm doing so, I'm also asking God to give me back my hope, to see me through the rest of my life, to help me practice love in the face of moments and obstacles that threaten to break me.
As long as I have faith, as long as I believe, I know I will be okay.
There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. We love because He first loved us. (1 John 4:18-19)
21 October 2011
Being a Woman
I teach about gender a lot in my classes--what it means to be female or male, how society views the sexes, how we view each other, etc.--and it always gives rise to some f my favorite conversations.
Here are a couple gems I've found over the past few months that speak to where we were and, hopefully, where we're headed in terms of understanding what it means to be a woman.
Despite the above, though, I don't need society to tell me about being a woman, I don't need television or magazines to sell me an image or an idea of what it means to be a woman because I know, as sure as breathing, what that means for me.
Being a woman means being compassionate, hopeful, loving. Being a woman means high heels and lip gloss and pencil skirts and push-up bras. Being a woman means lingerie no one knows I'm wearing but me, pedicures, hearing a song that makes me cry, loving someone so much I can barely breathe if they are in pain. Being a woman means loving God, myself and--should I be lucky enough to have it again someday--my spouse with passionate devotion, total encouragement, and unconditional love.
Here are a couple gems I've found over the past few months that speak to where we were and, hopefully, where we're headed in terms of understanding what it means to be a woman.
Eve Ensler, Embrace Your Inner Girl, 2007 TED Talk
Despite the above, though, I don't need society to tell me about being a woman, I don't need television or magazines to sell me an image or an idea of what it means to be a woman because I know, as sure as breathing, what that means for me.
Being a woman means being compassionate, hopeful, loving. Being a woman means high heels and lip gloss and pencil skirts and push-up bras. Being a woman means lingerie no one knows I'm wearing but me, pedicures, hearing a song that makes me cry, loving someone so much I can barely breathe if they are in pain. Being a woman means loving God, myself and--should I be lucky enough to have it again someday--my spouse with passionate devotion, total encouragement, and unconditional love.
17 October 2011
Changing the Subject
Lately, while I grading essays, I've noticed an odd pattern emerging. My students, low ability to high, have begun--for no apparent reason--to move the subject of their sentences to the end, beginning with the object or a modifying phrase, anything that isn't what the sentence is about. I don't know who told them this was an interesting writing technique or that it would somehow make their sentence construction more enjoyable to read, but I'm guessing it must have been taught by someone at some point given its widespread usage among my classes.
And while this disturbs me to no end, I can't seem to stop them from doing--and I've started doing it, too. What happened to good old declarative sentences?
I am hungry. I am going to eat a sandwich. It will be made of meats and cheeses. I am referencing the film "Bridesmaids." and so on.
While my students are mixing up their words in a vain attempt--I think--to sound smarter than they are, it occurs to me that we--collectively (all you humans out there and me)--have become so complicated in our rhetoric, so intent on moving things around, so skilled at changing the subject, that we may not have real conversations much any more.
I'm focused on this because I have, of late, had some of the most real conversations of my life. Hard ones that have involved tears and clenched fists, averted eyes and whispers. The kinds of conversations people have to have, absolutely have to have, if meaningful change is ever going to occur--but they're also the kinds of conversations no one and I mean no one wants to have willingly. It's just so damn much easier to joke and laugh, to evade and hedge, to hide and keep silent.
Maybe what my students are doing is burying what they really want to say because they are afraid of saying it wrong, so they've concocted this twisted structure that allows them to ease you into their point of view, to seduce you with a subordinating conjunction and a prepositional phrase before hitting you with a statement so wildly true that it nearly knocks you breathless. Maybe they are trying to show me how hard it is for them to say what they feel or think because no one has ever allowed them to do that before. And maybe, given my own recent conversations, I really get it.
I know the impulse to apologize for having a feeling, to ask for forgiveness for expressing myself, to dismiss my own needs and wants as unnecessary, to change the damn subject just so that I don't make anyone else uncomfortable, but I don't want to do it anymore. I want to be uncomfortable, I want to squirm and itch and worry and wonder and say what I need to say anyway, certain that the receiving ears won't shut down, walk out, turn deaf. I want to stick to the subject, to be brave, to put my feelings first and to believe I am enough, just as I am, and that anyone who can't take what I have to say isn't worth the effort.
And I want you to feel that way, too.
Imagine how lovely the world could be if we all just sat back, open our hearts and minds, our mouths and ears, and vowed to listen as well and as hard as we spoke, and to never, even when it gets hard, change the subject.
And while this disturbs me to no end, I can't seem to stop them from doing--and I've started doing it, too. What happened to good old declarative sentences?
I am hungry. I am going to eat a sandwich. It will be made of meats and cheeses. I am referencing the film "Bridesmaids." and so on.
While my students are mixing up their words in a vain attempt--I think--to sound smarter than they are, it occurs to me that we--collectively (all you humans out there and me)--have become so complicated in our rhetoric, so intent on moving things around, so skilled at changing the subject, that we may not have real conversations much any more.
I'm focused on this because I have, of late, had some of the most real conversations of my life. Hard ones that have involved tears and clenched fists, averted eyes and whispers. The kinds of conversations people have to have, absolutely have to have, if meaningful change is ever going to occur--but they're also the kinds of conversations no one and I mean no one wants to have willingly. It's just so damn much easier to joke and laugh, to evade and hedge, to hide and keep silent.
Maybe what my students are doing is burying what they really want to say because they are afraid of saying it wrong, so they've concocted this twisted structure that allows them to ease you into their point of view, to seduce you with a subordinating conjunction and a prepositional phrase before hitting you with a statement so wildly true that it nearly knocks you breathless. Maybe they are trying to show me how hard it is for them to say what they feel or think because no one has ever allowed them to do that before. And maybe, given my own recent conversations, I really get it.
I know the impulse to apologize for having a feeling, to ask for forgiveness for expressing myself, to dismiss my own needs and wants as unnecessary, to change the damn subject just so that I don't make anyone else uncomfortable, but I don't want to do it anymore. I want to be uncomfortable, I want to squirm and itch and worry and wonder and say what I need to say anyway, certain that the receiving ears won't shut down, walk out, turn deaf. I want to stick to the subject, to be brave, to put my feelings first and to believe I am enough, just as I am, and that anyone who can't take what I have to say isn't worth the effort.
And I want you to feel that way, too.
Imagine how lovely the world could be if we all just sat back, open our hearts and minds, our mouths and ears, and vowed to listen as well and as hard as we spoke, and to never, even when it gets hard, change the subject.
16 October 2011
Cycles
As I pulled into my driveway this morning after running errands, I saw two impatiens blossoms, white and open as full as any jazz trumpet, waving in the morning breeze to greet me. Add these gracious hosts to the still vibrant lilac blooms on the butterfly bush by my back gate and the lurid pink mouths of the sweetheart roses near the door, and no one would believe we were midway through October.
These flowers and their extravagant shocks of color woke me up this morning to an idea that's been tickling at my brainstem for awhile but wouldn't quite come into focus until now. I've been thinking so much about timing lately, about seasons, about the cycles we follow by rote, the ones we follow blindly, the one we adhere to without even realizing they exist, and the ways those cycle dictate a life to us that may not be the one that is most authentic to us as individuals.
Katherine Anne Porter wrote: “There seems to be a kind of order in the universe, in the movement of the stars and the turning of the earth and the changing of the seasons, and even in the cycle of human life. But human life itself is almost pure chaos. Everyone takes his stance, asserts his own rights and feelings, mistaking the motives of others, and his own.”
If she is right--and my life over the last couple of years certainly dictates that she is--and we are all living lives of almost pure chaos, then our feigning rightness, order, and certainty must be a huge part of what contributes to humankind's general unhappiness.
I have many friends in the throes of crisis today, personal, professional, internal, external, tangible and intangible, and at the heart of all of that suffering--and at the heart of my own--lies an overwhelming need to do what we all feel we "should" as opposed to doing what we want. I keep wondering what it is that has convinced us all that we don't deserve the joyous lives we envision for ourselves, what keeps us running around the track, chasing a mechanical bunny that never slows down, that always eludes us, that never ever ever satisfies.
And then, I think about my flowers. The rose and butterfly bushes are perennial, meant to return each year, but they are both far past their blooming season, and by all practical calculation the impatiens, an annual flower I plant each spring because their bobbing blooms always seem like nature nodding yes to me whenever I want to scream no, should really be dead by now. But they're not. These flowers aren't adhering to any cycle that seeks to see them wilt, die out, shrivel, or go underground for another year. These flowers are blooming--blooming!--right here by my door, reminding me that the only limits to my own blossoming are the ones I set for myself.
Today, I choose color and life and beauty, joy and brightness and blooming. I hope you, dear reader, do the same.
These flowers and their extravagant shocks of color woke me up this morning to an idea that's been tickling at my brainstem for awhile but wouldn't quite come into focus until now. I've been thinking so much about timing lately, about seasons, about the cycles we follow by rote, the ones we follow blindly, the one we adhere to without even realizing they exist, and the ways those cycle dictate a life to us that may not be the one that is most authentic to us as individuals.
Katherine Anne Porter wrote: “There seems to be a kind of order in the universe, in the movement of the stars and the turning of the earth and the changing of the seasons, and even in the cycle of human life. But human life itself is almost pure chaos. Everyone takes his stance, asserts his own rights and feelings, mistaking the motives of others, and his own.”
If she is right--and my life over the last couple of years certainly dictates that she is--and we are all living lives of almost pure chaos, then our feigning rightness, order, and certainty must be a huge part of what contributes to humankind's general unhappiness.
I have many friends in the throes of crisis today, personal, professional, internal, external, tangible and intangible, and at the heart of all of that suffering--and at the heart of my own--lies an overwhelming need to do what we all feel we "should" as opposed to doing what we want. I keep wondering what it is that has convinced us all that we don't deserve the joyous lives we envision for ourselves, what keeps us running around the track, chasing a mechanical bunny that never slows down, that always eludes us, that never ever ever satisfies.
And then, I think about my flowers. The rose and butterfly bushes are perennial, meant to return each year, but they are both far past their blooming season, and by all practical calculation the impatiens, an annual flower I plant each spring because their bobbing blooms always seem like nature nodding yes to me whenever I want to scream no, should really be dead by now. But they're not. These flowers aren't adhering to any cycle that seeks to see them wilt, die out, shrivel, or go underground for another year. These flowers are blooming--blooming!--right here by my door, reminding me that the only limits to my own blossoming are the ones I set for myself.
Today, I choose color and life and beauty, joy and brightness and blooming. I hope you, dear reader, do the same.
14 October 2011
In This Moment
Anyone who tells you life is easy once you get what you always wanted is both a liar and a genius.
The thing is, once events transpire and stars collide, there's almost always another piece that needs to fall into place, more work that needs to be done, four thousand conversations to still be had, and even after all of that, new crops will grow, reach their needy hands to the sky for sun and rain.
My point is that we are always transitioning.
I know what I can and cannot control. I know who I can and cannot trust. I know when I do and do not feel safe, and I am getting really good at figuring out how to handle all of it, but there are days when I want the future to be right now.
I am a big believer in living in the moment, and lately I have had some pretty spectacular moments. Blissful. Peaceful Easy. Loving. But that doesn't mean my heart doesn't skip a beat when the past rears it's ugly head or that my eyes don't start to twitch when I contemplate possible roadblocks in the future. It's human nature, after all, to plan, to think, to reflect, to wonder, to speculate, to dream. The trick, I think, is to be just as invested in the right now as we are in the before and the what comes next. I just have a really hard time doing that.
A friend once said that living in the moment is great except it means we never deal with the past or prepare for the future, and--if we don't--the past can come up and knock us on our ass and the future can knock the wind clean out of us. I get that. I have knocked out and breathless more times than I can count, so you'd think I'd be better at letting go of the bullshit attached to the residual and the possible, but I'm just not.
Today, I am trying to live in the light of what I know to be true rather than trying to stay in some arbitrary moment that feels like a whole lot of nothing. Today, I know I am loved. I know I am good. I know I am made of joy and truth and compassion.
I am.
And, in this moment, that is all that matters.
The thing is, once events transpire and stars collide, there's almost always another piece that needs to fall into place, more work that needs to be done, four thousand conversations to still be had, and even after all of that, new crops will grow, reach their needy hands to the sky for sun and rain.
My point is that we are always transitioning.
I know what I can and cannot control. I know who I can and cannot trust. I know when I do and do not feel safe, and I am getting really good at figuring out how to handle all of it, but there are days when I want the future to be right now.
I am a big believer in living in the moment, and lately I have had some pretty spectacular moments. Blissful. Peaceful Easy. Loving. But that doesn't mean my heart doesn't skip a beat when the past rears it's ugly head or that my eyes don't start to twitch when I contemplate possible roadblocks in the future. It's human nature, after all, to plan, to think, to reflect, to wonder, to speculate, to dream. The trick, I think, is to be just as invested in the right now as we are in the before and the what comes next. I just have a really hard time doing that.
A friend once said that living in the moment is great except it means we never deal with the past or prepare for the future, and--if we don't--the past can come up and knock us on our ass and the future can knock the wind clean out of us. I get that. I have knocked out and breathless more times than I can count, so you'd think I'd be better at letting go of the bullshit attached to the residual and the possible, but I'm just not.
Today, I am trying to live in the light of what I know to be true rather than trying to stay in some arbitrary moment that feels like a whole lot of nothing. Today, I know I am loved. I know I am good. I know I am made of joy and truth and compassion.
I am.
And, in this moment, that is all that matters.
12 October 2011
11 October 2011
Reading Makes the Waiting Go By
Head over here to read a great little piece by Sharon Randall. I'm in the grading vortex today, but her words are worth posting: Reading Makes the Waiting Go By
After all the essays are done, maybe then I can tell you about my booksale finds and how good life has been lately. Or, maybe, I'll read the books and live for awhile and not have much to say.
We'll see.
After all the essays are done, maybe then I can tell you about my booksale finds and how good life has been lately. Or, maybe, I'll read the books and live for awhile and not have much to say.
We'll see.
10 October 2011
For Good Reason
Even though there are good reasons for me to feel like pendulum Peggy--swinging wildly from one emotion to the next--I hate it. I want to be in a place of complete trust and safety, total joy and belief, a place where I know in my heart of hearts all will be well, but I just can't 100% of the time.
There are circumstances far beyond even the slightest hint of my control, people and places and histories that matter more and deserve time and effort towards an evolution and resolve that has not a damn thing to do with me, but I still wish I could know beyond all doubt that those wheels within wheels and fires within fires would all come to rest, flame out, and the scarred earth left behind would be truly ready for planting again--and soon.
And I wonder if my anxieties are solely about others, or if I've got some residual lack of faith in myself, in my worthiness of happiness, of joy. I know that I am good, whole, full of wonder at the world--I know I am a catch, but my hangups--sometimes--are that I don't always know everyone else knows it, so I get really antsy and irritated.
I hate being that girl.
Nathaniel Hawthorne, in The Scarlet Letter (which I love more very single time I teach it) writes: "[I]t is to the credit of human nature...that it loves more readily than it hates." Many of my students, today, disagreed and said human nature was hateful first because it was easier, that love takes work and most people are too lazy to do that work. I don't think that's true for me, or for them collectively as this year's crop is a pretty loving bunch, but I have to admit their words have haunted me all day in that I think--if not outwardly, towards others--perhaps inwardly we are exactly as they say, hateful towards ourselves because it is easier. Think about how hard it would be to wake up every morning and say, "I am beautiful, joyful, worthy of good things" and then navigate a world where no one else thinks so.
I guess my point tonight, and through all this ramble I swear I have one, is that even if there are good reasons for me to be anxious, afraid, swinging, there are better reasons for me to be full of love because, in the end, as Ryan Adams would say, "Love takes care of love, hate just burns you out." I don't want to burn out; I want to be made of light.
There are circumstances far beyond even the slightest hint of my control, people and places and histories that matter more and deserve time and effort towards an evolution and resolve that has not a damn thing to do with me, but I still wish I could know beyond all doubt that those wheels within wheels and fires within fires would all come to rest, flame out, and the scarred earth left behind would be truly ready for planting again--and soon.
And I wonder if my anxieties are solely about others, or if I've got some residual lack of faith in myself, in my worthiness of happiness, of joy. I know that I am good, whole, full of wonder at the world--I know I am a catch, but my hangups--sometimes--are that I don't always know everyone else knows it, so I get really antsy and irritated.
I hate being that girl.
Nathaniel Hawthorne, in The Scarlet Letter (which I love more very single time I teach it) writes: "[I]t is to the credit of human nature...that it loves more readily than it hates." Many of my students, today, disagreed and said human nature was hateful first because it was easier, that love takes work and most people are too lazy to do that work. I don't think that's true for me, or for them collectively as this year's crop is a pretty loving bunch, but I have to admit their words have haunted me all day in that I think--if not outwardly, towards others--perhaps inwardly we are exactly as they say, hateful towards ourselves because it is easier. Think about how hard it would be to wake up every morning and say, "I am beautiful, joyful, worthy of good things" and then navigate a world where no one else thinks so.
I guess my point tonight, and through all this ramble I swear I have one, is that even if there are good reasons for me to be anxious, afraid, swinging, there are better reasons for me to be full of love because, in the end, as Ryan Adams would say, "Love takes care of love, hate just burns you out." I don't want to burn out; I want to be made of light.
08 October 2011
Simply Beautiful
Today has the potential to be simply beautiful. Gorgeous weather, clean house, new books to read from the Lawrence Public Library book sale, good friends, Bright Eyes & Ryan Adams on the hi-fi...yep.
Great day.
07 October 2011
I Love My Job
I love my job. I work with kids all day long that remind me what it means to be youthful, hopeful, excited about the future, full of the wonder and total joy that possibility breeds in the human heart.
Today I got to tour the C-SPAN Campaing 2012 bus that stopped at our school so that our amazing Student Council kids could interview them.
Later in the morning, a former student sent me this image from Pinterest that reminded her of me--it's spot on and I loved that she sent it.
Another stopped by to hug me in the middle of a class.
After school I learned another former student just became the newest intern at the Art Institute of Boston gallery--I couldn't be more proud of her if I was paid to be.
Do you see what I'm getting at?
I know, every single day, that the job I do touches lives and makes a difference. But, not just for them. Being a teacher helps me to be a better me.
If it weren't for my job, it would be pretty easy for me to turn inward, get dark, and focus only on the things that scare me in my life, but I am a teacher, and I see every day what positivity, joy, laughter, and yep--love--can do when applied in daily practice to the lives of people learning who they are.
Today I got to tour the C-SPAN Campaing 2012 bus that stopped at our school so that our amazing Student Council kids could interview them.
Later in the morning, a former student sent me this image from Pinterest that reminded her of me--it's spot on and I loved that she sent it.
Another stopped by to hug me in the middle of a class.
After school I learned another former student just became the newest intern at the Art Institute of Boston gallery--I couldn't be more proud of her if I was paid to be.
Do you see what I'm getting at?
I know, every single day, that the job I do touches lives and makes a difference. But, not just for them. Being a teacher helps me to be a better me.
If it weren't for my job, it would be pretty easy for me to turn inward, get dark, and focus only on the things that scare me in my life, but I am a teacher, and I see every day what positivity, joy, laughter, and yep--love--can do when applied in daily practice to the lives of people learning who they are.
06 October 2011
Two Things
I'm pretty sure I'll spend forever with the man who figures out these two things are the way to my heart.
I Knew a Woman, Theodore Roethke
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)
How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin:
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing did we make.)
Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)
How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin:
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing did we make.)
Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)
05 October 2011
Direction
Years ago, in another life, I was an actress. A high school theatre geek, a college actor, a woman of the stage, and I wasn't bad. I played some great roles and felt strong on stage, certain that I could deliver a performance that would move someone, and isn't that all any of us want to do? Put something in the world that will be well received, lauded, celebrated, praised?
Of all the parts I played, Audrey in Little Shop of Horrors was probably the most fun. So many of my then friends were in that little crackerbox of a show in the teeny tiny blackbox theatre of Hashinger Hall. I had a beehive, four inch heels, and one night I skidded across the stage and pulled a set wall down at the end of an act as I tried to keep from falling down.
But the role that challenged me most, bar none, was Meg in Crimes of the Heart. Not only was I terrified to do it--it was a big part and I felt like I knew that character so well, I wasn't scared of failing so much as I was afraid I wouldn't be good enough to do her justice--but the director was also a man for whom I had (still have) so much respect, I can only imagine it must be what working with DeNiro is like.
Greg wasn't just smart, talented, soulful, kind, funny--he was also my savior while I was in college. I was barely a non-traditional student, just two or three years older than my classmates, but damn if I didn't feel like I was living in another world. I'd attend classes and then sneak into his office and sit with him, laughing and talking and exchanging ideas, this man who was my mother's age though I never saw him like that made me feel like a full grown adult woman capable of making astute observations about the world. And he took me seriously. Not in that buttoned down, let's all have a cup of tea sort of a way but in that way that let's you know someone sees exactly who you are and completely digs you for it.
I've been thinking about Greg a lot lately, about the gift he gave me by casting me as Meg, and about all the other ways he helped me see myself in a whole new way. I'd returned to the small town where I went to high school and felt a little ashamed of that, I was in the same graduating class as my brother--this year marks our ten year college reunion (something only a school as small as ours would have)--and it felt a little degrading to be back where I'd started. But Greg gave me something better than direction on stage, he gave me direction in my life. He appreciated my early writing, encouraged me, and saw a spark in me that I wasn't really sure was anything more than a little psychological aurora borealis, my light just a phantom of the other lights that had come before me.
Today, I finished staging the show I'm directing this fall, and I got so excited about the way that final moment is going to look, about the way those kids are going to make an audience feel, and about the way I--hopefully--am going to be able to make those kids feel about themselves: strong, seen, capable.
Much as I loved being actress, nothing has ever felt as good as giving--and taking--direction.
Of all the parts I played, Audrey in Little Shop of Horrors was probably the most fun. So many of my then friends were in that little crackerbox of a show in the teeny tiny blackbox theatre of Hashinger Hall. I had a beehive, four inch heels, and one night I skidded across the stage and pulled a set wall down at the end of an act as I tried to keep from falling down.
But the role that challenged me most, bar none, was Meg in Crimes of the Heart. Not only was I terrified to do it--it was a big part and I felt like I knew that character so well, I wasn't scared of failing so much as I was afraid I wouldn't be good enough to do her justice--but the director was also a man for whom I had (still have) so much respect, I can only imagine it must be what working with DeNiro is like.
Greg wasn't just smart, talented, soulful, kind, funny--he was also my savior while I was in college. I was barely a non-traditional student, just two or three years older than my classmates, but damn if I didn't feel like I was living in another world. I'd attend classes and then sneak into his office and sit with him, laughing and talking and exchanging ideas, this man who was my mother's age though I never saw him like that made me feel like a full grown adult woman capable of making astute observations about the world. And he took me seriously. Not in that buttoned down, let's all have a cup of tea sort of a way but in that way that let's you know someone sees exactly who you are and completely digs you for it.
I've been thinking about Greg a lot lately, about the gift he gave me by casting me as Meg, and about all the other ways he helped me see myself in a whole new way. I'd returned to the small town where I went to high school and felt a little ashamed of that, I was in the same graduating class as my brother--this year marks our ten year college reunion (something only a school as small as ours would have)--and it felt a little degrading to be back where I'd started. But Greg gave me something better than direction on stage, he gave me direction in my life. He appreciated my early writing, encouraged me, and saw a spark in me that I wasn't really sure was anything more than a little psychological aurora borealis, my light just a phantom of the other lights that had come before me.
Today, I finished staging the show I'm directing this fall, and I got so excited about the way that final moment is going to look, about the way those kids are going to make an audience feel, and about the way I--hopefully--am going to be able to make those kids feel about themselves: strong, seen, capable.
Much as I loved being actress, nothing has ever felt as good as giving--and taking--direction.
04 October 2011
Spaces
I am a creature of space. I always have been. Pictures from my childhood bedrooms show them as rooms no one could have inhabited but me. Wallpapered with posters of Kirk Cameron and New Kids on the Block in middle school, then ads torn from Interview magazine in high school, glossy photos from theatre programs I thought I'd attend, quotations I loved.
In college, more of the same. Interview stuck around a long time, Rolling Stone covers, poems I loved, song lyrics, photos of friends and family. I've always needed the place I lived to look, to feel like me. To really reflect who I am. And, I've been blessed that my spaces have--usually--brought me great peace.
The house I'm in now has a copse of trees to the north that rushes in the breeze with the sweetest song, my sky pinks and purples, oranges and blues with each sun rise and set, and inside the rooms reflect everything about my personality from childhood til now.
Today, I was in a new space for a little bit. A space I hope to spend a lot of time in, a space that could--potentially--feel as much like home as this one.
Here's hoping.
In college, more of the same. Interview stuck around a long time, Rolling Stone covers, poems I loved, song lyrics, photos of friends and family. I've always needed the place I lived to look, to feel like me. To really reflect who I am. And, I've been blessed that my spaces have--usually--brought me great peace.
The house I'm in now has a copse of trees to the north that rushes in the breeze with the sweetest song, my sky pinks and purples, oranges and blues with each sun rise and set, and inside the rooms reflect everything about my personality from childhood til now.
Today, I was in a new space for a little bit. A space I hope to spend a lot of time in, a space that could--potentially--feel as much like home as this one.
Here's hoping.
03 October 2011
Spotify
With a special thanks to Jamie over at Mojo, etc., I have become a lover of Spotify. It basically makes your music collection available anywhere you have the application downloaded. All of it, as far as I can tell (every little dirty secret in your iTunes--Britney Spears, Foreigner, Oran "Juice" Jones, what have you). And you can look up new stuff and share playlists with friends. It's pretty badass.
These are just a few of the gems I've uncovered in the past few days. Enjoy.
These are just a few of the gems I've uncovered in the past few days. Enjoy.
Katie Herzig, "Oh My Darlin"
Lanterns on the Lake, "You're Almost There"
Fun featuring Janelle Monae, "We Are Young"
Andrew Belle, "The Ladder"
Bon Iver, "Towers"
02 October 2011
I Won't Let You Go
James Morrison. Amen.
when it’s black
take a little time to hold yourself
take a little time to feel around
before it’s gone
you won’t let go
but still keep on falling down
remember how you save me now
from all of my wrongs, yeah
if there’s love, just feel it
if there’s life, we’ll see it
this is no time to be alone, alone, yeah
i won’t let you go
say those words
say those words like there’s nothing else
close your eyes and you might believe
there is some way out
open up
open up your heart to me now
let it all come pouring out
there’s nothing i can’t take
if there’s love just feel it
if there’s life we see it
this is no time to be alone, alone, yeah
i won’t let you go
(won’t let you go)
(won’t let you go)
if your sky is falling
just take my hand and hold you
you don’t have to be alone, alone, yeah
i won’t let you go
(won’t let you go)
(won’t let you go)
and if you feel the fading of the light
and you’re too weak to carry on the fight
and all your friends that you cared for have disappeared
i’ll be here not gone forever holding on
if there’s love just feel it
if there’s life we see it
this is no time to be alone, alone, yeah
i won’t let you go
(won’t let you go)
(won’t let you go)
if there’s love just feel it
if there’s life we see it
this is no time to be alone, alone, yeah
i won’t let you go
(won’t let you go)
(won’t let you go)
i won’t let you go
i won’t let
i won’t let you go
i won’t let
i won’t let you go
i won’t let you go
when it’s black
take a little time to hold yourself
take a little time to feel around
before it’s gone
you won’t let go
but still keep on falling down
remember how you save me now
from all of my wrongs, yeah
if there’s love, just feel it
if there’s life, we’ll see it
this is no time to be alone, alone, yeah
i won’t let you go
say those words
say those words like there’s nothing else
close your eyes and you might believe
there is some way out
open up
open up your heart to me now
let it all come pouring out
there’s nothing i can’t take
if there’s love just feel it
if there’s life we see it
this is no time to be alone, alone, yeah
i won’t let you go
(won’t let you go)
(won’t let you go)
if your sky is falling
just take my hand and hold you
you don’t have to be alone, alone, yeah
i won’t let you go
(won’t let you go)
(won’t let you go)
and if you feel the fading of the light
and you’re too weak to carry on the fight
and all your friends that you cared for have disappeared
i’ll be here not gone forever holding on
if there’s love just feel it
if there’s life we see it
this is no time to be alone, alone, yeah
i won’t let you go
(won’t let you go)
(won’t let you go)
if there’s love just feel it
if there’s life we see it
this is no time to be alone, alone, yeah
i won’t let you go
(won’t let you go)
(won’t let you go)
i won’t let you go
i won’t let
i won’t let you go
i won’t let
i won’t let you go
i won’t let you go
01 October 2011
Exorcism
For some, exorcism conjures images of pea green soup and possessed little girls, priests and the seedy underbelly of Catholicism where it meets mystic and demonic ritual.
For me, it's about closets.
I have this passion for tearing everything out of my closets and exorcising the demons of my disorganization, be it clothes or office supplies, shoes (yes, I have an entire closet for shoes--and three shelves in another closet), or bath products, I have closets galore and they are filled with so much stuff that, when I get busy, I often just grab and shove until there's such a mess I can't tell my spaghetti strap tanks from my solid cotton t-shirts.
Everything used to be sorted by color--I still sort of stick to that--but now it's more about like items with like items, and today, digging through drawers and closets, boxes and bags I haven't looked into for awhile, I'm finding all kinds of things I'm just done with. Do I really need a t-shirt from a concert I didn't attend, even if it is a band I like, when I haven't worn the thing in seriously over five years? Or how about that pair of shoes I got way way way on clearance with the killer spike heel that hurt so much when I wear them that I basically always have to be sitting down?
Nope. Today I am the exorcist, sorting and tossing and generally putting things into an order that suits this me. It feels so good to take control of your space, even if I have basically been working on one room for the last four hours. But a woman's bedroom is a sacred space, it's bound to take a little time.
Take heart, though, fans--I am not haphazardly gutting my life. I have held on to the really important items, like the necklace my grandmother had made for me when I graduated from high school and my Ghostbusters eraser from 3rd grade on which I wrote my name and the fact that I was in 3rd grade. Priceless.
Some things have to be let go so that we can move into more open space while others, even if we thought we were done with them, resurface and prove to be the most important things in our lives.
Love, I have discovered recently, is like that, too. Sometimes we have to say goodbye to the love we thought would be our life so that the truest love can take root, hold fast, and grow.
For me, it's about closets.
I have this passion for tearing everything out of my closets and exorcising the demons of my disorganization, be it clothes or office supplies, shoes (yes, I have an entire closet for shoes--and three shelves in another closet), or bath products, I have closets galore and they are filled with so much stuff that, when I get busy, I often just grab and shove until there's such a mess I can't tell my spaghetti strap tanks from my solid cotton t-shirts.
Everything used to be sorted by color--I still sort of stick to that--but now it's more about like items with like items, and today, digging through drawers and closets, boxes and bags I haven't looked into for awhile, I'm finding all kinds of things I'm just done with. Do I really need a t-shirt from a concert I didn't attend, even if it is a band I like, when I haven't worn the thing in seriously over five years? Or how about that pair of shoes I got way way way on clearance with the killer spike heel that hurt so much when I wear them that I basically always have to be sitting down?
Nope. Today I am the exorcist, sorting and tossing and generally putting things into an order that suits this me. It feels so good to take control of your space, even if I have basically been working on one room for the last four hours. But a woman's bedroom is a sacred space, it's bound to take a little time.
Take heart, though, fans--I am not haphazardly gutting my life. I have held on to the really important items, like the necklace my grandmother had made for me when I graduated from high school and my Ghostbusters eraser from 3rd grade on which I wrote my name and the fact that I was in 3rd grade. Priceless.
Some things have to be let go so that we can move into more open space while others, even if we thought we were done with them, resurface and prove to be the most important things in our lives.
Love, I have discovered recently, is like that, too. Sometimes we have to say goodbye to the love we thought would be our life so that the truest love can take root, hold fast, and grow.
30 September 2011
When the Music's Not Forgotten
Some days, when hope comes winging into your heart despite your best efforts at bird proofing, the best you can do is open your voice and sing, try to match the song as best you can, harmonies lifting until there is no difference between who you want to be and who you are.
This, today, is my song: When the Music's Not Forgotten, Deadman
Please come close, for I long for you to hear
Hear the sound
That will rid you of your fears
In a land, where no water can be found
In a place, where there is no fertile ground
Longing for, yearning not to be forgotten
In an age, when the music is forgotten
In an age, when the music is forgotten
In the truth (in the truth)
Speaks of great and mighty things
Teaching us (teaching us)
What the peace of heaven brings
We must give (we must give)
We must give to all the others to those in need (those in need)
Who we fear to call our brothers
Reaching out (reaching out)
So that we are not forgotten
In a time (in a time)
When the music is forgotten
In a time (in a time)
When the music is forgotten
If we stand on a hill and do not touch
How can we do good?
If we wash our hands with all our friends
Where change can really come
If we hide our fears and don't draw near
Have we really lived?
Or are we all just standing here
Hoping there is grace?
In a dream (in a dream)
That I had not long ago
Visions of (visions of)
In a city made of gold
And a sound (and a sound)
That I never heard before
Such a sound (such a sound)
Saturating to the core
Such a sound (such a sound)
One that cannot be forgotten
[x4]
In a time (in a time)
When the music's not forgotten
This, today, is my song: When the Music's Not Forgotten, Deadman
Please come close, for I long for you to hear
Hear the sound
That will rid you of your fears
In a land, where no water can be found
In a place, where there is no fertile ground
Longing for, yearning not to be forgotten
In an age, when the music is forgotten
In an age, when the music is forgotten
In the truth (in the truth)
Speaks of great and mighty things
Teaching us (teaching us)
What the peace of heaven brings
We must give (we must give)
We must give to all the others to those in need (those in need)
Who we fear to call our brothers
Reaching out (reaching out)
So that we are not forgotten
In a time (in a time)
When the music is forgotten
In a time (in a time)
When the music is forgotten
If we stand on a hill and do not touch
How can we do good?
If we wash our hands with all our friends
Where change can really come
If we hide our fears and don't draw near
Have we really lived?
Or are we all just standing here
Hoping there is grace?
In a dream (in a dream)
That I had not long ago
Visions of (visions of)
In a city made of gold
And a sound (and a sound)
That I never heard before
Such a sound (such a sound)
Saturating to the core
Such a sound (such a sound)
One that cannot be forgotten
[x4]
In a time (in a time)
When the music's not forgotten
29 September 2011
Cool
I have never been, by my own definition, cool. That term always belonged to other girls, my grade school friend Jennifer's older sister Juie who had Molly Ringwald's 16 Candles haircut, posters of Duran Duran, and a complete disdain for everyone younger than her. Cool.
Or the older girls I saw cruising Fe--Santa Fe St. In Salina--who had thick eyeliner and smoked and had their own cars and seemed untouchable by things that haunted me like wanting to be liked and feeling unattractive to boys.
Or, when I got to college, the kids who were so plugged in to their thing, music or art or whatever, that they really seemed to not even see the rest of us, like we were invisible obstacles on whatever planet of awesome they inhabited.
But, and this is a big one, I think, seriously, that I may finally be sort of, kind of, dare I say it, cool. Possible evidence to that fact: I really don't care what people think any more. I mean, at all. If I want to wear cowboy boots and a dress and a cardigan and sort of look like the love child of Courtney Love and Loretta Lynn, so be it. I think misogynistic rap lyrics are wrong but I rock out to them at the gym and in my car. I'm embracing my multitudes and contradictions for the first time.
Point 2: pop culture references at the drop of a hat that. 4 kids I love hollered "yo ho ho" at me in the hally today--I later learned they'd just left a class where they were reading Hamlet--and my response was "and a bottle of Brass Monkey, when my girlie shakes her hips she sure gets funky.". Yeah. I said it.
Point 3: and most importantly, I can laugh at myself and not just when others are laughing. Today, I said something really dumb about why i don't wear a watch anymore. For those of you who were there, ugh. I stopped wearing a watch because it made me so anxious, I was constantly checking it, feeling like I had to plan and time everything. It made me nuts. But, today, I said I stopped wearing it because "I didn't want to be a slave to time anymore.". Oh, god, even writing it makes me feel like a douche. But, and this is why I may be cool, I immediately said I knew the comment made me sound like an asshole, and we all had a good laugh at it.
Finally, I think I mint be cool because, after all this time of feeling like I wasn't I sort of don't care anymore if I am. And that makes me ultimately cool.
Right? (okay, maybe I still care a little :)
Or the older girls I saw cruising Fe--Santa Fe St. In Salina--who had thick eyeliner and smoked and had their own cars and seemed untouchable by things that haunted me like wanting to be liked and feeling unattractive to boys.
Or, when I got to college, the kids who were so plugged in to their thing, music or art or whatever, that they really seemed to not even see the rest of us, like we were invisible obstacles on whatever planet of awesome they inhabited.
But, and this is a big one, I think, seriously, that I may finally be sort of, kind of, dare I say it, cool. Possible evidence to that fact: I really don't care what people think any more. I mean, at all. If I want to wear cowboy boots and a dress and a cardigan and sort of look like the love child of Courtney Love and Loretta Lynn, so be it. I think misogynistic rap lyrics are wrong but I rock out to them at the gym and in my car. I'm embracing my multitudes and contradictions for the first time.
Point 2: pop culture references at the drop of a hat that. 4 kids I love hollered "yo ho ho" at me in the hally today--I later learned they'd just left a class where they were reading Hamlet--and my response was "and a bottle of Brass Monkey, when my girlie shakes her hips she sure gets funky.". Yeah. I said it.
Point 3: and most importantly, I can laugh at myself and not just when others are laughing. Today, I said something really dumb about why i don't wear a watch anymore. For those of you who were there, ugh. I stopped wearing a watch because it made me so anxious, I was constantly checking it, feeling like I had to plan and time everything. It made me nuts. But, today, I said I stopped wearing it because "I didn't want to be a slave to time anymore.". Oh, god, even writing it makes me feel like a douche. But, and this is why I may be cool, I immediately said I knew the comment made me sound like an asshole, and we all had a good laugh at it.
Finally, I think I mint be cool because, after all this time of feeling like I wasn't I sort of don't care anymore if I am. And that makes me ultimately cool.
Right? (okay, maybe I still care a little :)
28 September 2011
3 Laughs
I have been writing a lot of personally introspective things lately, so tonight I'm taking a break. These three moments have made me laugh in the past couple of days. They say a lot about my sense of humor.
I.
Today I misread an email subject that read "Excuse for Gymnastics"--as in please excuse these students who will miss class for a gymnastics tournament--to read "Excuse for Gymnastics" as in these students are our excuse for having a gymnastics program.
I laughed right out loud at myself. Go me.
II.
Yesterday, after texting a student who was missing from rehearsal, I received a text saying I had the wrong number (I later learned the missing student had incorrectly written his cell number). I replied "Sorry," and the following text exchange occurred:
Anon: That's okay. I play the kazoo, can I come rehearse?
Me: Uhh, no thanks, but good luck with the kazoo.
Anon: Hey, thanks. My mom says I'm really good at it.
(I secretly wish I knew who this person was so I could tell him/her they made me laugh)
III.
A private joke about "just sitting there and doing nothing" has been making me laugh all day and night since it was first used in the exact way you're thinking it was used earlier today.
Sometimes, a little laughter is all it takes.
I had a lot of it today, much needed, with the friend from III. Here's to more of that.
I.
Today I misread an email subject that read "Excuse for Gymnastics"--as in please excuse these students who will miss class for a gymnastics tournament--to read "Excuse for Gymnastics" as in these students are our excuse for having a gymnastics program.
I laughed right out loud at myself. Go me.
II.
Yesterday, after texting a student who was missing from rehearsal, I received a text saying I had the wrong number (I later learned the missing student had incorrectly written his cell number). I replied "Sorry," and the following text exchange occurred:
Anon: That's okay. I play the kazoo, can I come rehearse?
Me: Uhh, no thanks, but good luck with the kazoo.
Anon: Hey, thanks. My mom says I'm really good at it.
(I secretly wish I knew who this person was so I could tell him/her they made me laugh)
III.
A private joke about "just sitting there and doing nothing" has been making me laugh all day and night since it was first used in the exact way you're thinking it was used earlier today.
Sometimes, a little laughter is all it takes.
I had a lot of it today, much needed, with the friend from III. Here's to more of that.
27 September 2011
Honesty
I have, for a very long time, prided myself on being honest. I tell my students they have to be honest with me if they didn't do or didn't understand their assignments because it's the only way I can help them. I tell them they have to be honest with each other if they want to have meaningful relationships, and I tell them they have to be honest with themselves if they ever hope to live their most authentic life.
I am full of shit.
Well, sort of.
See, I completely believe all of this for everyone else. Sometimes I believe it for me, but not always. And I certainly have a hard time telling the people I love most the truth, especially if it's stuff they may not want to hear. I have this deep need to please, to be liked, and it can get in the way of me being me, of living--you guessed it-- my most authentic life.
So, today, I told the truth. A lot. I said a whole lot of things I haven't been saying, I trusted myself and someone I love to be able to take it, whatever the consequences.
I am too old not to practice what I preach, and if I'm telling my students to practice honesty, I'd better be just as brave as I expect them to be.
Cross your fingers that I made the right choice.
I am full of shit.
Well, sort of.
See, I completely believe all of this for everyone else. Sometimes I believe it for me, but not always. And I certainly have a hard time telling the people I love most the truth, especially if it's stuff they may not want to hear. I have this deep need to please, to be liked, and it can get in the way of me being me, of living--you guessed it-- my most authentic life.
So, today, I told the truth. A lot. I said a whole lot of things I haven't been saying, I trusted myself and someone I love to be able to take it, whatever the consequences.
I am too old not to practice what I preach, and if I'm telling my students to practice honesty, I'd better be just as brave as I expect them to be.
Cross your fingers that I made the right choice.
26 September 2011
Shoebox
A good friend of mine used to have what he called his 'shoebox of lies.' He took the name from a Barenaked Ladies song, and his box was filled with old letters and card, gifts from people who had once cared for him, people whom he had once cared for. We joked about that shoebox thousands of times, but he recently told me he threw it out. Time to clean house, move on, start fresh.
I have a box like that, not filled with lies, but with the words and music and gifts of one particular relationship. I have not opened it since I filled it, eyes full of tears and heartsick that I may never see or hear or feel those things again. I couldn't throw those things out, though. I couldn't let the artifacts of love, the evidence of joy rot in some landfill somewhere while I wept over their loss. And I didn't want to be one of those people who thought the love that had existed between us was somehow false or dead simply because one of us made a huge mistake.
I have, of late, been wanting to open that box, to sift and see, to dig and dream. In my reverse Pandora story, there is no evil to be unleashed by looking, but there are small winged moths of hope that may come flying out should that lid be lifted, and I may be, today, more afraid of those flutters than of any other carnage or chaos because, when hope is shattered, when faith goes, there is simply no other road to travel.
So, for now, the box is buried, the lid latched, and I wait, wondering if there'll come a day to dream again.
I have a box like that, not filled with lies, but with the words and music and gifts of one particular relationship. I have not opened it since I filled it, eyes full of tears and heartsick that I may never see or hear or feel those things again. I couldn't throw those things out, though. I couldn't let the artifacts of love, the evidence of joy rot in some landfill somewhere while I wept over their loss. And I didn't want to be one of those people who thought the love that had existed between us was somehow false or dead simply because one of us made a huge mistake.
I have, of late, been wanting to open that box, to sift and see, to dig and dream. In my reverse Pandora story, there is no evil to be unleashed by looking, but there are small winged moths of hope that may come flying out should that lid be lifted, and I may be, today, more afraid of those flutters than of any other carnage or chaos because, when hope is shattered, when faith goes, there is simply no other road to travel.
So, for now, the box is buried, the lid latched, and I wait, wondering if there'll come a day to dream again.
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