Views from the Dock

The Right Moment

2012-03-03T16:31:00.000-05:00

I am not afraid of confrontation. I can take the spotlight when I need to. But sometimes when I don’t talk, it is simply that I realize my limitations to debate an issue. Other times, my silence is a matter of always having believed in my ability to capture the room’s attention and to make effective change by choosing the right moment to speak up. Those who clamor for attention and recognition of how politically or socially savvy they are quickly become ineffective in their protests and pontifications. Their voices become shrill and nauseating. They tire me, especially when I note the lack of experience or the lack of empathy they display.

I try to steer clear of political debate on most issues. It is not that I am without opinion, nor am I without courage. It is simply that in most situations I work to respect the difference of opinions amongst people. Despite who we are or what we believe in, we are the product of our upbringing, experiences, education, and influences. I truly subscribe to the idea that most people are doing the best they can in any circumstance. If someone disagrees with my stance, through conversation with that person, the reasons behind the difference in opinion is unveiled and it usually make sense to me. With this said, there are times when I find it necessary to speak up and raise concern or awareness on a subject dear to my heart, and I do, but it has been my experience that often the most effective way to make change in my environment is to talk with people one on one, rather than to climb onto a soapbox, demanding that all eyes and ears turn my way.

Several years ago I became a political advocate for our local school district’s music department. Facing budget cuts, I wrote letters, elicited petition signatures, and went completely out of my comfort zone when I spent hours at the polls talking to the public. The experience did not end with any heroics but I did my part to garner support for the music teachers and students as best I could. Years later, I spoke up again, at a school board meeting when the high school principal of my children’s school was to be ousted under the guise of politics, when in reality there was the greed of the ransom of state money which could go to the school. A good man fell on his sword and chose an early retirement. Again, I’d gone out of my comfort zone for something, or rather someone I believed in, but my efforts were futile.

So here I am again, debating whether or not to speak up, to voice my upset that the world has gone crazy. I am so tired of the shrill and nauseating voices which, in their attempts to make sense of politics, are throwing dirt at something they do not understand. I don't proclaim to understand every facet either, which perhaps is why I find it best to listen with the two ears God gave me. In the meantime, I am standing here dumbfounded. I keep taking a towel to wash my face. I should move. I should speak. Shouldn't I? No, not yet. I am confused and do not know what to do or what to say. I want to be that welcomed voice of reason but I am not sure I have it in me to debate. I realize why they are saying what they are saying; their upbringing, experiences, education, and influences have been different from mine. I respect that. And unfortunately the dirt bombs are being sent from so many different directions. Some are not even aware of how I am feeling, not that my little ol' feelings matter any more than others. I suppose what bothers me the most is that my own pained voice isn’t being heard. In my attempts to be tolerant and understanding, I have been silenced...by my own confused, distraught, and exhausted hands.

Or perhaps I am just waiting for the right moment. Is that it? I hope so. And if so, I hope it comes soon.

Getting Out of the Boat

2012-02-21T23:08:00.000-05:00

Lent. These 40 days preceding Easter mark a season of prayer, penance, sacrifice, reflection, and good works. Growing up, my family and I began Lent with Ash Wednesday. Having ashes placed on my forehead at Mass, I would make my way to a mirror after church. The mark of the ashes was meaningful and of great importance. The ashes gave me strength. They gave me hope.

Lately, I’ve been tired. I have lost hope in a variety of areas. But that isn’t who I am. So, as the season of Lent begins, I am going to grab onto this opportunity to get myself back on track. I will work towards conversion and to prepare myself for Easter, for Spring, for the Resurrection--Christ’s and my own.

In the past several months I have slipped. Normally quite determined and strong, I have strayed too far for too long. It’s time to get myself back. My words here may be vague but I know exactly what I am talking about. Perhaps over the next 40 days I’ll share some of those points where I’ve been sidetracked and have gone astray. But tonight, the evening before Lent begins, I am reminding myself that God needs me to keep going on this journey. He’s not through with me yet.

I read a passage in my devotions book. Jesus said, “If you believe, you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer”. (Matthew 21:22). God’s ear is turned toward those who pray to Him in faith. Peter was the only one who walked on water beside Jesus, but he was also the only one who got out of the boat. Until you make a decision to believe, and then act on it, nothing will happen”.

The passage makes reference to the story of Peter and other disciples of Jesus who were sent ahead of Him in a boat to cross the Sea of Galilee. Several hours later in the night, the disciples encountered a storm. Jesus came to them, walking on the water. The disciples were terrified upon thinking they were seeing a ghost but Jesus told them, "Take courage! It is I. Don't be afraid." Peter spoke to Jesus and said, "Lord, if it's you, tell me to come to you on the water." So Jesus invited Peter to join him. Peter got out of the boat and began walking on the water toward Jesus. Yet when Peter began to take note of his fear, the wind and waves, he began to sink. Peter cried out and Jesus immediately reached out His hand and caught Peter.

I’ve allowed other people, other elements, other influences to interfere with my journey in negative ways. I’ve been sinking deeper and deeper into fear. I’ve allowed wind and waves to halt me. That ends tonight. I am not presumptuous in thinking I’ll be walking on water any day soon, but I am ready for the ashes of this season.

I’m getting out of the boat.

A Nine Day Stretch

2012-02-17T20:15:00.000-05:00

The school day had ended. As I packed up folders of correcting work and put away my school laptop, I looked around the classroom to make sure I had everything I needed. I made sure the noisy heater was indeed turned back on so my room would not be an ice box upon my return, and I left myself a few notes on the chalkboard and on my desk, a strategy I had begun several years ago knowing the strange lost feeling I often have upon returning to work after a stretch of days off. Notes that would answer, “What were we doing in each class before vacation?” and “Where do I begin again?”

Once in the car, I babbled on about my day to my husband as we made our way home. It had been a good day, including great talks with my teens who were remarkably quite on task and full of great insight and appreciation for the day’s lessons, despite it being Friday. I gave Eric the recap of each block and found myself getting awfully nerdy again with my ideas on the authors I was introducing to my teens. I’m not altogether sure why I sometimes feel the need to tell him so much about what I do in the classroom. But today, it was as though I had to get everything said before our commute came to an end, to purge and to be fully empty of any residual “job speak” from the workweek.

Lugging my bag into the house I said hello to the puppy and dropped my things on the floor. Would I look at these items at all during the week before that last Sunday night of vacation? Maybe. Maybe not. Now was not the time to decide. My son met me at the kitchen island. “Vacation”, he said with brightness in his eyes. “Yes! Vacation!”, I repeated with a smile. We chatted briefly about our plans for the first weekend and then went our separate ways for the rest of the afternoon, both knowing the joy that comes with having no set schedule for the evening.

I prepped a light supper and watched some previously taped shows on tv. I cuddled with the pup and received a big hug from my daughter when she too arrived home for the start of vacation week. She too met me with one word, “Vacation!”. It seems we indeed had all received the memo on the word of the day. There was a lightness in everyone’s step. Smiles were plentiful. We were feeling free.

It matters not that we’re doing nothing extraordinarily different from any other evening tonight. It’s simply the peace of mind that comes with having a stretch of road in front of us--nine days of being free to break the routine or to select the routine if we choose. Nine days to sleep a little more, to breathe a little easier, to snuggle or to go off in separate directions, whatever we desire. Nine days to step away or to step closer, to move quickly or to not move at all. The first few hours of a vacation are especially exhilarating. There’s nothing like them.

Transparency and Transformation

2012-02-06T21:34:00.000-05:00

"Most sculptors make the mistake“, he said, “of thinking of eyes as form and they therefore make them as spherical surfaces. Eyes are not forms, they are transparent, and what one really sees is the light of the soul in them – and that is what I try to give them". ---Walter Russell

When you are someone like me, you look into others’ eyes quite deeply. You read others’ words and look for clues. You watch the way others walk, the way they settle into their chairs, and the way they turn back to face you. When you are someone like me, you crave that light that is within them, and you long not to forget how it feels to have the warmth of that light upon you.

Craving that light today, I settled into the sofa and popped in a movie that I had not seen. I had read Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love over a year ago and have had a love-hate relationship with its story. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see the film based on the memoir, but having received the movie for Christmas, I decided to give myself over to it today. I’d arrived home feeling depleted. Exhausted from my day, an emotional and mental weariness that has been all too common as of late, I needed an escape of my own. Not about to take off to Italy, India, and Bali to “find myself” as Ms Gilbert did, I decided to live vicariously for a couple of hours.

I began the film and rolled my eyes as she made the decision to leave her husband. I shook my head as she whined to her friend about needing “me time”. But I continued to give Elizabeth a chance. And as she had done in her book, she caught me. Speaking of the Augusteum in Rome, Elizabeth Gilbert says, “We all want things to stay the same. Settle for living in misery because we're afraid of change, of things crumbling to ruins. Then I looked at around to this place, at the chaos it has endured - the way it has been adapted, burned, pillaged and found a way to build itself back up again. And I was reassured, maybe my life hasn't been so chaotic, it's just the world that is, and the real trap is getting attached to any of it. Ruin is a gift. Ruin is the road to transformation".

Perhaps this is where I’m at. A few weeks ago, a dear friend commented to me that he loves my “transparency and my willingness to keep it real”. I was extremely touched by his words and after reading them in his note to me, sent at the end of what had been a tough day, I began to cry. The word “transparency” caught my attention. His remark suggests that I am open, that I allow others to see me, without pretension and with complete accessibility. I hope that it was a compliment; I think it was. But the truth is, I have always felt most alive when I am vulnerable and exposed. It’s something I struggle with, however, but not in the way one might think. Perhaps right now, I am in the midst of crumbling ruins. But it could be that my life is readying itself for transformation. I won’t be abandoning my husband for a trip to learn the power of good food and meditation, but I will remember that “to lose balance sometimes for love is part of living a balanced life”.

Always a bit desperate for the light of the souls I see in the eyes of my loved ones, perhaps it is time for me to sculpt a new form. But I’ll keep it transparent, for to be any other way would make me unrecognizable to all.

"God's not interested in watching a performance of how a spiritual person looks and behaves. The quiet girl who glides silently through the place with a gentle, ethereal smile...who is that person? It's Ingrid Bergman in "The Bells of St. Mary's" – not me. God dwells within me...as me". --Eat, Pray, Love

Out of the Corners

2012-01-29T22:19:00.000-05:00

One year ago I was in a bad place. The past month from December to January had brought its share of heartbreaking challenges and one in particular had me facing death, the death of my beloved elderly dog, Charlie. She’d hung in there for nearly 17 years, had protected our family from harm, had been my loyal friend, my faithful furry companion. But she was failing. Beset with doggy dementia, she began getting herself trapped in corners. She lost a lot of weight. I feared for her when I went off to work. In January, I knew she wouldn’t be with us much longer, and on February 9th, I let her go. I still cry for her at times but her death strangely made me face some other difficult decisions that needed my attention. It took a little time for me to see that, however.

Today, during a quiet moment at Mass, I recalled where I’d been one year ago. There had been other hardships that had not centered around Charlie’s declining health, and the year 2010 had ended and 2011 had begun in a way that had me feeling insecure and very sad. Ironically, at the time, I was being referred to as “Superwoman” by a few people in my life. But in truth, I was treading water, just trying to keep my head above water. I didn’t have the strength to do much more than that. For no matter how hard I kept trying to avoid them, I, too, kept finding myself in corners.

One year later, I am thinking of how the past month has been. I am grateful that 2011 ended and 2012 began in a better place. I learned a few valuable lessons from the hardships of last year, and I am doing better now, not perfect, but better. My household has greater peace, my outlook on a particular matter has grown with understanding, and a new puppy has earned her place in my heart. There are other changes too, some that come with the wisdom of having loved and lost, some with understanding how important it is to admit defeat and to let go.

But there are still times when I cry for Charlie and for the other I have lost. I’m in a better place now than I was last year but my heart sometimes wants what it can’t have. Rather than push those feelings aside, I take a little time to let the tears fall on a Sunday night when the house is quiet and everyone, including that dear new puppy, has gone to bed. I’d never want to be “Superwoman”; what a tough gig that would be, but at least this past year I’ve learned how to get myself out of those corners.

My Family, My Decision

2012-01-26T13:45:00.000-05:00

I was born in 1968. Plenty of women were in the workforce by then but my Mom was a stay-at-home Mom like many of my friends’ mothers in the community in which I lived. My Dad was the family breadwinner, working in the town mill full time as he’d done since graduating from college almost 20 years earlier.

Our own experiences greatly influence the ideas and perceptions we have on the world and its various issues. The woman who raised me had five children. She herself was a product of the Great Depression and she surely knew how to stretch a dollar. The time she spent on her home, on preparing meals, and sewing or swapping articles for our clothing needs for example could have been spent on a profession outside of the home, but no, she never did work beyond her homemaking at a job that earned her money. Instead, when she did make time to go outside the home away from our family’s needs, she did volunteer work and served her community which, in many ways, pays much more than a weekly paycheck. I have grown up hearing continuous stories that praise my mother’s generosity, creativity, and intelligence. I have witnessed her actions myself. This is a woman whose efforts and lifetime career as a parent and community member I have long admired. I was always proud of her as a child and am even more proud of her today. She, a stay-at-home Mom, has greatly influenced the woman I am today. Although I am quite sure I would have been happy to follow in her footsteps, my own choice to work outside the home earning a paycheck as a full time high school English teacher has been a choice strongly supported and fiercely defended by my mother. (If you ever knew my mother, it would not surprise you to hear that).

Despite my own mother’s support however, I have been affected by other opinions on the working parent debate of whether one way of raising children is better than another. There are many considerations in this. I don’t wish to get into those discussions at this time, and let me be clear in saying that the decision my husband and I made is not being held up as superior to any other couple’s decision on how to live their lives or how to raise their children. That is perhaps the most crucial point I wish to make; that no one’s thoughtful decision on whether or not to be a working parent should be criticized or judged by another. But in my own life, I have given the challenges and rewards of both sides of the debate a lot of thought. The decision for me to be a working parent is not one I ever took lightly. I have never been able to shake desirous feelings in want of living as my Mom did, for I was so very happy and content on my maternity leaves for example and would have opted to stay home with my kids if I could have seen a true means to afford that choice, but then again, there have been rich benefits to my decision to be a working parent. And I am not talking about the money I help bring to our own family’s budget. Instead, there have been great benefits earned for the sake of my family, and those three individual children my husband and I have raised. The most beautiful reward is that, as in my own admiration of my Mom for what she did and how she lived as a stay-at-home mom, I now see that same admiration coming from the children I have raised and am continuing to raise. My children, ages 20, 16, and 12, like my Mom, are strong supporters and fierce defenders of the decision I made to be a working parent.

I don’t need to parade my children around as examples of how I am being successful in this decision to work outside the home. But I dare anyone to tell me that my children would have been better off if I had made a different choice. Likewise, I dare anyone to tell my Mom that I would have been better off if she had worked outside the home during my own upbringing. Life is full of choices. We do the best we can with the decisions we make that influence our paths. What I wish would happen in this world is an acknowledgment that there is no “best way” to live a life, to raise a child, to support and provide for a family’s needs. Respecting the decisions, the choices, or the best efforts of individuals who believe their choices are limited at best, is how I wish to live.

I was born in 1968. Plenty of women were in the workforce by then but my Mom was a stay-at-home Mom. Sydney, Emma, and Paul were born in the 1990s. Their Mom is a full time English teacher. Their Dad is a full time teacher of Mathematics. Together they created a family that was strong and loving and which did its best to serve its community, and one another. And they all lived happily ever after.

Days of Solitude

2012-01-24T22:08:00.000-05:00

The Maoris of New Zealand had their young boys prove their worthiness to enter manhood by spending a year alone in the wilderness, surviving all natural dangers and the challenge of solitude. The rite of passage determined whether the boy was “fit” to live with the tribe. I wonder what those Maoris boys were thinking before they set out to begin their year separated from all others. Were they scared? Exhilarated? Did they return in tears of gratitude or did some resent having to return at all after a year alone? How did they change over that year? How did they adjust when they joined their friends and family after so long a stretch? Would I have been able to do that?

I have long had this dream of living alone at camp on the lake through each of the four seasons. Of course, my parents’ camp isn’t heated and with the unpaved and unplowed roads, getting to town to pick up groceries in the winter months would be tough. Still, I love the idea of being there until the last days of summer, long after all the tourists have left the area, feeling the first of autumn’s crisp air and seeing the trees painted in bright colors. I long to watch the first snowstorm move across the lake, see the mountain bold and beautiful on a cold sunny winter day, and hear only the crackling of wood in the Franklin stove. I want to see the green first return to the trees, smell the scent of spring, hear the birds return singing their songs.

In my dream I am alone. I am sure my husband and children would take offense to this and I do not mean to suggest I want to live without them, it’s just that in my dream I am experiencing complete solitude. I imagine the strangeness of the first few days by myself, the letting go of one set of responsibilities for another, the celebration of having complete freedom. I then imagine working to overcome loneliness and fear in the absence of company, of discovering my inner voice that focuses upon the hunger I feel for things once deemed important and now denied. I imagine the shift to acceptance and an embrace of self-discovery, a rigorous lesson in self-discipline as I set myself a schedule or at least a pattern of activities to keep myself purposeful and sustained. I hear myself turning to God with an intense fervor that I always knew I had inside. I feel a great calm wash over me and then there is peace.

There would be an order to my days. Doris Grumbach in her book Fifty Days of Solitude writes that “order, sequence, is a secret of being alone. Rising at the same time every day, making and eating breakfast while reading Morning Prayer, showering and dressing, making the bed and straightening the rooms...it’s all essential”. I imagine myself doing just that--getting up, making my bed, straightening the rooms, making breakfast and eating at Gram’s table overlooking the mountain as I decided whether to do the outdoor chores before or after I sit down to write, to read, or to paint. At home I try and carve out time for these things but I cannot settle my brain unless I’ve had several days off, several days away from work and time away from the responsibilities and needs of my children and spouse. But in my dream I have nothing but time.

This dream might make for an interesting psychoanalysis of myself if someone wanted to do that. “She’s overworked. She’s tired. She’s stressed”, one might think after reading the above. And that is all definitely true. But my dream would not be complete without two additional scenes. In the first, I have met a man on the camp road while out on my daily walk. He’s an old man, and after chatting with him very briefly each day for a few weeks, I invite him back to camp for some tea. He takes me up on my offer and we spend time talking about his life. He tells me of his younger years and of raising a family with his wife. He tells me of the struggles he faced after retirement as he became elderly and he sheds a tear as he describes the final year of his wife’s life. He explains that his children come by once a month to visit with him and that they bring the grandchildren, but that he wishes they lived next door. That’s when I know my time alone at the lake is almost over.

The last scene I have in my dream is of packing my things. I zip up my suitcase and I grab my bag of books. I lock up the windows to the camp and after taking one last look around, I head to the door. I stop and take one final look at the sanctuary where I have rediscovered myself. It’s been a good experience these days of solitude. But I’m ready to return...

I like to be alone and craving some quiet tonight, I said goodnight to everyone and headed off to bed an hour earlier than usual. The puppy followed me, ensuring she got the best spot near my pillow. I took time to write, to dream, and to imagine. And then, each in turn, my children came upstairs. They each came into my bedroom and kissed me goodnight. It appears I am not going to need this dream after all. My own year of solitude can come at some point in my life, but it need not come now. I don’t want to miss a day of my kids’ lives and this marriage of mine is worth savoring too. Someday I just might be that old one who spends days of contentment alone at the lake, but for now, an hour alone upstairs before bedtime is all I need for that inner peace and tranquility I must have in my life. Of this I am sure.

Seeds of Doubt

2012-01-23T21:37:00.000-05:00

“The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt”. --Sylvia Plath

After blogging nearly every day for an entire year, I began slowing down the pace of my writing after the New Year. Maybe I was sabotaging myself, making sure that I would not push to blog for another 365 days, making sure I did not commit to a goal I wasn’t even sure was my own. But then it happened. I stopped writing for nearly 10 days straight. I did not abandon my blog intentionally, but it wasn’t quite accidental either. I let the end of one semester and its correcting load overpower me at first and then, those despicable seeds of doubt and insecurity began to grow again.

I have doubted my writing, but I have also doubted other parts of what I have done, what I do, who I have been, and who I am. I let negativity seep into my core.

Years ago in my Drama class, and nowadays in my Creative Writing class I warn against the Inner Critic, that voice inside each individual that holds one back from trusting and believing one’s abilities. I know the importance of silencing that voice, but recently I have let the voice of my Inner Critic roar. I easily justify the choices I have made but today I have to put an end to my writing hiatus. I’ve already abandoned some of my passions, having made several excuses. But my time off from writing has made me lose a part of myself that I need on a daily basis...my grip on my reality.

If that sounds a bit dramatic, so be it. Of course my life is REAL, whether or not I am blogging from day to day, but given the quick pace of life lately, my blog posts have helped me record my appreciation, my perceptions, my adoration of daily life. Stopping has blurred my appreciation of the good. I’ve let the negatives--situations and people--shake me to the core, shake my confidence, my determination to continue learning. I’ve wanted to give up, to give in, to stop trying, to stop growing.

But here I am tonight. I’m tired and I’m doubting myself. I am doubting my writing. Yet, I am writing and having given myself clear instructions to post something before bed, I am going to post for the first time in a week and a half. And then, I am going to do it again tomorrow.

Their First Few Hours as One

2012-01-14T16:42:00.000-05:00

My Mom and Dad celebrated their 61st wedding anniversary yesterday. It was a quiet day for them. My Dad said they visited with my brother John, enjoyed dinner, and played a game of Scrabble. Eleven years ago my siblings and I planned a surprise party for their 50th anniversary. It was quite an undertaking but it had been a sweet way to gather our parents’ loved ones together and to witness the love and respect so many people have for them. Wanting to mark yesterday in a special way, I dug out some old wedding pictures I had recently received from my cousin Cathy. She had acquired them while cleaning out the house of her late father, my Uncle Don, Mom’s brother. I scanned them and sent them along to my siblings and to my parents.

The photographs are precious. They show my Mom and Dad together outside where snow is on the ground, my Mom wrapped in a pretty white mink coat. In one shot they are laughing together. Oh how I have always loved watching them laugh.

When I was married in 1988, I knew I wanted to wear my Mom's dress. I never considered any other. I never went shopping for a different option. I was so grateful that her dress fit. We had someone fix the veil on her hat but that was it. Everything else was perfect and nothing else needed restoration! It hadn't even been professionally preserved!! The color aged consistently and beautifully. It was a gorgeous ecru color. It had tiny little buttons all the way down the front from the Peter Pan collar to the start of the skirt. The gown is a luxurious one made of satin and lace. I've always known there is NO WAY I could have ever found a more perfect dress.

In another picture, Mom has changed out of her wedding gown and she and Dad are about to take off on their honeymoon after the wedding reception. I knew they had driven to their first home, a good six hours away, but I did not know any other particulars. Those aren’t the type of details a daughter asks her parents after all!

However, after seeing the pictures, Dad wrote and told me, “Anne, The photos sure took Mom and I back some 61 years-----snow and all -----same white stuff that I see outside our house to day. The photos sure bring back memories ----after the wedding it was a long six plus hour drive to our apartment here in town. We had supper...at a JJ Newberry's store sitting on a stool at the counter. Your father was a real high roller with the few bucks that he had in his pocket. We also stopped to take a picture of the Maine State House in Augusta. When we arrived...it was dark and the wind was blowing a gale across the road and the temperature was down close to zero or lower----I also remember the temperature on Monday morning the day I went to the mill ----it was 25 below zero. No earth warming that winter.”

Today I returned to the pile of pictures from Cathy. Sure enough, there were two pictures taken at the State House. They had each taken a picture of their new spouse. These photographs made me smile even more than the previous ones. For these marked the first few hours of my parents as they made their solo journey into married life together. Two individuals now joined as one. What an adventure for a young couple. And how blessed my four siblings and I have been to share our lives with them.

The Game Player

2012-01-11T04:40:00.000-05:00

Anger is a normal part of life, no matter how hard we try to avoid that emotion. I foolishly try to control my own anger when it flares especially when the pot is stirred by a situation or a person I cannot control, namely, the game player. I work hard to control my own reactions. I try to remember the words of a former colleague of mine, a man who reminded me of the importance of having a sense of humor when a situation is bad. It helps me downplay the drama or at the very least, to restrain me from adding more fuel to the flames.

Yet, I also realize that anger cannot be fully suppressed at times and to try to squelch it completely is probably not healthy. I may bite my lip but my teeth will still grind at night. I may laugh it off, but the tears of frustration will still fall in a different hour. Muscles will cramp and an innocent stray obstacle in my path will be cursed and kicked. So, what am I to do to alleviate the stress that stems from anger? Usually the answer is to confront the situation head on, as difficult as that may be. But in some situations, that is the least wise option. And when that’s the case and stepping out of the path of the fire isn’t a choice either? Well, that’s when I rally the troops and I strengthen my resolve. I wish I could write the specifics of what has me so angry tonight, but I cannot. Still, it's time I work through this so I can beat the game player at his own game. I just wish I didn't have to do this as often as I do. It's exhausting and my anger is justified for the energy it takes to keep playing this game takes me away from more important people.

Although I wish I could hold onto the belief that people can change, no matter how many transgressions are in their past, I know better. The idiom, “A leopard can't change its spots” applies here. I am not talking about someone I’ve had limited experience with or someone whose perspective I simply do not know or agree with, no, I’m talking about someone whose practices and whose behaviors consistently show them to be vindictive, vain, and emotionally abusive. There will be no great revelation or redemption for this individual any time soon because they see no reason to change. But oh, despite their past pledges to learn and grow, words spoken when their back was against the wall, I was never fooled, not for a minute. The seediness is at their core. Once a game player, always a game player. And thus, the games play on.

Those who never learned how to act in appropriate manners continue to turn to manipulative and unsavory ways. I wish I could sidestep the games but unfortunately I cannot without abandoning what is at the very center of who I am and what I believe in. My compass, however, becomes governed by the lessons I want my children to learn. When I or others have been wronged by the game player, I think on what advice or guidance I would give my kids. And so, in hopes of giving myself direction on how to continue on from here with the game player, here are ten things I’d tell my children.

1. Don’t let the bad guys win. Do what is right, not what is easy. Always.
2. Be honest but know there is no shame in holding your cards close to your chest when you’re playing cards. The cards will be revealed but you won’t win if you don’t play them at the right time.
3. If you lose one time, it doesn’t mean you cannot return to battle again. Retreat if necessary, go figure out what went wrong, and find your way back to the game so you can put to play a better strategy. Just don’t get caught up in the game itself.
4. Look your opponent straight in the eyes. Really look. You’ll see something and they will know they’ve been exposed.
5. Don’t let a game player’s words shake you or make you doubt yourself. That’s their best move, to play upon your goodness, your tendency to find fault in yourself which is your natural habit in order to better yourself. Don’t give them ammunition to use against you.
6. When you fail to find your next words to say to them, smile. Don’t laugh, just smile. It will disarm them, at least momentarily.
7. Wash your hands when you walk away. Let the water soak into your skin and remind yourself that your time with the game player’s dirt will not rub off on you.
8. Remind yourself of specific people who will be helped by your brave actions today, tomorrow, or in the future. It’s not always about saving yourself but of saving something or someone who will come after you.
9. Believe that despite the bleakest forecast, you have a power that cannot be completely ineffective. Trust that something you did or said will plant a seed that someday, in the worst of situations, might take root and grow. You may not see proof of that, but trust it has a chance. Maybe this won’t happen but imagine if it did.
10. Ask God to be by your side as you do battle today, tomorrow, and in the future. He knows your heart and your soul and you have no better ally than Him.

So, let’s play, game player. Bring it.

It's Okay You Know

2012-01-08T22:13:00.000-05:00

It’s okay you know, to not know what you are,
to keep the door ajar, but to travel near and far
to that destination you think you ought to see,
to that image of the person you think you ought to be.

It’s far more acceptable to feel that bit of shame,
than to wonder how you came, to fear that ounce of fame.
For the spotlight fades and you’re left there in the dark,
with the memories fading of the place you think you left your mark.

Take just one moment and drop down on your knees.
Wanting so to please, you must know you have the keys
to trust that person I know you are inside-
the girl who doesn’t lie, the one who wonders why.

Take the reins my dear, and direct the path you’ll take.
Ignore the pain and ache. Steel yourself and you won’t break.
You won’t crumble swiftly, nor will you be wronged.
If you'll vow to remain strong, you will carry on.

Take the chance before you and give it all you can.
Take the future by the hand, you don’t need to have a plan.
It’s okay you know, to trust the heart that cries.
You’ll be comforted and helped along. He is forever by your side.

Feeling Amiss

2012-01-08T19:50:00.001-05:00

It’d been a weird weekend. It hadn’t been a bad weekend by any definition of the word, for I had the chance to get some extra rest and I enjoyed time with both children at home and my husband too. I even had time to cuddle up with both pets. I knew how lucky I’d been. I’d gotten some work done and I took opportunities to watch a couple of movies too. I had gone out to breakfast and had watched my youngest play basketball, scoring 10 points in a close game. But something had felt unsettled within me over the past several days. “Maybe I am coming down with something?”, I thought. It was an odd feeling with an unknown cause. Something had simply felt amiss.

It’s true I had been stressed, but I wasn’t sure that my level of stress had been any higher than usual. Life gets busy and I’m used to juggling many things. Sure, there’d been a few headaches too, but a few motrin and an extra dose of caffeine seemed to have taken care of those.

I sensed I needed something. I turned to work, to music, to family, to television, to friends, and to writing, but I hadn’t found what I needed. Thinking I was suffering from sleep deprivation, I turned in early each night and in the afternoons, I napped. I picked up a magazine and a book, I played with the puppy, but something was eluding me. I browsed the web, even ordered a few things on sale hoping retail therapy might be the answer. I went to Mass, balanced my checkbook, and straightened out the house, but again, it hadn’t presented itself. I laughed and I cried but I’d failed to possess whatever it was that I needed.

So, instead of belaboring the issue on the last evening of the weekend, I decided to stop looking for whatever it was that was needed and to stop worrying over what seemed strange. I told myself I would simply take the next several hours before I turned in for the night and I’d be grateful to have them. Seeing the puppy at the door, I then headed outside into the cold night air.

The puppy ran out in front of me, happy to have company outside. I didn’t plan on staying long but not wanting to bother with a coat, I’d grabbed a shawl to wrap around my shoulders. Stepping out of the garage to the open air, I suddenly spotted the bright moon shining through the trees and as I often do in the summer’s sun, I impulsively took a seat on a dry patch of our driveway and looked up.

The moon was dazzling. The puppy ran into the woods and I stretched out on the driveway, avoiding the tracks of snow, and gazed up into the contrast of the illuminated orb against this dark winter night. The stillness of the world invited me to take a deep breath, to hold the beauty of the scene inside my lungs. I heard the puppy thrashing in the brush in the woods at the side of the house and I smiled. As cozy warm as it was inside our home, there was a feeling of exhilaration outside under the moonlit sky. I knew I couldn’t stay out all evening. I would eventually stand up and walk back inside and put myself to bed, but I didn’t rush...for in those moments, nothing felt amiss.

The Epiphany

2012-01-06T16:10:00.000-05:00

When I was little, my Mom told me her little trick in remembering the importance of today’s date, January 6th. Not only was it her mother’s birthday but it is the traditional date of the Epiphany, the 12th Day of Christmas when the Three Wise Men came to visit the baby Jesus. “My Mom’s name is Stephanie. And Epiphany sounds like Stephanie so that helps me remember!”, she told me. It was an effective trick. I’ve never forgotten to observe this day since.

The word epiphany means "to show" or "to make known" or "to reveal." In churches, the Epiphany marks the Magi bringing gifts to Christ and in doing so, they reveal Jesus to all as Lord and King. When my children were younger, I would set the three king figures of our Nativity Scene, our Creche, away from the manger, having them approach closer and closer each day. When today arrived, they were “welcomed” into the manger where the figures of Mary and Joseph were with the baby Jesus. When I taught freshmen, I loved to utilize the O. Henry story, The Gift of the Magi, each holiday season. My teens loved the story but often many of them needed me to explain the reference to the three wise men in the tale’s title. I was always happy to give them that introduction.

But all lessons aside, the word epiphany is one of my favorite words. Beyond the Christian significance of the term, it is defined as “a sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience”. I’ve experienced many such perceptions or insights over the years, and although it’s not my intention to speak to any in great detail today, I am thinking of a particular epiphany I had at Christmastime a few weeks back. Let me simply say today that my Christmastime epiphany was indeed a sudden and intuitive perception that was initiated by the simple selection of a word I chose to use in place of another. I called my annual Christmas Eve Buffet a “feast”, and I was miraculously transported to an emotional place I’d longed to be at for quite some time. Oh, this would make much more sense if I got into greater detail here, but I’m not prepared to do that right now. You’ll just have to take my word for it.

This January 6th date will always be special to me. I will forever think of my Mom and my Nana on this day. Perhaps together we are three women of wisdom who in our own time come to humbly bow before our precious Lord?

Sick Day Allowance

2012-01-06T14:57:00.000-05:00

I haven’t felt well for the past couple of days. Headaches have plagued me and I’m not sure if they are due to stress or perhaps caffeine withdrawal since I began drinking less diet coke after the new year. Fatigued also however at the end of the day, I’ve gone to bed earlier each night and have tried to take time out of my busy day to rest. But today I needed to take a “sick day” off from work. Not an easy decision, I had to talk myself into the plan yesterday as I made sub plans and thought through how my classes could be planned to minimize the impact of my being gone so close to the end of the semester before midterms.

As the day ended yesterday, my coworker and good friend Jeanna came to my classroom for one of our regular visits. The two of us have been at the school for almost the same number of years and awhile back we discovered we have many things in common; even our typologies are identical! Yet Jeanna is a single woman who does not have children. She lives alone and although she has her own array of non-work responsibilities, she recognizes how very different our days are when we leave for home at the end of our workday.

After we spent some time talking about curriculum, students, and the latest staff meeting, I told Jeanna about my headaches and how I was thinking of taking the next day off. I told her of my mixed feelings of doing that and began justifying my decision and assuring her (and myself) that I would work from home and get some correcting done. She then jumped in and told me how just that morning she’d been thinking of me as she arrived at school early to organize her day. “I thought to myself, ‘Wow. Anne is at home making lunches for her family right now’. I go home and I do this and that. You go home and start another full time job tending to the activities of your children”.

I began to respond. I got a few words out before my eyes filled with tears and I stopped myself. Without my having to say another thing, Jeanna had given me the words of permission, of allowance, that I needed. I was touched by her recognition and acknowledgement of my juggling act.

So this morning, after calling for a substitute teacher, I went back to bed. I slept in and awoke to see snow falling outside my bedroom window. It seemed almost symbolic, as if the world was telling me today was my day to take comfort, to rest my weary soul, and to give myself a clean slate. Tomorrow is another day. I’ll get back to school work and I’ll make my family their lunches, and I’ll do it with a smile. But today I am letting myself take it easy, to recover from these headaches, and to unwind. For I am no good to anyone if I am not first fair to myself.

Befriending a Hermit

2012-01-06T10:28:00.001-05:00

How does one define a friend? There are many definitions and people differ in how they classify people they know. What is the difference between an acquaintance, a neighbor, a coworker, a classmate? Does the amount of time you spend with another in a particular setting and in a particular way make them a friend? There has been a lot of chatter about this in the age of Facebook and I have taken note. In the book, The Art of Friendship, the authors write,

Friendship is not always easily defined. There is a range of meaningful relationships, and not all of them need to be of the close, call-you-up-in-the-middle-of-the night variety to be worthwhile. Work friendships, situational friendships, cordial acquaintanceships--the varieties are as plentiful as the people you meet. Each type of friend should be treated with respect and the appropriate level of affection. If you stay open to the possibilities for friendships that do not necessarily conform to the most common expectations, you are likely to engage in some rewarding interactions that you would otherwise miss out on (Roger & Sally Horchow).

I am a pretty independent woman (I often call myself a hermit actually), and I always put family first, however I highly value my friendships with both men and women. I am a loyal friend and a fierce friend. Very protective and never afraid to speak up when necessary, I come to the defense of any whom I learn have been wronged.

I am very open to people, the differences between us, and the respect I offer up in knowing that we as human beings are all unique and free to live our lives however we do, and yet sometimes I probably appear to be quite picky or selective in my friendships. I am not sure about that. I tend to welcome different people with a smile or a conversation, but then again, my time and energy is precious and if I am bothered by one’s actions, words, or attitude, I don’t invest much in continuing a relationship with that person. It’s not that I need people to be like me, but some folks give off a vibe that is sneaky or dishonest and that’s a huge turn-off. I don’t need to be friends with everyone and I will not be someone I am not, simply to gain another friend.

I warmly treasure several friends I have had since I was a little girl, and I am proud of the people I have befriended only recently. They are all good people and I feel good to have relationships with them. Although quite shy at times, once I find common ground or develop similar goals with someone, I rarely hesitate to open up and trust. Some of my friendships are very easy. I know this will sound selfish (and I suppose it is), but there are the friends who require very little of my time or attention, those who I fall easily into conversations with no matter how long it’s been since we last talked. My dearest and oldest friends aren’t in constant need of me nor am I with them. We are all quite the same when it comes to our priorities with our families and we’re simply on the same page when it comes to our relationships. Cheryl and Ann Marie are two such friends. I befriended Cheryl when we were just 8 years old and our bond to this day is strong. Built on 36 years of fun and fights, cheering and chiding, mayhem and maturity, we’ve remained committed to one another and I love her as a sister. I will never let her go. Ann Marie and I became friends when we were 12. We endured middle school and high school together and visited one another frequently in college. We have similar stubborn personalities, are both passionate about our families, and as with Cheryl, we’ve grown up together and have similar values. My times with Cheryl and Ann Marie are always filled with both serious talks and great fun.

As I became an adult other friendships became important to me. There were those I met in college and in graduate school. And there were those I met on the job over the twenty years of my career, and those I befriended in the community where I settled twenty years ago. Community theater, church, and meeting the parents of my children’s friends secured other important friendships for me. Relationships challenge me; they help me practice patience, perspective, and compassion. I have much to learn from people. Becoming friends with people of various ages is an amazing experience also, let me add.

I have both female and male friends. Friendships with men have always helped me along in life. It’s no secret. Although women are quick to understand one another, I need good guys in my life. Men offer me those brotherly relationships that are so important. I’ve long easily been comfortable hanging out with guys, no doubt that’s because of the amount of time I spent with my own Dad and my three brothers. I demand respect however from the men I am friends with, and if I don’t receive it, we’re done.

After joining Facebook, a strange but beautiful phenomenon occurred. People from all the various areas in my life came back into my daily life, and not solely in a virtual way. Some friends and I have reconnected beyond our laptop greetings. I’ve had a chance to reconnect with people I knew only superficially in the past and I’ve become closer to people I see regularly. It’s as though we’re all meeting over the picket fence, sharing stories over coffee in the kitchen, having slumber parties, or passing notes. I’m tickled by it in all honesty because it doesn’t take me away from my loved ones. We’re connecting when there is time to, when our days allow a few moments to check in with one another. And when we do make plans to see each other in person, there is less of that awkward feeling of trying to come up with conversation; we easily dive into an easy dialogue with one another. I sometimes feel I wish I could live twice as long so I could make more friends with those I never had the opportunity to get to know. Wow. This hermit is evolving.

The lyrics to one of my favorite songs, For Good from the Broadway musical Wicked, capture my thoughts perfectly tonight: "I’ve heard it said, that people come into our lives for a reason bringing something we must learn, and we are led to those who help us most to grow if we let them, and we help them in return". In my near 44 years, people have come into my life and our friendships have continued to teach me greatly. There are numerous people I hope to write about in this coming year. I wish to offer up my sincere acknowledgement of how they have touched my life. My talks and time with different individuals have helped me grow and mature, and others have allowed me to remain childlike and impulsive. We never truly know how our being affects others however. So I only hope I have helped my friends in return. What I know for sure is that I truly love people and I am so very grateful for my friendships. Will there be more? I don’t think I need more but I am excited to see what the future holds.

Paying It Forward

2012-01-03T22:48:00.000-05:00

I am one of those people who adores craft fairs but who rarely buys a thing because I “could easily make one of those” myself. I am one of those people who paws through magazine articles showing clever projects and who vows I’ll “make one of those” next season. Of course, I never do get around to making those items, but I know I fully intend to do so in the future.

My grandmother, Dad’s Mom, began painting in her golden years, so there’s still hope for me. My Mom nicknamed her “Grandma Moses” after the American folk artist who also began her painting career at an advanced age. Grammy’s paintings hang in my parents’ home and in a few of my siblings’ houses also. Grammy was working her way through her list of grandchildren, giving each one a painting, but of course, being one of the youngest, I did not receive one before she died. Still, I’ve long adored her artwork and it makes me so happy to know that she picked up the hobby later in life. My Nana, my Mom’s Mom, had an incredible talent for needlework. She knitted, did crochet, embroidery, and tatting. My prized gift from her was a box of knitted doll clothes along with a set of twin dolls, half the size of a Barbie. The clothes included pants, jackets, dresses, shoes, and various styles of hats. I remember playing with them constantly as a child and later I preserved them and gave them to my two daughters. When my daughters grew too old to play with dolls, I put Nana’s knitted clothes and the dolls back into my hope chest. Someday I hope to take them out for my future grand-daughters when they visit me.

My Mom knitted, did needlepoint, and she also took time to learn how to make baskets. Additionally she took a ceramics class and later painted porcelain. Again, I was too young to receive any gifts that she made (a nativity set and Christmas tree for my sister who was married and had her own home at the time for example), but I loved seeing the various crafts she’d made around the house. Other family members and friends displayed their share of talents too. Some made fabric dolls, photo albums, curtains, and jewelry. Others made their own greeting cards or sewed their children’s clothes.

I’ve tried my hand at some crafts too, but none seem to stick with me. Regretfully I never did learn how to knit. However, I’ve vowed to return to my love of painting with acrylics (a few still life paintings I did long ago still hang in my parents’ house), although truth be told, a starter set my husband sweetly bought me for Christmas a few years ago remains untouched. I made a lovely needlepoint wall hanging for my Mom that took me most of my first pregnancy to finish twenty years ago, but I never did finish making a single item of needlepoint to place in my own home. I sewed a few aprons as a teen but then never continued to sew as my children with their duct taped Halloween costumes can attest to. In the last twenty years I have baked gifts of cookies, candies, and breads though, and I’ve used my love of photography, videography, digital storytelling, and old-fashioned writing to build meaningful presents for loved ones.

So, last year a “Pay It Forward” challenge popped up on Facebook. We were invited to place ourselves on a short list of lucky recipients who would receive a hand-made present from a friend if quick enough to respond. Then we were to post our own invite to have others place their names, requesting a hand-made present from us in one year’s time. At the time it seemed to be a lovely opportunity fostering love and friendship through items made by our own hands. I remember thinking of a few things I might make, for again, I am always big on ideas if weak or short on time in my follow through. I all but forgot about the challenge, however, as the months passed.

Then today I opened a box I received in the mail. Inside I found a note from my kindergarten teacher, a wonderful woman who worked for 38 years as a public school teacher before retiring this past spring. Miss Thames had knitted me a beautiful prayer shawl to wrap around myself as I sat on my couch with my puppy. I was immediately touched by the sweetness of her note and the warmth of the gesture. Forever appreciative of the dedicated time and talent displayed by the handiwork of my former teacher, I will treasure that shawl always.

Tonight I am again thinking of that “Pay it Forward” challenge. I’ll have to do some digging to remember who I promised presents to, and I’ll now wrack my brain to think of how I might similarly touch a few dear friends of mine with a hand-made treasure. Maybe I should return to my love of acrylics. Maybe I should return to needlepoint. But first I thought it best to use my hands to type a sincere thank you to my teacher. Not only do I wrap that shawl around my shoulders on this chilly winter evening, but I do so resolving to push ahead the generosity and goodwill displayed to me by helping others. It is my hope that the time and talent within my own hands can spread exponentially.

The future must be seen in terms of what a person can do to contribute something, to make something better, to make it go where he believes with all his being it ought to go. - Frederick R. Kappel

Under the Tree of Tinsel

2012-01-02T22:20:00.000-05:00

A good snapshot stops a moment from running away. ~Eudora Welty

It was their first Christmas together as a married couple. They’d married in mid-January at 8:00am in the morning, a time which would allow her boss a chance to attend before returning to open his shop. "I was like a daughter to him", Mom explained. After the wedding, they took off and drove several hours until they reached their home, their first home. One year and ten days later, they became a family of three. This picture was taken just a month or so before their first child, Linda, arrived. It must be her teddy bear Mom is holding in the picture.

This picture was one inside a stack of photographs given to me a few days ago, a belated Christmas present from my cousin Cathy. Cathy’s Dad, my Mom’s brother, passed away a few months ago, and Cathy saved a few of his photographs to give to me. They included several pictures of my Mom and Dad’s wedding day, shots of my parents with their own parents, and a few of their early years as parents themselves. As I opened the package containing these photographs, I felt my eyes water in gratitude. All in black and white, the images are striking, expressions on my loved ones’ faces captured forever.

I have always loved taking pictures and ever since I got my first camera when I was barely in first grade, I’ve been fascinated by how a photograph can preserve an emotion that otherwise would fade in one’s memory. There is beauty in our attempt to capture time in this way and in the way photographs become more precious as time passes.

The photograph of my Mom and Dad sitting together under their Christmas tree is one of my favorites. I love the way my young Mom is holding the teddy bear, the way my youthful Dad has his arm wrapped around his bride of nearly a year, Dad’s slippers and socks, Mom’s white blouse, the furniture, and even the way I see strands of tinsel on the tree, the same type of tinsel my Mom had us don our tree with for years. She explained to us how the Christmas lights would be reflected in it and that if placed one piece at a time (rather than thrown in clumps), the tree would look truly beautiful.

It makes me smile to see how very happy and content my parents look in this photograph. How blessed I was to have been born to these two wonderful people another 16 years, 16 Christmas trees with strands of tinsel, later.

Nesting

2012-01-01T23:48:00.000-05:00

It was Sydney’s day to return to college after a two and a half week vacation here at home. She’d spent part of her New Year’s Eve packing her things. As though delaying the inevitable, I slept later than I had all vacation. Even the puppy cooperated and did not come to wake me until after 9:00am. After deciding that her father would take her back, I hopped in the shower and got dressed. I figured if they wanted me to come along, I’d be ready. But no, within the hour, she and her Dad would be on their way by themselves. She loaded the car and gathered some groceries that she could take back with her. And I began cleaning the countertops.

I cleaned the counter then moved the kitchen-aide mixer to the island. I scrubbed the appliance, cleaning every inch that had been neglected during the baking of Christmas cookies over the past two weeks. I suddenly needed to carry out the task more meticulously and persistently than usual. As I worked, Sydney continued to lug items to the car. I continued to clean. I took time out to hug her goodbye and to pose for a picture or two, told her to “be good”, and then she was gone. I returned to my mixer and finished cleaning it. Then I tackled the two drawers in the kitchen island. Emptying each and organizing the spatulas and measuring cups, I focused on the job at hand.

When the drawers were done I prepared a late lunch for Emma and Paul. Then I picked over the roasted chicken and began making soup. I ran to the store briefly to get milk, but returned to fold two baskets of clothes and washed some dishes. Once my husband arrived home and I knew all was well, I sank into my recliner. I read several magazines and watched some tv. I began to breathe more deeply and was able to relax.

There is something that kicks in with me when I know my daughter is in transition. I grow restless and I try to mask my anxiety with chores and cooking. It’s similar to the pregnancy instinct of "nesting", described as “an uncontrollable urge to clean one's house brought on by a desire to prepare a nest for the new baby, to tie up loose ends of old projects and to organize your world” (parentingweekly.com). According to research, it is a primal instinct. Birds make their nests, mothers-to-be begin cleaning their houses, fueled by unusual bursts of energy. I suppose the act of nesting allows for some semblance of control as she prepares for the upcoming arrival.

I am not quite sure why a mother of a young woman on her way back to college, the mother of a girl three weeks shy of her 20th birthday, should partake in this routine. She’d been here for two and a half weeks already. We’d had a beautiful time together as a family but she was now on her way back to school. Why clean now? Perhaps it’s only natural. Perhaps I simply want to ensure that the nest will be comfortable enough for my baby bird to fly home to the next time the wind blows her this way.

Take It Easy

2011-12-31T18:53:00.000-05:00

As a teacher, I celebrate the new year each September. That beginning (meeting new students, introducing new curriculum, and sliding away from summer and back into the routine of school days) is often much more significant to me than this one approaching tonight at midnight. But whether it’s August or December 31st, I recognize that the happy anticipation of a new year signifies renewed promise. As the ball drops, we hold onto the hope that this year, we’ll seize opportunities to make our lives better. We’ll eat healthier, exercise more often, spend less, and get organized. We’ll reconnect with friends and family or we’ll tackle some new hobby. That is all well and good, as long as we do not dwell too long on our faults, berating what we believe we’ve done wrong in the previous year. So tormented we are, at times, by our high expectations of ourselves (and perhaps others) that too often, we look at new year’s as our way to escape, to refashion our very identities. So, although I still appreciate the chance to make a few resolutions to remind myself of certain goals I have, I do believe I have done better to put the new year in perspective.

Last year I held onto a particular mantra that guided me throughout 2011. “No fear. No expectations. Let’s just see what happens”. These words served me well. I am not letting those go simply because it will soon be 2012, but over the past few days I have been contemplating the adoption of another phrase. I’ve thought of it from different perspectives and I am pretty sure I am going to use it this next year. It consists of three words: Take It Easy.

I immediately hear the song by The Eagles. It’s a song I grew up with, hearing it often on the radio, but although not all of its lyrics apply, the phrase reminds me that I need to “lighten up while I still can” and that I cannot “let the sound of (my) own wheels make (me) crazy”. I’ve long been a worrier and I know that I cannot change overnight for my personality is what it is, but I do think I can work towards putting those concerns away on a shelf more often.

Last year’s mantra helped me look at situations and loved ones in a healthier light. I eased up on expectations I had of others and I began doing the same within myself. But I need to continue with that. And rather than berate myself for what I am or how I think, it’s time for me to give myself a break. It’s time to “take it easy”. I’ll keep working on those goals of mine but the best thing I can do for myself is to give myself a pat on the back for all that I have achieved already. I’ll continue to strive to better myself but I will stop and appreciate who and what I am today. It’s time to turn the corner, to focus less on my faults and to focus more on what I have inside of me that is there so I can better serve others. In the words of Leo C. Rosten, “The purpose of life is to be useful, to be responsible, to be compassionate. It is, above all, to matter and to count, to stand for something, to have made some difference that you lived at all”.

I want 2012 to give me opportunities to make a difference for others. And it’s only by easing up on myself that I will be able to do that more effectively. 2011 was a challenging year but it made me a stronger and wiser woman. I grew in my appreciation and satisfaction of the present time. Now I believe it is time to “loosen my load” so I can carry others’ burdens more effectively in the future.

“We may lose and we may win, though we will never be here again...so open up, I'm climbin' in, so take it easy”.

Pancakes, Frosted Cakes, and I Love Yous

2011-12-30T19:54:00.000-05:00

I woke up to the sound of the puppy whimpering at my bedroom door. She’d spent the night in Paul’s room but she’s well aware that I’m Mom, the one who will hear her when she’s ready to go outside come morning. I rolled out of bed, opened my door to her wagging tail and we both went downstairs. Opening the door, she ran outside. I promptly went back to bed. I didn’t stay long. I got the feeling I ought to make pancakes or waffles for breakfast. Finding my son awake in his room, I asked him what he’d prefer.

“Pancakes”.

“Chocolate chip?”

“Yes. Thanks, Mom”.

Everyone was awake by the time I had them on the griddle.

“What kind do you want, Syd?”

“Blueberry please”.

“I somehow knew you were going to make pancakes this morning”, Emma said. “I always know when you’re going to make us pancakes”.

I’m not sure what gives it away. I wasn’t even humming this morning. But those pancakes brought me many warm hugs and several impromptu, “I love you”s, so whether or not there’s some sort of signal I send out when I’m about to treat my family to a warm breakfast in the morning, I was happy to do it.

After breakfast, we all settled in to our day. After taking a little time to do a few chores, my husband and I took off to go see a movie together. We went out shopping afterward and arrived home late afternoon. When I came into the kitchen there was Emma. She’d made a double layer cake and was about to make frosting. Hearing that Paul was hungry, I took a quick look in the fridge and spotting some leftover cooked chicken, I decided I’d make two dishes in hopes there would be leftovers for Sydney when she got home from her day with friends. Within a half hour, a chicken tetrazzini casserole and chicken-pepper-spanish rice wraps were prepared and heating up in the oven.

There came a moment however, when Emma and I were working side by side in the kitchen that I stopped and smiled. There was my daughter singing happily, sitting on a kitchen stool, and frosting her two layer cake. The song she was singing along to was one I hadn’t heard, but it spoke of love, of building a life together, and of sharing moments with a future family.

These are the moments I once dreamed of when I was younger...of waking up to a household full of love, full of song, full of warmth. Tails wagging, pancakes on the griddle, impromptu movie dates, frosted cakes, songs being sung, dinners being prepared, being the Mom...and lots of hugs and “I love you”s.

It’s true what they say. Dreams do come true.

A Pathetic Countdown

2011-12-30T00:10:00.000-05:00

For Thursday, December 29, 2011

I have an incredibly nasty habit. No, I don’t smoke. And before you begin guessing at other things, let me quickly tell you what I’m talking about. As embarrassing as this is, let me confess to you here that when I am on vacation...I count the number of days I have left before it’s over.

Please don’t think less of me. I told you it’s a nasty habit. I promise myself I am not going to do it any more, time after time, but I can’t help myself. Sometimes it happens as I pass by a calendar in the house (I have too many of those by the way). Other times it happens when I am waking up in the morning. I think, “How many more days can I wake up without my alarm clock?” and then I begin to count. Thursday to Friday, one. Friday to Saturday, two. Saturday to Sunday, three. Sunday to Monday, four. Oh, the horror!! I need to stop this!

In the summertime I find myself doing the same thing, only it’s weeks that I count. When I reach the midway mark I resist feeling sad. I play mind games with myself and think, “Well, imagine if you didn’t have the month of August off. You’d have fewer than this!” But no matter how many scenarios I create, the truth remains...I’ve begun the nasty habit once again.

So, although I wish I did not know this, I am fully aware that I have four days of vacation left before it’s over. And with that knowledge I am now trying to figure out what I want to do with those four final days. My son asked me what we were doing tomorrow and I told him, “I don’t have any plans. Is there something YOU want to do tomorrow?” “I don’t know”, he replied. Is that a good thing? Or is he looking for me to suggest something? Is he content to stay at home tomorrow, hanging out? Or is he hoping I’ll suggest we go bowling with a couple of friends of his? What about my daughters? Do they have plans? Will they let me have a day at home doing whatever or will they hint that they’d like to go to the mall with me? What about Eric? Will he suggest we go to the movies? Do I want to go to the movies? Or would I rather stay home and putter around?

As pathetic as I can be when I begin obsessing over how many days I have left before vacation week ends, I sincerely hope that no matter WHAT I do tomorrow, I won’t count the hours left before the end of the day. Four o’clock to five o’clock, one hour. Five o’clock to six o’clock, two hours...

Gripped by Grisham

2011-12-29T23:32:00.000-05:00

For Wednesday, December 28, 2011

It was a near perfect evening. After going to the movies with my husband and son, I returned home and fixed one of our family’s favorite meals, a chicken pot pie. It was done in no time and after eating, I took time to enjoy the fire my husband had started in the living room. Grabbing a John Grisham book that had been on my nightstand waiting patiently for me to get back to it, I settled in on the couch and returned to chapter one to refresh my memory.

Before long I was gone, far from the world I’m in and smack dab in the world of a clergyman named Keith and a criminal named Travis. An innocent man was about to be executed for a crime he did not commit, and only a guilty man suffering from an inoperable brain tumor can save him.

Reading for fun, even if fun is packed with nail biting tension as with this novel, is a luxury I seem to sacrifice far too often during the school year. My magazines from the autumn months have piled up and the stack of books in my bedroom always seem resigned to wait for the next vacation. But I had one wish for myself this Christmas vacation and that was to relax on the living room couch to read in front of the fireplace. I wanted a lazy vacation and I wanted to be able to say I’d read that Grisham novel that had been staring at me all season long.

When my vacation started there were Christmas cookies to bake and needhams candies to dip. There were presents to wrap and stocking stuffers to buy. There were decorations to finish hanging, foods to bake, and a guest room to clean for company. The day after Christmas I fell into the family room sofa and watched a movie with my family. The next day I took off for the afternoon to enjoy a hair appointment with my daughters in tow. Each night I went to bed I saw my book. I promised myself I’d be sure to open it the next day.

After settling in on the couch tonight I opened my book. I am only 200 pages in and only a third of the way through it now I think, but I already know it was worth the wait. But I am already vowing not to let too much more time pass before I crawl back into its pages. After a good night’s sleep, I’ll be back for more.

It doesn’t take much to make a perfect evening for me. A fire in the fireplace, a comfy couch, my fleece blanket, and a little encouragement to relax with a good book is all I needed tonight. As for tomorrow, I’m going to need Travis to come clean and save that innocent man on Death Row.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six-hundred minutes

2011-12-27T21:42:00.000-05:00

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six-hundred minutes...

According to the experts, this is the incorrect number of minutes in a year, made famous by the musical Rent. "The logic to this phrase is done with the equation: 60 (minutes) X 24 (hours) = 1440 (hours in a day). 1440 (hours in a day) X 365 (days in a year) = 525,600 (minutes in a year). HOWEVER, this is using the incorrect idea that there are exactly 365 days in a year. The actual number of days in a year is 365.2422, or about 364 and a fourth days. SO, if we redo the equation, we come out with 1440 X 365.2422 = 525948.768. Therefore, the actual number of minutes in a year is 525948.768" (http://www.urbandictionary.com).

Either way, that’s one heck of a way to measure a year.

One year ago I began this blog. With my husband I had discussed the idea of starting a blog, and later, I received some basic information on how to begin one while talking with a new teacher at work who over the past year became a supportive friend. After receiving a laptop for Christmas, I decided I had everything I needed to begin, except for a name for my blog. I made lists of possible titles but none were strong in meaning to me until I thought of this one, Views From The Dock.

Away for a few days on a Bed & Breakfast Inn getaway with Eric, I logged in with my new laptop and set up this blog’s design. I wrote of its name and of my intentions. But I had no idea where exactly I would go with it after that first post.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?

For four days, the final four days of 2010, I wrote and posted to my new blog. The new year began and I continued to write and to post. I held onto my new year’s mantra, “No fear. No expectations. Let’s just see what happens”, in reference to my blog writing and to my aging dog Charlie, and also a few other parts of my life. The new year began with great hope but I knew times were going to be challenging. Charlie began to fail. A month or so later, on February 9th, Charlie died.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes,
Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear.

But in truth, I had nearly 17 years with my sweet pup. That's a wealth of minutes. You do the math.

The new year continued to be challenging. By springtime, due to numerous factors that found their way to my door, I was exhausted. I longed for summer to wash away the pain and the stress of the first six months.

How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee, in inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife. In five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?

The summer provided me with some much needed rest and time for renewing grace. A puppy named Ziva and attention to diet and exercise helped restore my energy and my passion for life. August, however, brought me some more rough days and this fall proved to be an uphill battle as sickness, work stress, and back pain threatened to knock me down again.

How about love? How about love? How about love? Measure in love...
Seasons of love. Seasons of love

But with this blog, I never strayed from stopping to measure. I measured my days, good days and bad days, laughter and tears, celebrations and frustrations, love growing and spreading. I took time to preserve lessons learned and the simple pleasures and beauty of my days. Painful or joyful, I appreciated all the moments I could.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes!
Five hundred twenty-five thousand journeys to plan.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes ago, or maybe 525948.768 minutes ago, I began a journey. I did not know quite where I was going but I took a few bold steps into the unknown. No fear. No expectations. I simply took a chance to see what would happen. That was 365 days ago, 365 blog posts ago.

It's time now to sing out, tho' the story never ends
Let's celebrate. Remember a year in the life of friends
Remember the love! Remember the love! Seasons of love!

I don’t know what this all means. I have harbored a few guesses at why this blog has been so important to me and why I have continued to press on, why I have pushed myself to write 365 posts in 365 days. But as I look back tonight at what I have accomplished here, it is surely significant to me. I have honored the writer I am, the wife, mother, teacher, and woman that I am. I have spoken to learn, to share, to express, to reflect, and to record. And I have spoken to praise and to honor those five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes I was given this year. Life is a most precious gift. I’ve done my best to live the past year as well as I could. Where do I go from here? Stay tuned. Stay with me and sit by my side. The views from the dock never cease to amaze me.

You know that love is a gift from up above
Share love, give love spread love
Measure measure your life in love.

The "PJ Day" After Christmas

2011-12-26T19:35:00.000-05:00

The day after Christmas is always a great day in our house. Feeling absolutely no motivation to join others in a rush to hit sales at the mall or to beat others to those displays of wrapping paper and bows, all 50% off, we sleep in, enjoy a late breakfast, and pile onto the couch to watch a movie or two. This year was no exception. After packing up goodies for my parents who headed back home, Eric, the kids, and I had a true “PJ Day”. We were relaxed and happy, until we realized that someone had to go pull on pants to take Paul to his friend’s house for a sleepover and to the store to pick up another gallon of milk. (Luckily, we were able to convince newly licensed Sydney that she ought to practice her driving).

Even the puppy, who had just celebrated her first Christmas, joined in the ritual. Making herself comfortable on our laps, Ziva made only a few trips outside and hunkered down for the laziest of days. If not for the fact that the refrigerator is in the kitchen, we might not have left the family room all day long, and even then we begged and bartered with one another to get ourselves glasses of milk or a couple of cookies.

I did pick up some presents and insisted that Paul make his bed before leaving, and I think I heard Eric sneaking upstairs to take a shower. But it is safe to say that none of us burned off any real calories today. I even heard someone remark that “It’s the day after Christmas. I don’t have to eat healthy!”

So as I type away on my computer which is resting on Ziva’s shoulders (Guess whose lap she is draped on now!) and as I look back on the hours of this day, I know for sure that it has been a typical December 26th in our home. I’m sure everyone who went to redeem gift cards came home with some lovely items found at the mall, but I for one would never desire to be anywhere but here at home with my fellow couch potatoes on this day after Christmas. Tomorrow, however, we’ve already made plans. We’ll each take showers and get dressed. We girls will put on a little make-up and blow dry our hair. We’re even planning to leave the house.

A Christmas Memories Book

2011-12-26T18:34:00.000-05:00

For Sunday, December 25, 2011

One month after I was married in 1988, I began a Christmas Memories Book. Purchased at a Christmas store, the red leather covered book sat on the table and was the center of conversation when friends and family stopped by. After Christmas I would take time to fill in the spaces describing our visits with family, special presents, food enjoyed, and special celebrations we’d had. The book had room for twenty years’ worth of entries and I remember wondering what I’d do when the twenty years were over. I vowed to get a new book but I’m afraid that did not happen and so, for the past few years I have not kept the memory book going.

Our first four years of Christmas celebrations as a married couple were spent in our hometown where our parents lived. In 1988 I wrote of sneaking out of the house at 4:30am, rolling the car down the driveway so as not to wake my little nephew and niece who were sleeping downstairs. We went to Eric's parents' house and found his brother sleeping under the Christmas tree. We woke up his family, opened presents there, and returned to my parents' house two hours later to do the same with my family. By 2:00pm we were on our way to Boston to catch a flight to the Bahamas for a belated honeymoon!

In 1991 with my first baby due in one month, we visited friends who called my baby “8/9ths” and joked of our need to get back home quickly before the baby arrived. With little money and a long list of people to buy presents for, it was the year I made numerous food baskets which I delivered to family members.

Beginning in 1992, Eric and I stayed home for Christmas. Having purchased our first home in January, a home we moved into when Sydney was just one week old, we were delighted to decorate and to host the festivities. My parents came as did my brother and sister-in-law. My Mom helped me prepare the annual Christmas Eve buffet and the holiday would have been perfect if not for my Mom coming down with the flu. Fearing she would expose the baby, she insisted on staying upstairs in her guest bedroom. She was miserably ill for several days.

The next fifteen years are also chronicled inside my red leather book. There are notes on favorite gifts and descriptions of various things the children said or did, such as when Sydney panicked at the age of four after her Uncle Kevin came in from outside claiming he’d seen a red light up in the sky. She ran upstairs crying until we insisted that she had plenty of time to get on her pajamas and to go to sleep before Santa flew to our rooftop. Times with Eric’s grandparents, various members of my family, and friends who stopped by are forever penned inside my red leather book. Letters from Santa, wish lists, and even a reworked Christmas carol are tucked inside the pages.

If my Christmas Memories Book had a few more pages, enough for this year's entry, I'd be sure to discuss my excitement when Dad called from the rest area outside of our hometown to tell me he and Mom were on their way once more to spend another holiday with us. (In twenty years since they first came to our house in 1992 they have missed only one year). I'd write of my daughters and I singing at Christmas Eve Mass after a day of preparing the foods for our annual buffet and hosting Eric's parents and brother that evening and my brother and his family the next. I'd write of Dad waiting in the stairwell with the three kids while my Mom got ready to come downstairs, and of the funny "Cinderella" book that Sydney and Paul doctored up for Emma's present. I'd write of Paul's excitement over getting his IPod Touch and of making Mom's coffee for her each morning and my retrieving my green fleece robe from the drier so I could wrap it around Dad Christmas morning. I'd share too how Mom and I talked for hours. I'd write of Dad and Joel enjoying the Patriot's game with Eric. I'd write of the bittersweet feelings of knowing I no longer had a child in the house who believed in Santa.

The pages of my red Christmas Memories Book may have run out, but I now realize that, as with everything else, I have evolved with my memory keeping. Photographs and this blog perhaps will help me continue to record memories of the everyday as well as Christmas celebrations. It is my hope however that the first twenty years of Christmas as a married woman will continue to delight and entertain all those who open the cover of my Christmas Memories Book.

A Phone Call From Santa

2011-12-26T17:03:00.000-05:00

For Saturday, December 24, 2011

Although one might think they are too old to receive phone calls from Santa on Christmas Eve, my kids made it known to me that they hoped Santa would not forget them this year. I left a hint on Facebook tagging St. Nick’s favorite local elf and luckily he saw it. When the phone rang in the afternoon and I answered it, I was the first to hear Santa’s “Ho Ho Ho”.

“I hear you have a present arriving soon from the North?” Santa asked me. He had heard that Mom and Dad were on their way to my house for the holiday. “Yes, Santa, I do. I am very happy about that. Let me get the children now”.

Emma quickly got on the line. “Hello Santa”, she said. Then I went to find Paul, but he had jumped into the shower.

“Paul?! Santa is on the phone. Come talk to him!”

“Mom! I’m taking a shower. No”.

Never one to take no for an answer, I became a pest, knocking at the door of the bathroom, threatening to take a Q-tip to pop the lock, until he finally agreed to come out. He got on the line in the bedroom and rolled his eyes, but he was smiling as he listened in to the conversation between Santa and his sister.

There was giggling and the annual discussion of whether or not Santa sounded an awful lot like Uncle Kevin. There were debates on where Santa was at the moment. Santa said he was at the North Pole but Emma and NORAD had him tracked in Afghanistan. That led to questions about terrorism that only Santa himself could answer.

Oh sure, the conversations with Santa over the years have grown more complicated perhaps, but each Christmas Eve the children anticipate his annual phone call, almost as much as I do. I’m sure glad Santa did not assume the children had outgrown him. I am also happy that despite his busy schedule, he did not forget to call our home again this year.

Our Family's Christmas Traditions

2011-12-23T22:48:00.003-05:00

Growing up, my family traditions were numerous. Christmastime was incredibly special with so many rituals I am afraid I’ll miss mentioning several here tonight. There were the blue candles my Mom would place in our windows, giving each room a beautiful calm glow, and then there were the car rides around town in December to see the community’s Christmas lights. We'd spend the time picking out our favorite house displays. There were Christmas cards hung first on the stair railing and later on the front door when we moved to a new home. There were special ornaments and a little creche that to this day I refuse to give up even if the simple cardboard manger is worn out and some of the plastic animals are broken in parts.

There was the tradition of not going down the steps on Christmas morning to see the tree until Dad had gone down first to turn on the Christmas tree lights. Before he did this, everyone, including my two visiting grandmothers, had to be awake. We would then be allowed to open our stockings (In our stockings we always found gold chocolate coins at the very bottom), and just one present each before we all sat down to eat our breakfast. Opening presents would resume with an orderly "one-at-a-time, youngest-to-oldest" pattern which was a fabulous way to draw out the opening of gifts for several hours.

Going to Mass was sometimes different for each family member. With five of us children and later my older siblings' spouses all at home, I often went to an early Christmas Eve Mass with my parents or else I would opt to go with my brother and nephew around 10:00am on Christmas morning. Many of my siblings would attend the special Midnight Mass and they would not get home until the wee hours of the morning. I always longed to do that too, but by the time I was old enough to attend, the "Midnight Mass" was being held at 9:00pm.

Now that Eric and I have our own Christmas with our family, we have begun some new traditions such as with our Christmas village and snow globe decorations, our garland and bulbs hung in the windows, and our little white kitchen tree in addition to our big family tree. On a table sits a Christmas puzzle where you can often find Sydney and Emma taking turns to finish it before starting a new one and letters to Santa are answered each year with soot fingerprints left behind. We now attend a 4:00pm children’s Mass and sing in the choir, and we long ago trained our children to sing the phrase “Christmas lights!” every time we spot some in our nightly travels.

But I have certainly upheld many of my childhood traditions too. The children wait for Eric to turn on the tree lights on Christmas morning and we stop for a breakfast break after some time has been spent opening presents one at a time. My favorite tradition however is our annual Christmas Eve buffet. Years ago, in an attempt to make the night before Christmas even more special (and to take the focus off the gifts under the tree perhaps), my Mom prepared several appetizer-style dishes and put on a huge spread for family and dear friends. The dining room table was decorated and the food took over every inch. When Eric and I moved into our home I knew I wanted to continue the tradition, so each year I prepare the buffet. We invite my parents, in-laws, and often a few dear friends of my children. Before they passed, Eric’s grandmothers and Papa always came too.

I have spent much of today finishing my Christmas baking of cookies to fill a tiered tree of sweet desserts, a staple of the buffet. And I’ve begun preparing items for the menu. It is a labor of love. I’ll be up early in the morning and my daughters and I will start in on the list so as to have everything just about ready for our return after Mass. Eric will light a fire in the fireplace and the girls and I will get the food warmed up and placed upon the decorated table.

We’ll gather around the Christmas Eve buffet, say grace, and enjoy the food and one another’s company. As the food is put away, the children will begin writing a letter to Santa and will set aside a few cookies for him. It matters not that they have passed the magical time of childhood when Santa was real. They know the real magic is within the special beauty of family traditions.

Our Christmas Eve Menu:

crabmeat roll-ups
stuffed celery
meatballs & spaghetti sauce
meatballs & gravy (for Dad)
phyllo taco cups
phyllo cheeseburger cups (for Dad)
creton
cheese, pepperoni and crackers
chicken crepes (with apples)
chicken crepes (without apples for Dad)
steak teriyaki roll-ups with water chestnuts
shrimp cocktail
onion dip and chips
cheese fondue with french bread
deviled eggs
pumpkin bread
banana bread
chicken broccoli braid
chicken spinach braid
peanut butter cookies
peanut butter blossom cookies
sugar cookies
muddy buddies
peanut butter balls
needhams
frosted oatmeal log cookies
pretzel-kiss-m&m candies

Hanging on

2011-12-22T21:26:00.000-05:00

I think of you often in my day
and in my dreams it’s always you I see.
Despite a greater distance between us now
I hope I can guide you back to me.

I have much to learn
yet in your heart, in your mind I wish to stay.
But I will travel, follow wherever you wander.
Going anywhere, anytime, any day.

We did it all. We had fun.
And you were everything to me.
The most generous, the most loving one.
You taught me how to be.

I know you haven’t left by choice.
And sometimes I see you there
as you always were, as you were to me.
I hang on because I care.

I know I’ll drop a tear or two
but I will not be scared away.
I will find the road to walk.
I will find some words to say.

And I will sit with you and hold your hand
if the words won’t come to me.
I’ll sit and I’ll think on everything.
The past, the present, and years to be.

Keep Yourselves Safe

2011-12-22T14:01:00.000-05:00

For Wednesday, December 21, 2011

As Christmas vacation approaches it has been a challenge to continue teaching. Students need this break as do we educators, but we all manage to get ourselves to school each day and to do our best to be alert and attentive in the lessons prior to the holidays. There are projects and papers due, exams to give or take, and last minute tasks to check. It has been a flurry of emails to parents and teens, and students staying after school to get one more assignment done before academic grade checks threaten to keep them on the bench at the next game.

The final week before vacation is hectic for teens and adults. So I consider myself lucky when as students are leaving my classroom for vacation that last day, I am thrown a “Thank you” or a “Merry Christmas” or a “Have a Nice Vacation”. I try to offer these sentiments to them as they file out, with an added, “Be safe and come back in one piece!” They sometimes look at me funny at this remark but unfortunately there have been more than a couple of tragic happenings over a school vacation. I know I will sound morbid but I say a prayer that they will all come back and sit in their desks once again come January. A teacher who is a mother always worries, whether or not the children are biologically her own.

As we all pack our backpacks and grab our coats to leave for vacation, I remind them to take care of themselves, to drive carefully on these wintry roads, and to get their rest. Oh and after a few days of rest, to get their homework done too. They smirk at me, nod, and promise they will.

Happy Birthday Eric

2011-12-22T08:24:00.000-05:00

For Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Today is my husband’s birthday. I’m a bit embarrassed to say that I did not say “Happy Birthday” to him until we were at the children’s bus stop a good hour after he woke up. But I do think he ended up having a special day, even if we were at work for most of it. We did have a chance to have lunch together at school since our schedules allow us to do so every other day. I not-so-subtly told everyone at our lunch table that it was Eric’s birthday and he was serenaded in Spanish by the Spanish teacher and given many other well wishes by others. I took a little time during the day to put together a picture collage of him using photos I had on my computer and I posted a birthday announcement to him on Facebook. After work we drove to our old stomping ground, the town we went to college in and where we lived when we were first married. (That might sound more romantic an event if I left out that we were actually driving to his 4pm dentist appointment, but that’s the truth of that situation).

Still, despite having to work and having to go to the dentist, afterward we managed to carve out some special time to mark the day. First, he and I went to dinner. He enjoyed his choice of meal and I relayed to him the obnoxious conversation I overheard at the bar stools next to us, one he somehow didn’t pick up on himself. It doesn’t take much to make the two of us laugh and the bar stool guys had been pretty entertaining even if they were quite sexist.

We arrived home and I had him open his present. It wasn’t much, just a small little plaque I’d picked up a few hours earlier, but its perfect sentiment made us both laugh again. We waited for our son to arrive home from basketball practice before diving into his cake (marble, his favorite) and he then opened a present from Sydney. The rest of the evening was easy-going and relaxing. We knew we had to head back to school for another few more days before vacation.

At one point during lunch at school my husband told our coworkers, “Birthdays were never a big deal in my family when we were growing up. My wife’s family was another story”. I suppose that’s true. Growing up, I awoke to hand drawn signs crafted by my Dad. Mom would bake my favorite cake (I had two favorites so she’d ask me which one I wanted that time around). My locker was often decorated at school. I had two birthday parties every year, one with family and one with my friends. And when our children were younger, I threw myself into each child’s birthday party planning and thoroughly enjoyed preparing all the details from the invitations, decorations, food, games, and favors. I am pretty sure that my children have fond memories of their birthday parties and that makes me happy.

For whether you are seven or forty-seven I believe birthdays should be celebrated with love. My husband may not have needed a big party with friends or even a homemade cake, but I did my best to give him that special recognition he deserves. For if he hadn’t a birthday to celebrate, my life as I know it would be completely erased. So Happy Birthday to you Eric. And So Happy Your Birthday to Me.

Okay. What's Next?

2011-12-20T14:33:00.001-05:00

For Monday, December 19, 2011

As I was working with one of my students today I noticed my hearing suddenly was affected. There was a brief sound of static, the sound of wind...I’m not sure how to describe it. It’s not the first time this has happened to me this fall. It never lasts for very long, just a moment or so as if my ears are adjusting to a climb in altitude, only I haven’t ascended to any new height when it happens.

I’ll get it checked. I will. I promise. (Just as soon as I get around to finding a primary care doctor). But the occurrence serves to stop me, in whatever I am doing, to think, “Huh. I wonder what else will soon go on the blink?”

Noticing the signs of aging has occurred more in the past two years. The facial wrinkles here and there, the back pain, the increased minding of cold weather, the reminders from my dentist that I must think of getting a few crowns.... I don’t particular like the reminders that I am getting older. I don’t embrace the way our bodies begin to deteriorate just when our wisdom has increased. It’s a cruel joke.

Yet in the past year and a half I have worked to rebel against Father Time. I dropped ten pounds and began strengthening and toning my muscles. I began getting more physical, going hiking, kayaking, and snowshoeing. I began wearing my glasses more often to stop the tugging at my eyes when my contact lenses fail to give me clear vision due to astigmatism and have grown to love my new scholarly and modern appearance. I don’t obsess over a new wrinkle for I find crows’ feet quite charming. I have done what I can to throw back the signs of aging, to counter them with a “Oh yeah?! Take THAT!” kind of attitude.

I used to be mistaken for being much younger than my years when I was in my 20s. And ever since then, I have hoped I still look at least 10 years younger than I am. One of the meanest things a peer ever said to me was when a fellow teacher said to my 25 year old self, "I wonder if you'll still have as good a rapport with your students when you are no longer young and pretty". I admit, the thought, however mean-spirited as I recognized it to be, has crossed my mind in the past twenty years. Will aging affect my relationships with people in a negative way? Will I be judged "old" and not given a fair shake? I'd hate to think so but sure, the world, or at least the media, does favor the young. But I would rather embrace the age I am. At the age of 43 I think I’m looking good, even if I don’t appear to look 33. Seeing my own daughter just a few weeks away from her 20th birthday has reminded me that I no longer WANT to hang onto my younger self. It’s her time now to be 20. I’m going to live the best decade I can and show her and my other children that we only get better as we age. I truly believe that. And I have proof of that when I view my friends and my family as they move into their 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s. I think of the beautiful older women I know and I admire them for their accomplishments, their talents, their intelligence and wisdom, and yes, their inner and outer beauty. If I stay active and healthy, my body won’t fail me. So I refuse to fail my body by being sad that it isn’t quite what it used to be. Instead, it’s time to LIVE and to be grateful it’s still functioning as well as it is.

When I do begin experiencing old age, I am going to look back on the last 40 years and know that I made the very most of them. And then I’ll look into the mirror at the beautiful wrinkled face staring back at me and I’ll say, “Okay. What’s next?”

Vowing to Unplug

2011-12-19T20:47:00.000-05:00

For Sunday, December 18, 2011

I was scolded by my husband last night. He looked over to my laptop’s computer screen at one point as I sat on the sofa, supposedly relaxing, and spotted that I was checking my school email. He had confronted me earlier in the weekend about doing the same thing. He knows that I regularly check in with my students, allowing them to submit late work or to ask a question as they are preparing the next assignment. I honestly try not to check my school email more than a few times a day on weekends, usually once in the morning and once at night, but I understood his concern and his scolding. Why was I checking it on a Saturday night?

The lines between work and home have become blurred with the ease of email. Gone are the days when we are truly separated from work between Friday afternoon and Monday morning. Even vacations can be interrupted if we allow ourselves to check emails. There is often a satisfying feeling of checking it and seeing nothing needing a response, but often that isn’t the case. Yet rarely is there truly any dire need to respond to an inquiry, not often is there a situation that cannot wait.

It’s difficult yet most important to “unplug”. When the lines become blurred and work threatens true well being at home, it’s necessary to have boundaries established again. To this end I am vowing to check my school email only twice during my next vacation. I’ll check it once the night I return home on my last day of work this week and once the day before I return to work. Work needs not consume me. I need a true break from the workplace. If I don’t set appropriate boundaries to protect myself, no one will. Well, except for that sweet if grumpy husband of mine...

The Ease of Time Together

2011-12-19T20:18:00.000-05:00

For Saturday, December 17, 2011

It was the day of our annual Christmas party with Eric’s side of the family today. Gatherings at my in-law’s are always very enjoyable. There is an ease to our time together that can be counted on, no matter the season.

This year we arrived around noontime and after a few minutes spent playing with the newest addition to the family, little Jack, who turned a year old a month ago, we all settled into the living room and began exchanging presents. This was made all the more fun with the traditional tags, a bit of an inside joke within the family that doesn’t need sharing to those who might not appreciate the humor of the silliness, and the final presentation of money envelopes, “Just like Papa and Mana used to do”, said Eric's Dad. After the usual oohing and aahhing over pretty hand-made gifts and/or other thoughtful items, we set our presents aside and dove into my mother-in-law’s traditional lasagna dinner, salad, rolls, and pumpkin bars.

Harry the dog enjoyed some attention from the children and Eric and his sister and father headed downstairs and ended up looking through old photo albums together. Joel and Chad unpacked Paul’s remote control helicopter and showed him its features as the two of them flew the copter around the room above our heads. Emma lounged on the couch and Barbara and I found ourselves drifting off and sneaking in a short snooze during the temporary quiet. When everyone returned to the living room, we took pictures of each little family within the larger group and laughed when Paul’s helicopter made it into a few of the shots.

Before long it was time for Marissa’s family to head home. We all lamented the early setting of the sun and how we all hate to drive home in the dark. We packed up our presents and said our goodbye’s shortly after. Another Christmas had come and gone quickly but it had been such a pleasant and happy afternoon with everyone.

Each time I gather with family these days I count my blessings. Eric’s parents are so very lucky to have their three children make every effort to gather together a few times each year. Their simple gatherings have grown in size to accommodate spouses and children but the relaxed and laugh-filled celebrations of family is never compromised. The comforting ease to our time together is a true credit to Eric’s parents and to the three children, Eric, Lisa, and Joel. As I looked into the backseat where our own three children sat on the ride home I said a silent prayer that as they grow older, they’ll continue to find their way back to our home with their spouses and children...and that our time together will be as easy-going and as joyous as are the times at my in-law’s.

Muddling Through

2011-12-18T00:08:00.000-05:00

For Friday, December 16, 2011

There is a beauty to Christmas songs that cannot be denied. Although many are uplifting and joyous, there are others that bring a certain melancholy, songs such as Blue Christmas, I’ll Be Home for Christmas, and the one that brings a tear to my eyes, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.

That song was sung by Judy Garland in the movie, Meet Me in St Louis. In the film, Garland’s character sings to a five year old girl who is upset over an impending move. The lyrics of the song were altered by Garland and later again by Frank Sinatra, but in each version there is an encouragement that we let our "heart be light" and a reminder that our present troubles will soon "be out of sight". There is a reminder that "faithful friends who were dear to us will be near to us once more" and that "someday soon we will all be together if the fates allow". Although Sinatra sang asking that we “hang a shining star upon the highest bough”, Garland suggested that “until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow”. I admit, I prefer Garland’s honest lyric there.

Christmas is a celebratory time, but indeed there are moments of melancholy when we think of the past and we recognize the fact that we’ve lost friends and family who will no longer celebrate with us in the way we fondly remember. Sometimes we must "muddle through" after reminders that we are to acknowledge the passing of time. I see nothing wrong with allowing those moments of sadness reach us, as long as we don’t get lost within them. It is good to remind ourselves to have a merry little Christmas and to let our hearts be light.

To hear Ms. Garland's song from Meet Me In St. Louis, click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5g4lY8Y3eoo

If you prefer Frank Sinatra, here is his version: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LpPdl0StUVs

Music, Lasagna, and Funny Faces

2011-12-17T23:15:00.000-05:00

For Thursday, December 15, 2011

After a rough few days at work I hurried home on Wednesday to make a lasagna dinner for my daughter Sydney who would be coming home from college for Christmas break. She was bringing her friend Ryan home with her for a couple of days. I wanted them both to enjoy a home cooked meal upon their arrival.

Sydney’s siblings were excited too. Emma, Paul, and I hung out in the kitchen listening to music together and getting the kitchen picked up. Soon we were belting out the lyrics to songs and laughing as we tend to do when we anticipate company. When Sydney and Ryan appeared, I was more than grateful they hadn’t caught us screeching lyrics. That might have given Ryan a startling introduction to our family.

The lasagna came out of the oven but we were nearing the time we had to leave to go to Paul’s middle school music concert. Paul, Emma and Eric ate quickly and left to head to the concert while Sydney, Ryan, and I said we’d meet up with them there. We finished our dinner then drove to the middle school. When we arrived the concert had just begun and so as not to interrupt or distract, we took seats near the side of the bleachers.

After a few numbers by the band, I looked up at the side of the bleachers and spotted a little four year old girl who had made herself comfortable, lying down on the floor of the bleachers with her coat underneath her. With the railing right there, she made a game of sticking her little face underneath one part of the railing. I smiled at her and made eyes at her, getting her to smile back at me. Then, when she slowly stuck out her tongue, I chuckled and did the same. She was delighted. Sydney, who was seated next to me, began playing the same game, much to the little girl’s enjoyment. Then Ryan joined in. The four of us sat chuckling and smiling and making faces back and forth as the band and the chorus groups played on.

At one point the music stopped and the little girl began giggling at Ryan. The giggling grew louder and faster and before we knew it, the girl’s mother, and several people seated near us, caught on to our game. Everyone began laughing. The little girl’s giggle was incredibly contagious. Luckily we all settled down prior to the next song. The little girl sat upright and watched her sister sing a few numbers. We sighed in relief that we had not caused trouble.

Music, lasagna, and the game of making faces with a four year old girl, my daughter, and Ryan made my night, my day, and possibly my entire week. For me at least, it was a nice way to spend the first evening with my college girl and her new friend.

Over A Barrel

2011-12-17T22:37:00.000-05:00

For Wednesday, December 14, 2011

As weeks go, this one hadn’t been a good one, or so I thought. I dreaded the week’s meetings as it began but gave myself a pep talk telling myself to be calm and to go with the flow. I now realize that when I set myself up like that, the universe sees it as a challenge to rise against me. And if I thought Monday’s meetings had been rough, today surely had me over a barrel.

I talked with a friend this afternoon and told him that I have long been too much of a thinker. I over-analyze situations and my interaction with others. I strive to “act appropriately” but in doing that, I put undue stress on myself to filter my words or to at least chastise myself when I think I have said too much. My friend told me that I don’t need a filter, for my words and my approach in conversations are usually spot on, however I may be overly aware of how others are affected by my words and anticipate their reactions, or else I care a little too much for how they will handle my words. It’s not my responsibility to do that, at least not constantly.

Today I confronted a few people on some important matters. I did not hold back, although I did choose some words carefully so as not to burn bridges or make the situation worse. That’s simple wisdom. It felt good not to hold it in or to stuff my feelings. When I was asked to “take a walk” to continue a conversation in a more private setting, it became my time to do the challenging, my time to demand appropriate answers. Yet, as passionate as my words were, I remained in control.

I rode home at the end of the day and knew I had been right to tell myself to be calm and to go with the flow at the start of the week, despite the rocky weather that had come to be over the last few days. But at the end of the day today it became clear to me that when I am held over a barrel, that’s when my courage chooses to surface.

As weeks go, this may not be one I call a favorite, but maybe it wasn't as bad as I anticipated. Speaking the truth and saying what needs to be said is tough, but it's hard to live life with integrity if one hides in a corner.

Extra Credit

2011-12-13T23:20:00.002-05:00

I was in a list making mode tonight, desiring to credit the teachers I had in my life, wanting to send notes of appreciation to as many as I could remember. Maybe it's not a perfect list. Maybe it should say more, or say less, or be presented differently but that's okay. I think it's the thought that counts here. So without further ado...here are the names of some of the people who influenced me from the age of 5 to my early twenties when I entered my own classroom and became a teacher myself.

Miss Thames...Thank you for giving me a wonderful start to school, for encouraging my reading skills and for coming to my rescue when I needed help pulling up my tights.

Miss Coombs...Thank you for wearing that amazing blue eyeshadow and for living next door to my best friend. You were like a celebrity to us both.

Miss Cummings...Thank you for having the same first name as me. I thought that was pretty cool. But I don’t think you spelled your name correctly with the “E” on the end.

Mr. Burnell...Thank you for making me and Cheryl your teacher pets. I’ll never forget the hilarity of being tied to my desk chair with a yardstick at my back. That will sound horrible to people who weren’t there but it was all in fun and a lesson in having good posture.

Mrs. Blood...Thank you for your kindness when I was traumatized for having to go to a new school, even if it was just one mile from my old school.

Mr. Burton...Thank you for making a box to house discussion topics suggested by students and for getting the entire class on board to support me when I was too afraid to wear my glasses to school in fear that I’d be made fun of.

Mr. Megno...Thank you for being an honest and caring CCD teacher, for answering the tough questions, and for everything you did for us kids.

Mrs. Angotti...Thank you for all the talks we had during piano lessons. Thank you for recognizing what I truly needed in order to stick with piano for the 10 years I took lessons with you.

Mr. Gonya, Mr. Thorpe, and Mr. Ordway...Thank you for not embarrassing me too much when I slipped in my first pair of wedged heels and landed in front of the three of you with my skirt flying up.

Mr. Huff...Thank you for being so supportive of my efforts to earn a place in the high school stage band even though we all knew I’d never win a spot over Sara-Sue and Jennifer. Thank you for coming to my house with a set of vibes the summer before my freshman year and suggesting I learn to play them. I am honored to share our birthday and I smile brightly each year when I receive your card.

Mr. Martin...Thank you for your guidance and for giving me the greatest piece of advice when you heard I was going to become a teacher.

Miss Ouellette...Thank you for enjoying us teenagers and letting us play flag football in gym class so often.

Mr. Deane...Thank you for allowing me the funniest of stories about taking Driver’s Ed with you. My students love hearing them.

Mrs. Martin...Thank you for suggesting Theater, Communication, and English to me as possible college majors. I wish I could thank you for talking me into doing that scholarship beauty pageant but despite winning as 2nd runner up, that is one of my most embarrassing stories of my past.

Mrs. Lacasse...Thank you for taking time to read my teenage books of poetry. The notes you tucked inside my books were so special. You were the most supportive teacher and you helped me develop my confidence as a writer.

Mr. St. Peter...Thank you for giving me my one and only “D+” in high school. I so deserved it. I learned my lesson and stopped flirting so much in math class. And I got a B+ the next quarter. Thank you also for being such a good father to my soul brother Paul.

Mr. DiFederico, Mr. Held, Mr. McDonald...Thank you for teaching me. I always found your classes interesting, challenging, and relevant.

Mr. Logan...Thank you for teaching me about poetry and for helping me improve my writing skills. I’ll never forget the day you put your ear to the cement wall and said you could hear the cement mixer.

To my science teachers--Mr. Porter, Mr. Trainor, and Mr. Pottle...Thanks for bearing with me and for letting Cheryl and I use the electric scale, Mr. Pottle.

Mr. Walker...Thank you for making time for me during 6th period study halls and for developing my love of theater.

Ms. Buzzini... Thank you for challenging my vocal range and for the time you devoted to private lessons. Thank you also for your sense of humor and for the energy you brought to our choral groups.

Professor Freeman...Thank you for working with me for four years as a music/voice minor and for the beautiful evening of song the night you invited my husband and I to your home to cut down a Christmas tree.

Professor Jacques...Thank you for insisting that your students turn in papers in their original handwriting. I learned so much from you over the course of the semester.

Professor Cole...Thank you for being the most challenging teacher I ever had in college.

Professor Benedict...Thank you for encouraging me as a writer.

Professor Steele...Thank you for the guidance in the three theater college courses I took from you.

Professor Street...Thanks for being one very cool cat. I loved your jazz course.

Professor Broyles...Thank you for making an exception and for taking a chance on me, a young 22 year old applying to a graduate program designed for older students, not those of us fresh out of college. I worked hard to make you proud of me. Thank you for awarding me a scholarship that allowed me to finish graduate school.

Professor Silvernail...Thank you for opening my mind to understanding the nuances of research.

Mrs. Davis...Thank you for being the best cooperating teacher and for trusting your students to learn from me.

And to Michelle, Kim, Peter, Peter, Susan, Sue, Gail, Steve, Roger, Jan, Mary...Thank you for the guidance and support you provided me when I entered my own classroom as a new teacher.

I Know You're Not

2011-12-13T15:16:00.000-05:00

For Monday, December 12, 2011

Sometimes when I say I’m okay, I want someone to look me in the eyes, hug me tight and say, “I know you’re not”.

Yesterday while on the internet, I came across this quote attached to a tender black and white picture of two toddlers hugging. I immediately stopped and whispered, “Exactly”.

We do so much pretending in our daily lives. It is exhausting. It is necessary however, for the world would operate much differently if we did not have the filters we have or the common sense to put a person or a situation into perspective when we are angry and frustrated. But lately I have been troubled by the lack of honesty that I see around me. I’ve said this before, but that is why I like teens. Many of them don’t see any reason to lie to me. That remark can be taken one of two ways of course. Some surely do not care whether or not I have a certain opinion of them or not; others trust me. And before I continue, let me assure you that I know that people (teens and adults) aren’t always truthful. We are dishonest for a variety of reasons, most of them self-preserving. I know that some of my teens try to lie to me as either a defense mechanism or in hopes of winning my favor with their deception. What they don’t realize however is how attuned I am to untruths. I don’t often confront the lies when I work with teens. I tend to simply smirk when I hear them. Some lies aren’t any ”big deal” in our daily functioning. But others can quickly erode the strongest of foundations. The lies or the hypocrisy I experience with certain adults is a whole other matter, one in which I have little tolerance or patience. I hold adults to a much higher standard. I expect too much at times. I know that. I push myself to these high expectations too and then grow disappointed in myself. It's something I am working on... Yes, Virginia, I do have this ugly side...

It’s the lie of “I’m okay” however that I wish most we could bust wide open. As individuals or as a society we have such a hard time admitting that we feel vulnerable, hurt, troubled, frustrated, sad, angry, or otherwise pained. We respond “I’m okay” to another’s “How are you?” for a few reasons. First of all, we know that the other person is expecting us to assure them that we are fine, that we do not need any additional attention given to us. Some of us don’t want that extra attention, preferring to be private in our feelings and/or seen as anything but vulnerable with certain individuals. The last thing we want or need is to reveal ourselves to a manipulator, backstabber, or otherwise hurtful person. Sometimes we lie and say we are okay because we don’t have time to get into a discussion of why we’re not. Or we aren’t in the right frame of mind to discuss the situation at hand. Sometimes we’re afraid of making a situation worse. And some of us, like me, seem to do better with honesty when we write. I suppose some may believe I've ingested a truth serum when I write. But let me be honest about my writing. There are some things I will NOT write about. Not now anyway. I have to keep some truths under wraps because I don't want to be hurtful. And in a few matters, I have yet to be honest with myself enough to put down words of permanence on paper. Oh, I have no startling skeletons in my closet. No, I just don't have everything figured out yet. I suppose no one ever truly does...

Some of us have had experiences where being honest proved to hurt us. I’ve been there. Many times. But this brings me back to my comment about the exhaustion of pretending. We all do it. We all respond with “I’m okay”, and we try to move on with our day. But sometimes when I say that, I want to be halted in my tracks. I want someone to look me in the eyes then hug me tight saying, “I know you’re not. Talk to me”. And I want that person to tell me it is time to stop pretending, that it’s okay to put down the wall of being strong and sensible and selfless. I want to be confronted and have every lie exposed. And then, I want to sleep...the best sleep I have ever had, so I can wake up and do the same for another.

A Humble Gift of Song

2011-12-12T23:30:00.000-05:00

For Sunday, December 11, 2011

I’d practiced the song and knew it well. It was a beloved solo of mine that accompanied by our church choir had been sung at Mass last year too. As with any piece of music that challenges me, I was intense in my focus and I controlled my breathing, my articulation and enunciation of words, and my tone. I was ready to perform. The piano began. I had four measures before my first note...

Et Misericordia. To hear this beautiful song by John Rutter, click the link below. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TUXgUQD27FQ

Despite my preparation and having calmly sung the first several pages of the song, halfway through, my legs began shaking. I didn’t feel nervous but, as I continued to sing, I realized just how intensely I was working to have proper breath control, clear pitch, effective dynamics, and proper enunciation. My legs shook but luckily my voice did not. I was aware of my singing yet also acutely aware of how my body was betraying me. I told my legs to “settle”. They did not. Still, I continued to sing. Passionately yet in control. I began to soar.

Music is the purest way I pray.

Finishing the song today, I glanced at Sandy and she gave me that “Thumbs up smile and nod”. I instinctively sat down. That’s when Emma nudged me in reminder that I was to start the choir’s line to receive communion. I stood up, walked to receive the blessed host then returned to my pew. Emma knelt down and whispered, “Way to forget about Communion, Mom”. I smirked. I’d lost myself for a moment there...

For the duration of the song I had been lifted away from my pew. I felt my legs shake but another part of me felt as if I were floating. The music took me up into the heaven of high notes, only to lower me gently into a cradle at the song’s end. I believe singing is the highest form of praise I can offer to God. That’s why my legs shake. I sing with such intent, with great focus of my mind that my body is left to tremble at the thought of what I am offering up, at what I am most humbled by, at the hope that my praise is received and understood.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

2011-12-12T22:22:00.001-05:00

For Saturday, December 10, 2011

Dashing out of the house at 8:00am, Eric left with Paul to drive to an out-of-town basketball game. Forgiven from attending, since Emma had an early afternoon dance recital, I was tempted to be lazy, but the news that Sydney would be coming home in just a few days’ time had me up and in the shower a few minutes later to prepare the house for her homecoming.

I began cleaning in anticipation of getting the house decorated. I blasted some music and for the first time in weeks, took to dancing in my kitchen again. With the sore back almost only a memory, I took my chances and felt the pleasure of seeing my puppy jumping around with me, thinking I had gone mad.

I cleaned up the dining room table, the kitchen island, the cupboards, and the dishes. I baked cinnamon rolls and paid bills. When the boys returned home around noontime I got them to bring up a few boxes of Christmas decorations and I began transforming our house for the holidays.

Still, as positive and happy as I was, I wasn’t feeling the Christmas spirit. Not really. I hoped that watching my daughter’s dance recital in the afternoon would help. As the story of The Nutcracker was told, and as dancers, young and old, swayed to the familiar songs, I still felt a bit numb. I just wasn’t feeling it.

I went home and saw my husband off as he went to catch Emma’s second show. With just Paul in the house I had him help me set up the Christmas village, a set of collectible ceramic buildings that we’ve added to since buying our first piece when Sydney was a month shy of her first birthday. We carefully unwrapped each piece and I set up each neighborhood on designated spots in the living room. Paul went off to watch television as I plugged in each cord. The final result was very pretty but once again, it felt like I was just going through the motions.

Then I heard the sirens. In our town the local fire department joins Santa in a parade down each street in the community. For years Eric and I have raced down the driveway with our three children to wave to Santa and his team of firefighters as they drive by our house with music blaring and several firetrucks letting their sirens scream. Once, when Emma was just a toddler she had been taking a bath when the sirens were heard. Panicking, she was afraid she'd miss seeing Santa. I threw a blanket around her and we raced down the driveway getting to the end just in time! Another year we watched as the girls and a group of foreign exchange students excitedly ran down to the cul de sac. But tonight, I knew that without the girls here, I would be hard pressed to get Paul to run down the driveway with me. Newly 12 years old, he would be too self-conscious. I anticipated that. Yet I tried anyway. “Please Paul?! We could take Ziva! Go with me, please?!”

No luck.

I heard the sirens growing louder. They were getting closer to our neighborhood. As sad as it was to know no one was home to go down the driveway with me, I felt it would be sadder to stay inside. So impulsively, I grabbed my camera and went down the driveway, alone. Our neighbors came out of their houses and we all waved to one another. I could not help but wonder if in another ten years if we’d all be doing the same thing, walking down our driveways without our children perhaps, but in support of our local firefighters who brought out their shiny firetrucks in celebration of Christmas. I smiled. For I knew then that for me, it would never matter whether I had a child next to me or not, I would be continuing to greet them and Santa at the end of my driveway for as long as they continued this tradition. Maybe the child in me has never truly grown up.

“You did what? Alone? Mom, that’s really sad”. Upon hearing what I’d done, one daughter seemed embarrassed for me. The other felt sad that I’d had to go alone. She scolded her brother and was disgusted that she had missed it herself. But I was neither embarrassed or sad about making the trek to the end of the driveway. For the magic of Santa, or rather the magic of a community--in this aging neighborhood of mine and in my sweet town--had done it. The Christmas spirit had been renewed in me once again.

Time Well Spent

2011-12-09T15:39:00.001-05:00

A few days ago as I drove into school I thought about how pressed for time I am and how unpleasant it is to feel this way during the Christmas season. My house isn’t decorated beyond two items I bought last week which I set in a temporary spot upon the windowsill, my shopping isn’t close to being finished, no cards have been sent, and no baking has been done. I blame back pain, school work demands, and the children’s activities. Fatigue and the stress of work have put a damper on my enjoyment of this season. Luckily, my passion for writing these blog posts allows me a chance to stop and reflect in a way I need to.

Thinking along these lines, I came into the classroom today and looked at the tired weary faces of my AP students. I wondered about these teens who take on the most challenging of courses, who get very little sleep on school nights, and who race through their To-Do lists. Do they stop long enough to reflect? Do they stop long enough to simply BE ? When we as adults push our teens in their academics and in various other responsibilities, do we also take time to help them see the need to be balanced? Do we help them value the human need for rest and relaxation?

I told my students that in the summertime we have more of a tendency to drop everything and to make time for the things we love. We take time to float on the lake, to rest in a hammock, to sit outside at night listening to the crickets. But in the throes of a hectic school year, we race from place to place and often lose our footing. So I told them I wanted to do something small this morning to stop the craziness. I gave them 15 minutes to simply BE. “If you feel like writing, write. If you can jump into a book for enjoyment, do that. If you want to chill and listen to music, do that. Doodle, daydream, fight the urge to finish homework that you need to do and do something restful. This may feel awkward and I know it’s only for a short time but drop everything else and give yourself 15 minutes”.

They looked at me with quizzical expressions and I had to laugh to myself as I associated this with the way I used to put my children down for their daily naps. (Okay, so maybe my toddlers hadn't needed to nap on a particular day but I needed them to?!) But being the good sports that they are, my 13 AP teens took me seriously. Some listened to music. One girl drew a picture. I saw others writing and reading and yes, as expected, surfing the web. I had considered having them not turn to the computer but I did not want to put limitations on what they chose to do in those fifteen minutes. If some chose to play an online game, who was I to say they needed to spend their 15 minute gift of time differently? It wasn’t the time to preach about unplugging, nor have I made up my mind on the debate on whether technology helps or hinders our attempts to slow down the pace of our lives.

After the 15 minutes, after my students told me that those fifteen minutes had proven to be “not awkward” but “really nice”, we dove into the lesson of the day. We tackled Shakespeare’s Macbeth, reading the play aloud and stopping at various times to discuss the language, the play’s motifs, and characterization. Students also selected soliloquies to study, interpret, and memorize by January. It’s easy to say the fifty minutes after our initial 15 minutes of rest were spent in strong academic study. We worked diligently but at the same time, there was laughter and smiles. We were indeed a community of learners, a community of people who could balance work with play, seriousness and scholarship with silly banter and giggles (I suppose taking the role of First Witch as we’re reading Macbeth Act I and reciting the lines in my best “witch voice” always helps entertain too).

I may have much to do to prepare for Christmas but I feel I have a done a few things “right” this year. I have stopped and have dropped everything to be there for the young people in my life--my teens at school and my kids at home. There have been times of quiet study and loads of laughter too. Christmas is so much more than tinsel and trees. The gift of time is one gift these young people deserve, whether it is time we give them to simply relax on their own, or time spent with us adults (talking, playing...it doesn’t matter). Teens need “time well spent” in their journey toward adulthood. As with ourselves as we make our own way through life, this time is worth so much. On a daily basis, we’re all worth those fifteen minutes at the VERY least.

I Love You

2011-12-09T14:04:00.002-05:00

For Thursday, December 8, 2011

It wasn’t easy to make it to tonight’s Holy Day of Obligation church service. Gone are the days when schools and employers dismissed churchgoers in time to attend an afternoon Mass. Nowadays concerts, basketball games, and other such events are held without consideration of Holy Days. It is, simply, a different world.

In the Catholic faith, going to Sunday Mass is not something we are to choose to do; we are to attend. Holy Days of Obligation, such as this week’s Feast of the Immaculate Conception, are to be considered equal to a Sunday Mass. Therefore, missing Sunday Mass or a Holy Day is a sin. Now, with that said, let me say very clearly, I am a sinner. I occasionally miss Sunday Mass and Holy Days of Obligation as do my children. I struggle with this. I know what is the right thing to do. But it’s not easy.

Last Sunday, Father Paul, our parish priest, gave us a stern reminder of our obligation. I did not need him to do this, or so I thought, because I carry this part of my faith with me. I regularly think of my obligation and of my responsibility and desire to attend Sunday Mass and Holy Days. I think of this when I am tired and long to sleep in past 7:30am on Sunday mornings. I think of this when my children ask to sleep over at a friend’s house. I think of this when we travel, when my back is sore, when the weather is poor, or when I long to hang out on the couch in my pajamas and read. But despite all this, when Father Paul reminded us of his desire to have us attend faithfully, I got the message.

Last Sunday I announced to everyone in the car on the way home that we were going to the anticipation of The Feast of The Immaculate Conception service on Wednesday evening. On Monday Emma told me her band and chorus Christmas concert was on Wednesday evening. I was immediately frustrated. Knowing we had school on Thursday morning, the other time a service would be held at St. Joe’s, I knew that going to another church’s service on Thursday evening would be our only option. That Mass would require an extra half hour drive on the night when my daughter’s dance class was to meet to prepare for the weekend’s Christmas recital. How ironic was it that two different celebrations of Christmas were interfering with my need to go to church on a Holy Day?!?!

I weighed my options. I decided to do what I felt was the right choice. But then I arrived home with just an hour to prepare supper and eat. I made pancakes. I was so proud of both of my children when they asked without any hint of complaint, "What time are we leaving for Mass?" We finished supper and then left to make it to the church that is an extra half hour away.

Father Paul, who also says Mass at that church, was there. He began Mass. The service was beautiful. His discussion of Mary hit home with me as both a daughter and as a mother as it does every year. I have thought of Mary an awful lot in recent years and I’ll most likely write about that at another time.

Early on in the Mass, Father Paul thanked us for coming to tonight’s service. He explained where he was coming from when he had given us the stern reminder to attend the Holy Day. He then said, very plainly, “I love you”.

I was caught completely off guard by this profession of his love. This was an unusual utterance. We Catholics are pretty formal in our Mass. Oh sure, priests take time in their homilies to share with us their personality through stories of their past experiences at times but this utterance in this particular way was unique. He had come forward, had looked out at us and had said, "I love you". My eyes began to water and my lip began to tremble. Father Paul may have uttered the words but I knew he was speaking for Him. It was as if He knew every obstacle I had overcome to get us all there at that Mass, as if He knew how torn I had been, how I had mulled it all over, how I had cried and prayed and had almost thrown in the towel, opting to stay home that night. It was as if He saw all my human frailties, all my guilt, all my hopes, desires, and aspirations. It was as if He was speaking to only me in that moment.

"That was nice" my husband said as we drove home. We both mentioned the idea of having Father Paul over for our family's annual Christmas Eve Buffet. My children wanted to know if we were serious. "Wouldn't that be awkward?" my son asked me. I laughed. "Only the first time" was my reply. My husband and children mentioned saying goodbye to Father Paul before having left the church on our way out. Eric was thanked for coming and said Father had greeted Emma by name. I felt a little sad that I had shyly left without making eye contact with Father myself. I suppose I was a little afraid of getting teary eyed again. But I thought also of how I hope my own son will be persuaded by Father as he continues to grow. I hope my own Paul can inspire others in his own faith the way Father Paul does. So many thoughts. I was glad to have the extra time to think as we made the commute home.

Father Paul, thank you for the push to attend Mass tonight. Thank you for your profession of your love for the flock you lead. Thank you for regularly making my eyes water and my lip tremble. I love you too. More than you know.

LOST...and Found

2011-12-07T23:30:00.000-05:00

It was another challenging day at school, one full of disappointing situations. By the time I packed my bag mid-afternoon, I was exhausted--physically, mentally, and emotionally.

I probably should have kept my mouth shut as I rode home with my husband. Instead I vented and shared my frustration with this poor guy who of course had just ended his own full day of work. He listened patiently, however. Still, by the time we arrived home I was quite tense. As we came into the house I set my bag down and took off my coat. My husband sweetly took it from me to hang it up. I stopped him and we hugged. That was nice but the stress of my day was still there.

My first thought was of preparing dinner for I knew that we had a concert to attend in a few hours’ time. I went to the fridge to see what was there and then went to the pantry. It was there that I heard the tv in the other room. My son was watching the final episode of the series LOST, our favorite show prior to it going off the air last year.

I stopped in front of the pantry shelves. My mind told me to look for a possible dinner to prepare. But my heart needed something else. Another 30 seconds passed as I stood staring and listening to the television in the other room. Then I closed the pantry doors and went to the family room. Without asking his permission to do so, I impulsively curled up to Paul on the sofa and although he chuckled, “What are you doing?”, he let me cozy up to him. We watched the last five minutes of the show together. If you’ve never watched it, let me simply say that the final few minutes of the LOST finale features an emotional scene where the characters of the entire series meet up in a church, a setting of their own design where they’ve arranged to find one another in the afterlife. Having affectionately followed the series for years, we had grown attached to the characters as if they were friends of ours. My children and I had followed the show for years together, talking, laughing, and guessing at the meaning of it all. We were die-hard fans of LOST. Watching the final scene again, it wasn’t difficult to suddenly relate to the character’s emotional reunion and to imaginine that of my own family and friends in Heaven someday. That’s when my tears began to fall.

There I was, lying next to my 12 year old son, crying softly. Paul sweetly allowed his mother to cry, never teasing me or getting up from the couch to get away from my nuttiness. Cradled on the couch together watching those five minutes of LOST, I realized the sweet irony of the situation. Suddenly, after several failed attempts to dismiss the day’s stress through other means, I had followed my heart and had cried it out in the arms of my son. I finally felt less “lost”.

I hope tomorrow is a better day. But how blessed I am to have the family I have. To have a husband so selflessly listen to me rant, to have a sweet boy like Paul put up with a teary-eyed, emotional Mom. Yes, I'd be completely lost without this family of mine. Pun intended.

Kitchen Magic

2011-12-07T22:46:00.000-05:00

For Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Irritable. That’s what I was today. Thankfully I am not this way very often. It may have been any number of things that triggered it, but by the time I got home I was ugly. Driving home alone in my car I ranted to myself. I tried to shake the annoyance I felt over several issues that were bothering me. I took deep breaths and tried to relax.

Coming into the house I knew I had only a couple of hours before I’d have to leave again to take my son to basketball practice. Suddenly I knew what I wanted to do. Having received a sweet note from my best friend earlier in the day, one in which she reminded me of my Mom’s cookie baking, I went straight to my recipe box. I pulled out Mom’s recipe for pumpkin chocolate chip cookies and started throwing the ingredients together in the mixer’s bowl.

As I prepared the cookie dough I focused only on the recipe. I threw a batch of cookies in the oven and fed the puppy. I unloaded the dishwasher too. Before the timer went off I had cleaned the kitchen. The cookies came off the cookie sheet as another batch went into the oven. I found myself breathing calmly and then noticed I was humming.

My Mom always hummed as she baked and cleaned house. Here I was doing the same thing now and feeling less stressed and less agitated. Domesticity is not only in my blood, it is what relaxes me most. Eating four cookies straight from the oven probably helped too.

There’s a magic that exists in my kitchen. I feel it often on Sunday afternoons as I prepare a batch of soup. I feel it anytime I make dinner for my family. And the magic returned on a Tuesday afternoon when it seemed nothing was working right. Five dozen cookies were packaged up, all perfectly baked and sought after by my husband and kids once they discovered what I’d been doing after my arrival home. My irritability subsided. There came a true feeling of accomplishment for whipping up a batch of delicious cookies, supplying my family with dessert for the next several days. If only the rest of life were that easy.

Bringing Lit to Life

2011-12-06T15:10:00.000-05:00

For Monday, December 5, 2011

I am not at all surprised that my daughter is pursuing a double major in theater and psychology. It appears the apple has not fallen far from the tree. It is true that I changed my own college major from theater to communication to English and earned my Master’s Degree in education, but my interest in teaching English at the high school level has always been founded in my love and study of people. Bringing texts to life with dramatic readings and having students stop and attempt to psycho-analyze literary characters’ words and actions has always been my teaching style. Yes, I am that crazy English teacher who acts as though the characters and the situations in books are REAL.

Teaching an array of brand new courses, I have enjoyed selecting new texts and delving into those previously taught in a whole new way. After richly discussing Hamlet, my Horrific Tales class is now studying selected “Monster texts”, reading Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and excerpts from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. They are looking also at Nathaniel Hawthorne’s story “The Birthmark”. I’ve introduced them to Sigmund Freud’s ideas on identity and the id, ego, and superego, and last night they went home to read Freud’s “Civilization and Its Discontents”. Tomorrow we’ll discuss its ideas on destructive behavior and how individuals and society deal with destructive impulses. We’ll also examine some artwork from Nineteenth century Romantic artists such as Henry Fuseli, Francisco Goya, and Theodore Gericault and examine their choice of subjects and use of fantasy, imagination, dreams, nightmares, the infernal, and the macabre. All explored what happens when the human mind goes into the darker side of consciousness.

It saddens me when people tell me they do not read. I think of how limited my own repetoire would be if I had never been exposed to the classic texts I have read over the years. In truth, I have become more varied in my reading since becoming a teacher. I was never given a list of the classics to read when I was in high school. It wasn’t until college and later in my student teaching that I became familiar with the texts I am sharing now. I tell my students this. I emphasize how important it is to read for enjoyment but that exposing ourselves to different books and more challenging texts is what widens our scope, our perspective.

In my career I introduce texts of varying subjects and themes to groups of teenagers. I share with students my fascination with each piece of literature I teach. Students may sometimes balk at the language of difficult texts but by the unit’s end, all seem to understand why I selected the books I did. They see it’s not all about the writing, but rather about the ways in which various texts offer a way of examining ourselves and our society, the way they give us an opportunity to reflect on how we live our lives, how we conduct ourselves, how we interact with other human beings. Some are stories of great warning. Others present an ideal way to be. All are building blocks to being able to make sense of our own identities and our place in this world.

The day’s discussion of Freud and his ideas had a group of teens captivated. As the information I had on his work began to infiltrate their own minds, I started fielding questions from my students as if I was Freud himself. The hour passed quickly and discussions lingered into my next period study hall as students began sharing their own insight on the human mind, identity, and our attempts to balance human impulses.

I may not have majored in theater or psychology and I admit, I am certainly no expert in either field, (the idea of knowing enough to be dangerous suddenly comes to my mind...), however I will say, I think I am a pretty crafty teacher of teenagers. I’ve got them hooked. And I cannot wait for tomorrow’s discussions!

Capturing Moments

2011-12-04T22:53:00.000-05:00

As beautiful as this Christmas season is, it is easy to understand why the holidays are such a rough time for many people. Whether grieving for a loved one, worrying over the safety of a son or daughter, husband, wife, father or mother who is serving our country, or battling some other challenge, the season can be full of emotional triggers. It might be the sparkling lights or a specific Christmas song that tugs at the heartstrings, or it could even be the sight of falling snow. It’s important to remember there are those who struggle to find joy and cheer at this festive time of year.

Even if I have few troubles, I find myself quick to tear up during the holiday season. Sometimes I am fatigued in trying to do too much. Other times it is out of an intense desire to preserve moments spent with loved ones. And sometimes it is the beauty of all that Christmas represents which overwhelms me.

As beautiful a season as Christmas is however, I recognize that I have a tendency to take mental and emotional snapshots throughout the year. I’ve done this since I was a child. I stared and memorized as many details of my first home as I possibly could before we moved to our new house when I was eight years old. I did this on several snowshoeing treks I took with my Charlie over the past several years, not knowing when our last trek together might be. I do this when I see my parents and siblings each summer. I even sometimes stop and look over the teens in my classroom when I teach knowing how quickly the year will pass and how these people I spend my daily life with will move on to their futures. And I certainly did this with each of my own children as they grew quickly from infancy to teenhood. It is my way of stopping during the course of a day, however ordinary, and reminding myself that these are the moments that make up my life. They are each spectacular. I won’t remember them all perhaps, but to be fully present in each, as often as I can be, is all that truly matters.

Whether they contain happiness or sadness, whether the moments fade from our memory in years to come or whether we are struck by the intensity of the memories later on, they all happened. They all matter. They all make us who we are. It is important to let the moments be what they are and to find ways to quietly pause in hope we’ll all find more strength to carve out moments of peace, love, and joy in every season of our lives.

On my Wish List

2011-12-03T23:58:00.000-05:00

Dear Santa,

I truly only want one thing for Christmas. More time.

Oh, I know what you’ll say. I have plenty of time. We are all given 24 hours each day and it all comes down to how we manage the time we have. Well, that’s true of course, but it seems that I need more than those 24 hours every day.

First of all, I need more time to sleep. I am embarrassed to say that I need 10 hours of sleep a night. I never get that amount. In fact I am lucky to get 6 and a half hours before my alarm clock goes off each work day. On weekends I usually manage to get 7 or 8 hours which is better but it is still not the 10 hours my body seems to need.

Secondly, I need more time to get things done. You know, to get all those papers graded and into the computer, to clean my fridge and the oven. Have you seen my basement Santa? That alone will cost me a good six hours at least. I also need time to get paperwork in order, to file, and to shred. I need time to organize those blasted pots and pans that come crashing down every time I open the cabinet doors.

Thirdly, I need time to play a few board games with my kids. I need time to help Emma decorate her bedroom. I need time to watch old movies and to read that John Grisham book that is sitting on my nightstand. You know, the one I bought over a month ago. I need time to try out some new recipes, to read those magazines that are piling up, to go for a walk, and to spend hours outside running around, playing fetch and otherwise tuckering out my puppy.

I need time to call my Mom and Dad, to get on my knees more than I do to talk to God, and to reach over to my husband and to say “Thank you” for being there for me always. I need time to dance to the music that is so loud it rattles the windows, to belt out songs at the top of my lungs, and to laugh so hard I start crying.

Santa, I know what you’re going to say. You’ll remind me that I have everything I need, that I have all the time there is to be had. You’re right of course. And if I power down and fall into my pillow in the next five minutes, I just might get 7 and a half hours of sleep before the alarm goes off again.

Okay Santa. I’ll do what I can. But if you should find it in you to grant me my wish, to somehow find me an extra hour here and there, I’d be most appreciative. Until then, I’ll see what I can do about carving out a little time tomorrow to do these things that never seem to get done.

As always,

Anne

Bilbo Dudley

2011-12-03T23:03:00.001-05:00

For Friday, December 2, 2011

One of my favorite childhood stories was The Velveteen Rabbit. The story of a boy’s beloved stuffed animal who miraculously comes to life was one I thought of most evenings as I fell asleep. A dozen friends including a red poodle named Spooky and a little white kitten named Princess whose back had a patch of missing fur, were tucked in carefully alongside of me as my Mom and Dad kissed me goodnight. My Dad would ask, “Are you sure you have enough room to sleep?” and I’d giggle and insist that I did.

The idea of having my stuffed animals becoming real was one that remained with me. Oh, I knew it was only a fantasy but I would feel sad whenever I, as a teenager no longer playing with stuffed animals, tucked away another one in a box set in my bedroom closet. To be a forgotten toy, like the Velveteen Rabbit whose little boy grew to love other toys once Scarlet Fever prevented him from playing with his favorite toy any longer, seemed a great tragedy to my wild and colorful imagination. Even when I became a parent, I remember whispering to a few of my rescued old friends that I’d found them a new playmate. I smiled with great joy as “Mary Ann” my three foot doll, renamed “Abby” by Sydney, was once again dressed in her pink snowsuit and dragged outside to play in the snow.

The only stuffed animal that I held onto for myself is a little brown dog with floppy ears that I was given when I was fifteen years old. It was the first gift I ever received from Eric when we were high school sweethearts. The tiny dog had a little tag that named him Dudley, but I added the name Bilbo to that as Eric had been cast in the leading role of the musical The Hobbit. Over the years Bilbo Dudley found his way around my bedroom, sometimes sitting on a shelf, other times finding himself on my jewelry chest, and to this day, nearly 29 years later, he’s still around. In fact, he is now resting up high away from my puppy Ziva, lest she decide to make him her chew toy. “You should write a childrens’ story about him”, my Mom once suggested to me years ago. I’ve always thought of doing that, for Bilbo Dudley went on many adventures over the years. I used to tuck him into my suitcase whenever I traveled and I once even left him behind in a hotel. Luckily, the cleaning lady found him and per my request, the hotel mailed him back to me.

It would be wonderful to pen that story, to have it illustrated, and to see a book published. It is one of my many dreams. As I look at the worn coat that little dog wears today I know that like the Velveteen Rabbit, he has grown neglected, taking a back seat to the three children I’ve nurtured for the last twenty years, but I know that someday, Bilbo Dudley will indeed come to life...I will make him real. He’ll be immortalized even, at least on the printed page.

Ian and Larissa

2011-12-01T21:44:00.004-05:00

Last year I came across a blog post by Lydia Jane Photography. The pictures immediately hooked me. Never before had I seen a wedding like this one. I was taken in by the photographs of floral sundresses and vintage umbrellas, canning jars, little blue birds, and cowboy boots. The faces of the bridesmaids were fresh and filled with joy. The bride was lovely, dressed simply in pretty white with her hair pulled to one side. I saw a picture of the groomsmen and spotted one disabled young man in the center. I scrolled down further to see more pictures and then I realized...the disabled young man was the groom.

The couple’s names are Ian and Larissa. Four years before their wedding day Ian was in a serious car accident and suffered a traumatic brain injury. His fiance Larissa and Ian’s Dad Steve began a blog as a way to keep friends and family updated on Ian’s condition. When Steve passed away in 2009 from cancer, Larissa continued the blog and to this day she and Ian’s friends contribute to it regularly. This blog is how I came to learn of their story. It is a blog that I return to every once in awhile. I am in complete awe of the selflessness of Larissa. What an amazing act of love she undertook in remaining faithful to a man whose whole being seems to have changed, and I am moved by the couple’s enduring faith in God and in one another.

I suppose I also find myself questioning whether I, as a single woman way back when, could have done the same thing. I am not so sure and I feel disappointment in myself for that expressed honesty. I see how impatient and grumpy I’ve been these past few days as I suffered back pain. I falter so quickly when the smallest of health issues trip me up. That’s not right. I should have more patience. Also, people look at all that I juggle at times and say, “I don’t know how you do all that you do. You amaze me Anne”. I forever shake my head at that kind of remark. Sure, I am an active Mom with a full time job and many responsibilities but I am a healthy woman with a healthy and dedicated spouse and three bright and healthy children. I don’t do anything extraordinary. Not really. Not like Ian and Larissa anyway. Not like any woman or mother out there living life with a physically, mentally, or emotionally disabled love one. Grumpy over five days of back pain?! Shame on me.

I invite you to view the beautiful pictures of Ian and Larissa Murphy’s wedding at http://www.lydiajane.com/2010_09_01_archive.html and to be introduced to this amazing couple by checking out Larissa’s blog at http://prayforian.com or a second one she created as she planned her wedding: http://www.mywedding.com/ianandlarissa/stories.html I tell you, if you’re open to what you see and read at these sites, you’ll never forget this couple either. I've never met any one at Lydia Jane Photography and I've never met anyone associated with Ian and Larissa Murphy. I should write to them sometime and tell them of how their story has affected me.

Say a prayer for both Ian and Larissa...and if you have one left in you, could you please say a prayer for me? Like Ian, I’m a work in progress but in some ways at least, Ian is far ahead of me. In truth, I can use all the prayers I can get.

Where Memories Sit

2011-11-30T20:45:00.000-05:00

After over 23 years our beloved 8 foot sofa with the pretty caning on the sides is falling apart. People sit down and find themselves sinking quickly. All those years ago, as we pinched pennies to furnish our new apartment, we had marveled over how my sister-in-law had found the sofa, two matching chairs, a table, and three lamps at a yard sale. We’d bought all those pieces for $100. The furniture was in great shape and served us well, even as children began crawling over it just a few years later.

The sofa, once clad in the striped green velvet fabric we’d purchased it in, is the one Sydney had napped on in her toddler years. The sofa is the one Emma had stood on to reach the doorknob to let her Dad in. It is the same sofa the girls had proudly sat upon with new brother Paul sleeping on their laps. Later when we reupholstered the sofa in red plaid fabric, when we moved it to our new family room, it became our favorite place to watch television and movies when friends and family came over. The kids’ friends crashed on the sofa during sleepovers and let it be known, Eric first invited the puppy up on it to cuddle as she adjusted to her new home.

So when Eric suggested we go shopping for a new sofa for our anniversary, being sentimental, I felt torn. I know it is indeed time to let the sofa go, for it isn’t even comfortable anymore, but the idea of seeing it hauled off to the dump seems wrong. Paul quickly suggested it be donated to his friend’s “mancave”. “MANCAVE?! A twelve year old with a mancave?!” No, I don’t think I could go for that. Someone then suggested it might be wanted soon by our college girl who might get her own apartment next year. But knowing the length of the sofa, it would take a relatively large room to house it, and again, it’s a matter of time before the bottom falls out completely.

Despite knowing the fate of the old sofa, Eric and I went shopping for a new sofa, a sectional that would be large enough to fit our family and company too. Within a half hour of shopping we’d spotted one we both liked and could afford. We bought it and before we knew it, the sofa had been delivered into our family room. The delivery men picked up the old 8 foot sofa with the pretty caning and placed it in the garage.

We’re enjoying the new sofa. It fits the room perfectly and provides us with comfortable support and elbow room as we all crawl on to enjoy tv together. But as I pass the old sofa still sitting in our garage I wonder, how long will I let it sit there before I let it go? And just where will it go? I suppose it doesn’t matter. The sofa doesn’t hold the memories that were created over the past twenty-three years. Those will forever have a most comfortable seat inside my heart.

Moving with Caution

2011-11-29T21:26:00.000-05:00

Last night I went to bed in hopes of waking up with a strong back. Instead, I woke up repeatedly throughout the night wincing in pain. I had a rougher night than the one before and by the time my alarm went off, I knew I would once again have to call in to request a substitute.

Hearing my family leaving the house for the day I struggled to turn onto my side and placed a pillow between my legs, hoping for a little comfort, a little reprieve. I once again turned to prayer. I spoke of wanting my strength back so I could be there for my family and my teens at school. I ended my prayer with the words, “But as always let not my will but Your will be done”.

Throughout the day today I have moved slowly, cautiously, but I have moved. I have taken steps up and down the staircase. I have sat at the table to organize bills. I have rested on the couch and I have prepared myself supper. I sat the couch to correct some papers, and I have continued to gently stretch while continuing to take pain medication and while slathering on more Ben Gay or a Therma-Care heat wrap. And tonight I hit a marker of success when I felt strong enough to take the first shower I’ve taken in two days. Boy did it feel great.

I’m not back to normal, I can feel that. I still have tenderness on my left side. I still need to move cautiously. But I feel the strength returning. I have welcomed the reprieve from consistent intense pain today. Even if it returns overnight I know that my health will return with continued rest and attention. I will continue to ask God for help, but I will remember, as I did today, that He will help those who help themselves.

Once Upon Daytime TV

2011-11-29T16:29:00.000-05:00

For Monday, November 28, 2011

With an aching back keeping me out of work today I managed to make it down the stairs from my bedroom to the couch in the family room. I tried to do some work but it felt awkward to hold papers up over my head in an attempt to read and mark them. So I put away the folders of papers and got hold of the television remote control. Flipping through the channels I had a difficult time finding a show that was worth watching. The choices were trashy, dark, or otherwise disturbing. On one channel there were people standing in a televised court room. On another people were showing up at a hoarder’s home with “Got Junk?” trucks in tow. Another pair of channels featured alcohol and drug interventions televised alongside a fashion police duo awarding $5000 to a woman whose crime appears to be a set of shoulder pads. I put the remote down and returned to my work.

When my children arrived home from school my daughter and I turned to our dvr taping of our favorite new series, a modern take on fairy tales, a show brimming with magic and make-believe. As we follow the tale’s twists and turns, Emma and I root for the good guys and mock the bad guys. We make predictions and guess at which fairy tales will weave themselves into the plot next.

Daytime TV leaves little to the imagination. It is true that the scenarios of true life are often stranger than fiction but I find it hard to be entertained by the frailties of fellow human beings as depicted on daytime tv. It’s true I watch several reality shows in the evening but the contestants on The Amazing Race or Survivor seem a bit more prepared for what will occur when the cameras are rolling than do the individuals who are battling emotional or mental issues on the shows that others deem to be entertaining.

Tomorrow, if I should have to take another day off from work, I think I’ll try a game show or two. Or better yet, a book.

Sit, Stand, Turn, Yelp

2011-11-29T14:59:00.000-05:00

For Sunday, November 27, 2011

I admit, I take my health for granted. That isn’t a good thing because every once in awhile I am reminded that it can be taken from me at any time. I have had few unpleasantries in recent years--a few months of sciatic pain that had me begging God to let me walk normally into my workplace and fears that followed a few unclear breast cancer tests, but overall, I have lived a very healthy life. So when I suddenly felt a twinge in my back while preparing to sing at Sunday Mass this morning, I thought to myself, “Okay. Stay calm. This too shall pass”. The service was soon over, and after making my way home, managing to make one last home-cooked meal and seeing my daughter off as she returned to college after her Thanksgiving break, I dropped into the recliner. It became clear to me however, that this pain in my back was not going away without some serious rest, without some serious attention on my part.

I am a lot like my Dad. I bully through projects and chores despite being tired, despite needing a physical break. I also sacrifice sleep thinking I can catch up on it later and when I feel a pain in my body, I often dismiss it as I pop a couple of ibuprofen caplets and vow to be more sensible starting tomorrow. Today I saw another similarity between my Dad and I. Although we tend to self-sacrifice, we deal with our pain audibly yelling out when a sharp pain hits us. Today became a pattern of beats. Sit, stand, turn, yelp. Sit, stand, turn, yelp. Just when I thought I could change positions, I’d feel the stabbing in my back and I was once again humbled.

The yelps, despite my desire to repress them, proved to expose me when I most wanted to power through the pain with great stoicism. I wanted to push the pain aside, to be quiet in my efforts to ignore the excruciating jabs, but I soon realized that just as I cannot step away from being my father’s daughter (nor would I want to when it comes to other traits), neither can I step away from dealing with the pain of a pinched nerve or a tight back muscle. This proves to be yet another reminder that I am indeed in need of patience and humility as my otherwise healthy body continues to age.

Twenty-Three Years

2011-11-29T14:21:00.001-05:00

For Saturday, November 26, 2011

Twenty-three years ago today I woke up at my parent’s home. It was my wedding day. I immediately looked outside and saw streaks of color on the horizon. I snapped a picture of the sunrise thinking, “This is what I saw first on the morning of my wedding day”. That image of the sky from my childhood bedroom window remains in my mind. I’ve seen prettier views perhaps, but there is something about the sight of the sun that morning that has forever stayed with me. It confirmed for me that it was going to be a beautiful day.

I remember being very calm the morning of my wedding. I had long heard stories of brides who became nervous wrecks and I had told myself I did not want to be anything but relaxed and happy on my wedding day, if at all possible. I knew it would be all up to me, mind over matter. So when I’d learned of the break down of the antique car that was to carry my new husband and I from the church to the reception hall, I barely batted an eye. I did not obsess over the details of the ceremony or the party I had planned with my Mom’s help. I’d done my best to make it a beautiful day and now I would focus on what was most important, marrying Eric.

My family and friends arrived at the house. I added final touches to my make-up and again I told myself as I unrolled the electric “bender” curlers from my hair, that I was not going to worry if my hair didn’t curl the right way or if something else went wrong with the superficial details of the day. We posed for pictures and when it came time to leave for the church, I remember my little flower girl Ashleigh and I going without any coats. The weather was very mild and they were not needed despite this being the end of November.

I remember making it down the aisle and joining hands with Eric. I remember suddenly feeling shy and finding it hard to meet his eyes. He kept whispering to me and I could only smile and look downward. I was trying hard to be penitent and reverent. I remember offering up many prayers to God, asking him to bless us as a couple and making promises that I would forever do my best to be a good wife and someday, a good mother. I remember passing my bouquet to my maid of honor and best friend Cheryl when it came time for us to make our vows. I remember offering the sign of peace to everyone and how Eric accidentally stepped on my wedding dress. Everyone gasped thinking it had ripped. It became a funny memory but in truth, I think I would have been more surprised if he hadn’t stepped on it that day.

I remember walking back up the aisle as man and wife, of shaking hands with everyone at the back of the church, and of then slipping into my parents' car to be chauffeured to the reception by Scott, Eric’s best man, and his wife Paula. Antique car this was not, but when Scott made a surprise turn into the McDonald’s Drive-Thru, we all began to laugh and I knew then that I would not have had such a memorable drive to the reception had things not worked out the way they had.

Twenty-three years ago I woke up and knew that before the day was out, I would be getting married. I married Eric, this cute guy who made me laugh, who made me feel beautiful and smart and funny, who made me feel safe and happy and confident and secure. I took a leap of faith despite my young age and at the same time, I was so sure it was the right thing to do. It was indeed a beautiful day the day I married my best friend, the future father of my three children, and the love of my life. But as with the early sunrise of Saturday, November 26, 1988, there would be many more days of beauty awaiting me over the next twenty-three years...and with God's blessing, in the next twenty-three years to come.

MahnaMana!

2011-11-29T13:23:00.000-05:00

For Friday, November 25, 2011

I grew up with muppets. First there were the ones I met on Sesame Street. Spending television time with Bert, Ernie, Cookie Monster, Grover, the Count, and Oscar the Grouch was fun and when newscaster Kermit-the-Frog began his own show as host of The Muppet Show, I was a loyal follower. The show was silly, innocent, and full of laughs but the characters on the show also were quite endearing.

The Muppets created a few movies over the years. I went to see The Muppet Movie with my sister Linda on one of our summer adventures and it was clear to me then that The Muppets were enjoyable for adults as well as children. When my first child was born, I instinctively chose a Bert and Ernie Christmas decoration as her first ornament and a few years later bought The Muppet Christmas Carol to watch with her and her siblings.

So, when I first saw the previews for the new Muppet movie, I wanted to go. But with my children grown, I knew getting the near 20 year old, 16 and 12 year old to the cinema to watch Kermit, Miss Piggy, Fozzy Bear, The Swedish Chef, and Rolf might be a challenge. But as fate would have it, my nephew, his wife, and two young children planned a trip to our home today. “Might you like to go see The Muppet Movie?” I quickly asked them. YES! They were on board. The four of them and the five of us all decided to catch the 4:30pm matinee. My husband made a face but I was not dissuaded. We arrived at the theater and discovered much of our community had made the same decision. The nine of us looked into a very full theater and saw nine available seats in the front row. We took them without hesitation.

The next hour and a half I sat laughing in great competition with the children in the cinema. I loved the references to the old show, the old movies, and the array of characters introduced over the years. I loved the retention of the simplicity, sweetness, and innocence. I adored the faithfulness and loyalty to Jim Henson’s friends as they always were. Best of all, I was grateful to see my three children enjoying the movie too--the cameo celebrity appearances were especially fun for them. As the credits rolled to the tune of MahnaMana, I couldn’t stop smiling. It was just what I had needed this Thanksgiving weekend, a return to the past taken with the children and the muppets who continue to enrich my life today.

At My Dining Room Table

2011-11-25T08:18:00.000-05:00

For Thursday, November 24, 2011

I often think back on my childhood and the number of times I sat at the dining room table surrounded by my large family. I still see the crowd of people sitting there talking with food being passed around. The youngest of five children with a distance of 10-16 years between me and my siblings, I was the quiet little girl who sat in the middle of a sea of adults. I felt safe and protected by them. And later when my nephew came along, I began finding my role in entertaining the little guy who was always seated next to me. One thing I wish I could do however is to go back and see clearly the expression on my Mom’s face as she looked around the table watching everyone enjoying the meal she had prepared.

For the past twenty years, I have hosted Thanksgiving at my own home. It was important to me to have our own family traditions once our first child was born, so in 1992 Eric and I stopped traveling to our parents’ houses for the holidays. We were lucky to have understanding Moms and Dads who never balked at this. Of course, quite noticeably, my own dining room table is much smaller than my parents’. Yet, somehow, each Thanksgiving, I manage to squeeze in a fairly large group of 8-10. I often wish I had a larger room for these events but I suppose it’s okay the way it is. Our accommodations are cozy. What’s more important is the way in which we all come together. For years we have hosted my parents and Eric’s Mom and Dad, and often Eric’s brother Joel too. The company is always enjoyable and with my three children relatively close in age, the conversations often erupt into laughter during our meals.

The food used to magically appear on the dining room table of my childhood. Nowadays I understand how the magic works. But I love to cook and bake so I never see entertaining as a chore. The dining room of my childhood was away from the kitchen where the piles of dirty dishes stood. At my house, I try to take a seat with my back to the kitchen counters so I can pretend they don’t exist. But in truth, it’s a rare day when doing the dishes is something I don’t see as being a normal part of the routine of entertaining. There is something quite comforting actually in putting away the leftover foods and loading the dishwasher. The time it takes to clean up allows more opportunity for a family to work together and to talk. That wasn’t something I recognized when I was a child.

Tonight after the Thanksgiving meal had been cooked, eaten, and put away, I sat down in the family room surrounded by my children, husband, and brother-in-law. My husband’s parents had left and my son and his uncle were in a heated game of football on the wii. As I pulled a woolen throw over myself, balancing a piece of pie, I took a deep breath and smiled. It is a blessing to be the Mom who hosts Thanksgiving dinner. I suppose I don’t really need to go back in time for that chance to see my Mom’s face as everyone gathered around her dining room table. I am pretty sure she wore the same expression I wore today. This Mom is happy.

Jumping Into Mom and Dad's Bed

2011-11-24T08:12:00.000-05:00

For Wednesday, November 23, 2011

I cannot imagine a nicer way to start the day than to wake up after a good night’s sleep knowing that there is nothing pressing that demands I get up right away, and to have my three children and a happy puppy jump into bed with me.

My children have always slept in their own beds, except for the nights when a nightmare or fever would have them finding comfort next to me, but come morning, our bed was always where morning hugs, snuggles, and giggles could be found. With each child jockeying for space and position, “I want to be in the middle”, having a bed full was always a measure of happiness and affection. Of course children do get older, and the times when they find their way to Mom and Dad’s bed in the mornings are fewer and fewer. That’s only to be expected. So when it happened this morning, I knew to treasure it and to hold those few moments tightly.

I remember sneaking into my own parents’ bed when I was little. Sometimes it was after a nightmare. On those nights I always wanted to be on the edge near Mom’s side of the bed. I never chose the middle as I hated feeling “squooshed”, but I well recall Mom’s arms around me securing my spot. There were also mornings when I’d join Mom and Dad as they rested in bed talking. I kept this tradition going even as I grew older. When I was a teenager my Dad would teasingly joke, “Are you ever going to outgrow this? Are you going to be married bringing your children into bed with you someday?” He would soon learn THAT was what I had planned all along. I was easily into my twenties with at least two of my three children in tow when we’d sneak into their bedroom on occasion while visiting at camp. I remember my Dad sighing with feigned exasperation and my Mom laughing as both of them quickly made room for us all.

There is little that offers more comfort and security than the warmth and love found within a parent’s bed. I am grateful that at ages 12, 16, and 19, my children still occasionally find their way to me at the start of the day. It may not happen as often as it did when they were small but it still happens, and when it does, everything seems right with the world.

"Stop Saying That!"

2011-11-24T01:03:00.000-05:00

For Tuesday, November 22, 2011

There is a word that is being used repeatedly at my workplace. Its use is irritating me to no end. It’s been gaining momentum for two years now. It was once being used by one man, but I’ve noticed lately that others are using it too. It’s a good word, and I have most likely used the word within this blog, don’t get me wrong, but any word that becomes overused and disengaging to the ear needs to be retired, at least for awhile. And so, I am going to announce my own personal boycott. I will never utter the word “mindful” again.

“We must be mindful of how this will affect the situation”. “Let’s be mindful of our responsibilities”. “We need to work mindfully”. Seriously?! If someone is not acting mindfully by one person’s interpretation, that could be seen as quite an insult. For if a brain is not full, it must be lacking. I don’t think the insults are intentional, however could we please have a little variety?! The word means well, but its users have turned it into a buzz word, a cliche, a feel-good marketing strategy. I’ve become more than numb to the word; I’ve become repulsed by it. I’ve begun counting the number of times it’ll be used in a single meeting and when I find myself growing weary, I toy with the idea of using it in every sentence I utter for the rest of the day as some form of passive aggressive rebellion. But not wanting to perpetuate its use, I refrain.

Let’s face it, this descriptor for using our brain to its fullest capacity isn’t the only way to describe being attentive. With respect to thesaurus.com, we could instead be aware, alert, careful, cautious, conscientious, conscious, or heedful. We could know the ins and outs, be knowledgeable, observant, on one's toes, on the ball, on the job, on to, plugged in, regardful, respectful, sensible, solicitous, thoughtful, tuned in, vigilant, wary, watchful, or have our eyes peeled.

Writer Tom Terez writes, “All of us are guilty of using the occasional buzzword, cliché, slogan or TLA (three-letter acronym, of course). They're harmless in small quantities. It's when they're voiced again and again -- when they define our vocabulary -- that we should worry. That's because buzz-terms are brief and snappy, roll off the tongue easily, and can fool us into thinking that we know what we're talking about.

"It's dangerous when they're used as a substitute for thought," Geiger says. "People sometimes come up with terms to sound like they're in the know -- when in fact they're just parroting a shorthand version of a complex set of ideas. They're not being mindful of what they're saying."

Oh Tom. You had me until you wrote “mindful”....

We must continue to work to be aware of our use of these snappy buzz words. If we’re not careful, using them will work as effectively as Orwell’s Newspeak.

Smiling Brightly

2011-11-21T21:45:00.000-05:00

Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born. - Anais Nin

A year ago, at a teacher workshop day before Thanksgiving, I took a seat next to a new teacher at our school. Although I had exchanged pleasantries with her over the past few months and had offered her my assistance as she began her new job, this was the first time we’d had a real chance to get to know one another. Both partial to scribbling notes as to make sense of these professional development discussions, Binaca and I struck up conversations discussing everything from work to our families and our Thanksgiving To-Do lists. When we met I had just made the decision to take in a foreign exchange student who needed a new host family and knowing she was moving in over the holiday, my To-Do list was especially large. She listened to me as I excitedly told her of my plans for this new addition to our family and she helped me troubleshoot how to make room for the teenage girl in my home.

At one point, the two of us began discussing blogs. I had been thinking of starting my own blog but I had no idea what to do or where to start. Binaca enthusiastically began jotting down suggestions on where to begin and her support of my ideas was immediate. I remember leaving that day thinking, “Wow. I could actually make this happen...” A month later I began this blog. I credit Binaca’s encouragement for the reason I took a step out of my comfort zone in setting it up.

We became friends on Facebook and started sharing our lives outside of school with one another. A bit cautious with friendships at work, knowing a few have not been true in the past, I knew I was taking another leap of faith here. But if you have ever met Binaca, you know that this young woman’s level of compassion and altruistic ways lead even a hesitant soul like me to a place of trust. It felt good to be able to talk and not second guess myself. It felt nice to have someone speak so positively about my efforts with teens. A beautiful person inside and out, Binaca has offered me much more than a few gallons of water when I was without power at my home or chocolates (or cheese doodles?!) when I needed them most this past year. She has given me the precious gift of a trusted friendship at work without asking or expecting anything in return.

Still, it's important that I make some small gesture as repayment for her generosity and friendship. So this morning as we both made the connection that today was the first year anniversary of our friendship, I gave Binaca heads up that I felt “a blog post coming on”. And in realizing we had not yet taken a picture together, the two of us plopped down in front of my laptop camera and smiled brightly.

There’s a particular quote that comes to mind when I think of my new friend: "A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words”. These words from Bernard Meltzer are most fitting.

Binaca, thank you for the laughs and the smiles we’ve shared, for the support you’ve offered and for lifting my spirit when I grow overwhelmed and tired. It is no coincidence that we found one another last year, a few days before Thanksgiving. There is perhaps no better time for me to have made a new friend, one I am most grateful to have in my life. I know you will be a friend for life, in and out of the workplace. I am truly blessed.

Important Strides

2011-11-20T19:55:00.000-05:00

A few days ago Emma and I had the opportunity to visit a variety of sightseeing spots as we took a bus tour with her dance school group in New York City. Ready for anything but not expecting anything extraordinary, having done a bus tour a few years earlier, we made our way onto the coach outside our hotel.

First we headed to Central Park West and visited the Imagine mosaic at Strawberry Fields. We saw John Lennon’s apartment building including the shutters that Yoko Ono closed and never reopened after his assassination. We visited Ground Zero where thousands of people went to work that fateful day 10 years ago, completely unaware of course that they would not be making their way home again. At Battery Park, we overlooked the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island and were reminded of the masses of people who made their way into the harbor in hopes of a better life in America.

Our next stop was at the United Nations headquarters. Here, we went on a guided tour and learned of the various efforts of the UN, from the work of the delegates to that of the peacekeepers and all others who uphold the pillars of the United Nations--Human Rights, Development, and Security. Karen, our guide, was Austrian. She spoke passionately of the various ways that we can influence the ongoing changes that are needed to make this world a more peaceful place. Learning as much as I did on the tour I felt great pride remembering how Emma whispered to me at the start of the tour that working for the UN in some capacity was a dream of consideration for her. This thought, coming from my musical-theater driven daughter, caught me a little off-guard. I found myself thinking of the direction my own career had taken me in my life. I thought of my work as a high school teacher and my own efforts to make a difference in this world.

On a trip to NYC where our focus is often on seeing great shows and shopping, it was humbling to visit Strawberry Fields, Ground Zero, Battery Park, and The United Nations headquarters. Emma and I carried the important messages of our bus tour travels with us for the remainder of our trip. I saw this the next day when Emma stopped to help out a young woman who had purchased the wrong subway tickets. As Emma reached into her own purse to find five dollars to bring over to the young woman who was noticeably anxious, I flashed forward to the sight of Emma planting seeds for a better world in her future. It won’t matter whether my daughter ends up working at the UN or on the stages of Broadway; she’ll still make an incredible difference in this world. Of this I have no doubt. Raising my three children and educating the numerous teens I have in my career I've made important strides too. Still I think, what more can I do?

Billy Blue Eyes

2011-11-20T19:48:00.000-05:00

For Saturday, November 19, 2011

I woke up with the butterflies of a teenage girl. Twenty-five years had passed since I had last seen him. Two years behind me in school, Billy and I had shared a love of music and theater and had been cast together in many shows over the years including Neil Simon's Plaza Suite where we portrayed a middle aged married couple. Having reconnected a few years earlier through Facebook, it had felt good to see where life had taken him. Online we’d shared many memories and laughs. So, knowing we were coming to NYC where Billy now resides, we made quick plans to get together.

Emma and I made our way to Jersey City on the PATH subway. Foolishly getting out one stop too early, we stopped at a couple places to secure directions to Wayne Street where we would take in Billy’s children’s play. We found the theater inside an old white house, the Barrow Mansion. In the hall, I stopped to ask Emma how my hair looked. “Why am I so nervous?” I whispered. Hearing people in the next room, we took a step inside and then I saw him. He turned and I saw those beautiful blue eyes and immediately, I felt at ease.

It was such fun to watch him in his element as he guided in a busload of children and parents. I felt like a proud big sister as Billy stepped to the front of the theater to introduce the show and to explain the afternoon’s program. Emma and I took seats at the back and laughed at the antics of the young crowd. I loved it when Billy, seeing the toddlers getting restless, quickly changed things up suggesting the children join the cast in playing Simon Says, and when he attentively checked in on us while dashing here and there to keep his audience engaged.

After the show we waited for Billy to clean up the stage and chatted with a couple members of his cast. One woman originally from Massachusettes admitted that she had never been to Maine and told us Billy was full of “great stories” and that we’d easily have a good time that afternoon. I somehow already knew this to be true.

Hopping into his silver jeep, we made our way back to NYC and after trying unsuccessfully to park, we decided to park in the theater district and took the subway to explore Soho. After browsing through the luxurious shops, we stopped for a pretzel and a soda. We walked to Washington Park to rest our feet and we listened to a pianist play as we discussed performing arts schools. Then, noting the time, we made our way back.

We met Eddie for dinner and were treated to a delicious meal. Emma and I thoroughly enjoyed our time with each of them and our walk to the theater to see Phantom of the Opera was almost as entertaining as the show itself. Eddie was such fun and Emma and I couldn't stop giggling. After the show we stopped for cheesecake before calling it a night.

My favorite memory of the entire day was of something that happened during the middle of Phantom of the Opera. I sat mesmerized by the music and the sets until out of the corner of my eye I spotted Billy looking my way, popping his head around Eddie who was sitting next to me. I looked to the side to catch his glance but by then he was seated back in his chair. Then he did it again. I looked again and missed him once more. I started to laugh. He was checking in on me. So sweet. Yes Billy, I was having a great time. Yes, Billy, I was in awe. But the show, although fantastic, wasn’t the only reason why. Thank you for spending the day with us. Thank you for your generosity and your attentiveness. Thank Eddie for me too. It may have been twenty-five years since we’d last been together but the entire day had proven this to be a perfect reunion. I am in awe of all that...and of how easily those years melted away when I saw your beautiful blue eyes.

As the Wind Picks Up

2011-11-20T19:25:00.000-05:00

For Friday, November 18, 2011

After arriving in New York City, Emma and I take only a few minutes to hang up a few dresses in our hotel room’s closet before leaving for Times Square. Just a block away, we are there in seconds.

It’s my fourth trip to The Big Apple and Emma’s third. It’s amazing how quickly we acclimate ourselves despite being from Maine. As we duck into one store to another, the two of us smile and pose for one another as we snap pictures. Our cameras no doubt identify us as tourists but we are shameless in wanting to capture what we can in pictures we can turn to when we return home.

We stop for a quick appetizer dinner then return to the hotel to quickly change into dresses for The Rockette’s Christmas Spectacular show that evening. Making our way to Radio City Music Hall, we are practically skipping. The show is fun as always. On our way out we ditch our group and instinctively walk arm in arm back to Times Square.

This girl and I are good for one another. We giggle easily, laugh at the same silly things, see the same beauty, feel the same excitement...and I can’t help but realize that this is what we have been needing. Adventure. Joy. Serendipity. Silliness. Laughter. At times, it’s been a tough year for each of us, much too serious and stressful for a sixteen year old. Much too serious and stressful for a sixteen year old’s mom. But all that stress melts away as we take in the bright lights of Broadway.

We hold one another tighter as the wind picks up. This is what we must remember to do when we return home.

Planes, Trains, Automobiles, Busses...and an Ipod

2011-11-17T23:07:00.000-05:00

Normally, when I travel I am either in the driver’s seat or else I am helping with directions and passing fast food meals to my kids in the back seat. I enjoy driving for the most part. I like the act of driving, the maneuvering of the machine that goes where I instruct it to go with a simple push on the gas pedal or the turn of the steering wheel. When I was in college and had my first car, I loved zooming down city streets, beating other cars off the line, and challenging myself to make it to class a minute or two earlier than the day before. Nowadays, I take back roads to work. I don’t rush my commute, realizing a little caution is best, and I welcome the 30 minute commute that I have each day and the times when I occasionally make a solo trip across state to pick my daughter up for a college break. I sometimes drive in silence but more often than naught, I lose myself to the music on the stereo. I like my music loud so that it fills the entire car and pulsates my heart.

I don’t need to drive however, I often prefer to have another drive on long trips so I can relax my eyes and my head without the focus required for the road. Occasionally I have an opportunity to travel with a complete stranger at the helm. This summer my daughters and I traveled by train to a concert in Boston. Then this fall I got back on a plane for the first time in nearly 20 years to fly to Texas for a conference. Now today I am riding on a coach bus to New York City. On these trips I am not in the driver’s seat of course. But that is more than okay with me. I have anticipated today’s road trip all week; I am grateful to have an opportunity to sit and simply be.

I am still losing myself to music today though. With my headphones on, I am staring outside watching the trees fly past me in this window seat. My eyes close for awhile and the songs transport me away from this bus filled with 45 other passengers to my own place of complete solitude. The rumble of the bus lulls me to sleep, but as I begin to drift off, once again, my music is here with me.

There’s a freedom I feel as I hear only music, when I feel the sensation of flying as I watch the world go quickly past my window. My fingers turn up the volume and I soar higher as I drift off to sleep.

Haunted by Song

2011-11-17T22:56:00.000-05:00

For Wednesday, November 16, 2011

This past year I came across an artist I’d never listened to before. The music grabbed at me forcefully like music often does. The sound and the lyrics of this band were haunting and I had to wonder why I was suddenly listening to these rather dark songs so obsessively. It became common for me to play a song over and over. I’d then move to the next song by the same artist only to sit hitting replay again with that song too. What was it about this music? It seemed each song was seductively speaking to a piece of me, a part of something I am, something I think on, something I want, or maybe something I fear.

Not knowing the artist, I did a quick google search. I suddenly began realizing that this was probably a band more popular with a younger group, and I suddenly thought to myself, “Am I too old for this music?” There was something about the music that made me question myself. To think that music could do that is strange, but for me it did. I suppose I’ve long been taken in by a passionate performance. I suppose I am an easy target in that regard.

I don’t often try to explain my attraction to music. A love for music simply is. But still I think...Is it the angst in the singer’s voice? Is it his use of whispers followed by passionate acclamations? Is it the use of certain images and themes? Is it the use of repetition in phrases of notes and lyrics? Is it the overall tone? Is it simply that the music is different and new to me in its sound? Does it remind me of something else I’ve forgotten?

Do any of these questions matter? Maybe. Maybe not. But I do find it rather odd that I can’t bring myself to name the artist or the music with which I’ve become obsessed. Am I actually afraid of being judged perhaps by someone who does not hear the music in quite the same way that I do? In case someone does attempt to do that...

Honest to God I will break your heart. Tear you to pieces and rip you apart.

Why I Write--Part 1

2011-11-15T21:29:00.000-05:00

The other day I shared with a friend of mine that my writing of this blog has not always been met with 100% support. There’s at least one of my loved ones (that I know of) who would much rather that I write in a private journal rather than to publish memoir pieces which expose my feelings, my struggles, my day-to-day happenings, my dreams, my LIFE in this way for all of cyber space to stumble across. I’m also pretty sure that there are some people who have read a post of mine out of curiosity perhaps only to be disappointed, or who may have rolled their eyes at my stories, reflections, or the writing itself.

Back in college I was enrolled in a public speaking course. One day I presented a speech on the subject, “Why Writers Write”. I’ve often thought about my own motivations for writing and it’s a subject I revisit often in my classroom. When writers begin to share their writing, or to even move towards publication, the discussion may seem to become more complicated. There are numerous writers who have delved into this topic of conversation. George Orwell and Joan Didion are just two of a slew of writers who have written essays answering “Why I Write”, and today I stumbled upon a website which shares a collection of similar essays. Visit http://whywewriteseries.wordpress.com/ if you are curious. I don’t want to attempt to explain the ins and outs of why I continue to write and post on this blog nearly every day. I don’t feel like justifying my choice to share my writing by adding a link to my blog entries on Facebook for my friends to see. Maybe I’ll come back to this later, but for now I like and agree with what I read in Natasha Costa’s essay, “I write because I am human”.

When I reached out to my friend mentioned above, a dear old friend from my “teenhood”, a man who I have not visited or spoken face-to-face with in over 28 years, I did so knowing he’s a writer too. But I also knew that he is very grounded and wise, and someone whose values greatly resemble my own. Reading his response comforted me. In part, he wrote, “Writers must expect a certain maturity from the reader. If we continue to feed the reader only nursery rhymes or iambic pentameter we are saying "You can't handle the harder things of life..." Some of life's rhymes are obtuse, a lot of life is more Grimm than Mother Goose. Let the reader decide what they want to read, the writer must write”.

As if on cue, I went to Mass on Sunday and the gospel reading was “The Parable of the Talents” (Again, visit this link to know more: http://www.esvbible.org/Matthew+25.14-30/). I couldn’t help but believe there was a reason this story was shared that day. I don’t want to bury my writing. I want its seeds to sprout.

And then tonight, as if the words above were not quite enough, a former student of mine read my most recent blog post. Within minutes of my posting it, this message was left on my Facebook wall: “Needed this. I cried reading it”.

At the top of my blog are the words, “Inquiries, insights, and imaginings from a small town girl who wants to do some good in this life”. Thank you Gerard and Megan and Esther and Gina and all others who have reinforced that gut feeling I have that my writing, even if it's not being published in traditional, perhaps more “acceptable” ways, is somehow making a positive difference to an audience, however small.

And thank you dear one who worries over me and my privacy. I know your heart is in the right place. But to anyone else who scoffs or rolls his/her eyes at my stories, reflections, or my writing itself? Well, go elsewhere to read what you want to read. Perhaps there is nothing here for you and that is okay. I write because I am a writer and this is what I do.

Point of Impasse

2011-11-15T20:21:00.000-05:00

For Monday, November 14, 2011

Last week I was feeling defeated over a particular situation in my life. I have been trying so hard to fix what may not be able to be fixed. I’ve grown exhausted having beaten myself up over what I can not accomplish so last week I gave up. Well, I did not exactly give up; that’s not exactly easy for me to do, being as stubborn as I am, but let’s just say I “let go”. And when I did, a wave of relief came over me. I felt myself unburdened by the chains that were binding me and I felt free. In that moment, I knew what to do. I wrote a letter to a friend. I wasn’t sure I was finding the right words but I wrote from the heart. But before hitting “send” on the email, I found myself reading over what I’d written, hitting “delete”, and writing again. I chose my words carefully. It was important for me to be honest but I also had to be sensitive to the letter’s recipient. I did this writing and rewriting of my email message for over an hour, but then the letter did make its way through cyber space. In minutes came a reply. The conversation continued, back and forth, for the rest of the evening. And when I finally closed the lid on my lap top, I realized it had happened again. Every once in awhile, when I think I’ve reached an impasse, I remember the importance of the expression that has always served me well, “Let go. Let God”.

I’ve written on this theme before. I recognize the fact that it is difficult to admit to needing help when I pride myself in being independent and self-sufficient. I like to think that I am capable of doing what needs to be done in almost any situation that I find myself in. But we all know that is not realistic, and it’s rather arrogant of me to think that I can always find the solution to problems on my own.

I need to remember to have faith when things look bleak. I need to stop worrying over the worst case scenario and turn to the power of prayer. I am not expected to have all the answers, to do all the right things, to find every necessary word that needs to be spoken. Sometimes there are no right words. And when I insist on trying and reach only sadness and frustration, I need to find solace where I know it will always be for me, with God.

Life is tough. There are many joys and many wondrous blessings but this world is not perfect. There will be tears and there will be sadness. There will be turmoil and there will be pain. There will also be regret. There’s no escaping all that. But there is also forgiveness, especially of one’s self. And when we admit to needing it, that’s when we find ourselves being lifted.

I’ll be here again, at this point of impasse. No doubt, I’ll forget what I’ve said here and I’ll go back to my stubborn ways of trying to bully my way through impossible situations all by myself. But I am going to try very hard not to be afraid when I screw up. I am going to try to remember that nothing is impossible with God.

On a Sunday

2011-11-13T22:01:00.000-05:00

This morning, after realizing the necessity of taking two cars to church, I headed there with Emma so as to get her to her Sunday school classroom by 8:50am. Having recently begun teaching, she headed to classroom while I went to fill up my gas tank before returning for choir practice. Eric went in his car to first pick up Paul who had spent the night at a friend’s house before meeting us at St. Joe’s. After Mass, Eric took the two kids and headed home. He would soon leave again to take Paul to a nearby college where his youth group was meeting for an afternoon of rock climbing and swimming. Emma headed to her matinee performance at the high school and I went grocery shopping before heading home to a quiet house. It was a day where everyone went in separate directions, a strange occurrence for a Sunday in our house.

I love our usual Sundays. We make it out of the house and into one car and get to church in time for choir practice. We are greeted by parishioners who have watched over our family for years. Some ask how Sydney is doing at college and others comment on how tall Paul is growing after saying how they remember his baptism day nearly 12 years ago. Emma is complimented on her singing and Eric and I smile proudly. After grabbing a donut and a cup of hot cocoa downstairs after Mass, the kids wave goodbye to friends and we head over to the grocery store to do our weekly shopping. The kids often opt to stay in the van while Eric and I strive to make it quick, but we still arrive home at the same time each week. We unload groceries, usually turning on music or the football game as we do. I prep dinner and before long, everyone is doing schoolwork or vowing to do it later when procrastination sets in. The day ends with us in the family room watching Amazing Race on tv before bed.

When I was a child, my parents and I usually went to Mass on Saturday afternoon so as to sleep in on Sunday morning. Instead, I would awake to Dad’s classical music playing on the stereo and spotting both of my parents reading the Sunday newspaper, I would often grab the comics or the Parade Magazine section and sprawl out on the living room carpet to read. Mom would prepare a nice dinner which we’d eat around the dining room table with one of my brothers dropping in to join us. Sometimes we’d make a trip up to camp in the afternoon or Dad would suggest we go cross country skiing or skating. Other times Dad would work outside and I’d spend the afternoon swinging at the top of the back hill or if there was snow, sliding down the banking when Dad would make me a path with his snowshoes. Mom would bake cookies and at night the sound of a stopwatch ticking would get my attention as the next episode of Sixty Minutes would come on the tv. I was too young to be interested in that show then but sometimes The Wonderful World of Disney would be on and we’d watch shows like Peter Pan or The Shaggy Dog.

As I got older I too began using Sundays as homework days or else I’d practice piano and flute. It wasn’t necessarily a family only day as my friends would sometimes come over or else we’d meet for a bike ride, but looking back, it is the time with family that I most remember about this day of the week. Dad’s classical music playing is the strongest memory for me.

So today, with my family gone away from our usual Sunday routine, it was only natural that I would turn to the stereo. With music filling up the otherwise empty house, I took a few minutes to dance, much to the amusement of my puppy, and then I got down to work. I put away the groceries, cleaned up the kitchen, got my schoolwork done, and began prepping dinner for when my family would return home. Arriving home late after her play and her own youth group meeting, Emma missed out on Amazing Race tonight, but we all ended the day together under the same roof.

I hope when my children have families of their own that they will think back on our Sundays together. I hope the music comes on the stereo by mid-day in their own homes, and that they’ll end the weekend with a simple prayer thanking God for the love of family that carries each of us through the week.

Sticks and Stones

2011-11-12T09:01:00.001-05:00

Years back my husband and I experienced a very scary situation. It is still something that I have trouble talking about in fear that I could somehow trigger a return of a man who, in the words of a lawyer, “went ballistic” on me. I apologize for sounding cryptic and for not going into more detail, but let me simply say here that in trying to protect my family from harm, and after trying diligently to rectify a situation fairly and peacefully, I felt in my gut that I needed to act decisively and swiftly. So when I felt threatened, I got a lawyer and a policeman’s best advice and became the mother bear that I needed to be. I was shaking the entire time but nothing was stopping me. And in hindsight nearly a decade later, yes, I did the right thing.

One of the nicest things someone has ever said to me was spoken a few days after I had enlisted others’ help. A colleague of mine who found himself strangely involved in the situation pulled me aside. After asking me if I was okay, Tim said, “That guy did not know who he was dealing with, did he?!”

Tim’s words, spoken at a time when I was still trembling, were just what I needed. Never before had I been in such a situation. I had naively thought that nothing like that could ever happen to me. But I had been tested. My views on the world, on my security and that of my family’s would never be the same again. Yet, I had proven myself to be a fierce opponent. I was brave. I was strong. I was intelligent. I was resourceful. I was powerful.

Not everyone agreed however. When I went in to speak to another coworker to explain what had happened, he expressed how the situation could have been handled more easily, in a different way. Having only met this colleague a few days earlier, I realized right then and there that he and I were very different people. “You don’t know me yet”, I said to him. “But you’ll soon realize that I strive to do what is right, not what is easy”.

It’s amazing how people’s words stick with us, the good and the bad. I can recall several things said to me by another colleague of mine in the first few years of my teaching. She once said in response to my excitement over a lesson that went beautifully in my classroom, “I wonder if you’ll have such a good rapport with your students years from now when you are no longer young and pretty”. I had no response to that at the time. Another time she told me that I reminded her of a television character, a young mother who had great conflict with her teenage daughter because the mother was acting up and seemingly competing with her child. “I wonder if Sydney will grow to resent you someday for the way you still put yourself out there on the stage, the way you are larger than life at times”. OUCH! But I later came to realize this woman’s bitterness sprang from a place of insecurity and I learned not to take her words to heart. Still, I have not forgotten her words. In fact, having long ago shared them with Sydney and later Emma, we sometimes get laughing and tussle with one another playfully, yelling “I’m the star! Don’t steal my thunder! Don’t make me resent you!” What can I say? I use honesty and humor as weapons. Rarely do they let me down.

It’s yet another way I have battled against those who threaten me and my cubs. Listen to Tim. Know who you are dealing with, world. I am brave. I am strong. I am intelligent. I am resourceful. I am powerful.

11-11 and 11-11 on 11-11-11

2011-11-12T08:10:00.001-05:00

For Friday, November 11, 2011

Veterans Day. 11-11-11 Day. A day for remembrance of those honorable men and women who have served our country and apparently a day when wishes are to be made. Until I had children I never realized we were to make wishes on digital clocks. I’d long made wishes on the first star I’d spotted at night or on a birthday cake or a fallen eyelash, but never when I spotted the clock turn to the time of my birthday or at 11:11am and pm!

Not taking the date or the time too seriously, I was cleaning the kitchen at 11:11am today and it was 11:14am when my daughter and I realized we’d missed our first opportunity for wish making. Having finished in the kitchen I had gone upstairs to retrieve my laptop when I spotted Emma on my bed with hers. I sprawled out next to her.

“Whoops.. I missed 11:11”, she said. “Oh.. me too”, I replied. “Well, that's a bummer”, sighed Emma. “Yup. Never gonna get that back”, I said, and we both started giggling. Our day continued. It was a good lazy day. Having been so stressed with a hectic workload over the past few weeks, I thoroughly enjoyed watching tv with my husband and children during the afternoon until it was time to get ready for Emma’s play that evening. My husband drove Emma to the theater while I jumped in the shower to end my “PJ day”. Eric’s parents arrived and we headed off. We sat a few rows from the front of the stage and enjoyed Emma’s performance. Talking Eric into picking up Chinese food for our very late dinner, I took the kids home. Before long we were piling our plates full of chicken lo mein and teriyaki and watching a show on tv together.

On Facebook we were reminded by other wish-makers that we had another opportunity for a 11:11 wish come evening. I thought of that as Emma headed to bed around 10:20pm and again when I did some writing before bed, but again I missed the time on the clock. It simply was not meant to be. But I suppose, when you’re giggling on your bed with your daughter at 11:14 in the morning, spending the afternoon and evening relaxing with your family, or when you’re the last one to get to bed past 11:30 at night and when you know your children and husband are sleeping peacefully, safe and sound, you realize there is nothing more you could possibly wish for anyhow.

Extended Family

2011-11-11T23:59:00.001-05:00

For Thursday, November 10, 2011

Tonight we teachers stayed at school for an extra six hours after our usual day of classes. It was parent-teacher conference day and from 2:00-8:30pm we were available for parents to come and meet with us to discuss their children’s progress during the first quarter of the school year.

Having spoken with numerous parents already via email during the first two months of school, I had only the parents of nine students scheduled during those six hours. I began my conferences speaking with the proud parents of one of my creative writing students and next I met the mom of one of my strongest AP English teens. Over the course of the next several hours I would meet a variety of people whose children are taking one of my five different courses. We discussed student study habits, curriculum, and goal setting, but more important than any of these items, we discussed the teens themselves.

I met moms and dads and a few siblings of the young adults I spend my days with. I giggled as I saw one girl cringe at how embarrassing her dad was as he joked around with me, and I felt my heart warm as she later forgot herself and joined in laughing too. I grew excited to see the joy in a mom’s face when she spoke of her daughter’s memoir project and as we agreed that her daughter is a confident and secure young lady. I laughed with another mom as we discussed the differences in siblings and I watched the pride in the eyes of a few fathers as they spoke of their sons.

I used to be easily intimidated by these conferences when I was a new teacher. I was so afraid of saying the wrong thing or coming off poorly when I’d meet parents. How time changes things! Nowadays I greet each new set of parents with a genuine smile. I am excited to meet my students’ parents. I am as honest as can be as we sit and discuss their child’s strengths and weaknesses. I offer advice easily and share my understanding of the challenges of parenting and teaching a teen.

Tonight, one of the parents took a seat and immediately asked me one question, “So what do you think of my son?” I immediately smiled. In my head I knew this mother was looking for one thing, whether or not I understood her son--his intelligence, his personality, his strengths and his challenges. So for a good five minutes I found myself talking about what I knew of her son. I shared what I see, hear, and believe, and I told her what I am going to do next in working with him. When I finished talking the mother grabbed my arm gently but firmly. “I am so happy I came tonight”, she said. “I knew the first few minutes you started talking, “Oh, she’s good. She knows, really knows him. I feel very good about what this year will be for him. Thank you”.

I smiled and as I walked her to the door I told her that meeting her had been the highlight of my day. There’s nothing like having your observations, your ideas, your work validated by those so important. There is nothing quite like having the approval of your students’ parents.

As the evening came to a close and I packed up my things I thought of how tonight had felt like a gathering of extended family. I may not be my teens’ mother, but I do feel as though they are my children, and it is a good feeling to know the people who raised them and who love them so much. I am lucky to have the chance to be a part of their lives, if only for 10 short months. It feels good to have all this in my life.

Commanding Attention

2011-11-11T23:19:00.000-05:00

For Wednesday, November 9, 2011

I saw the most beautiful sunset on the way home from work today. The sky was painted in dark harvest colored hues and the ball of the sun itself was a reddish orange. I drove over the crest of the hill with it to my left and I knew that it would be just a few seconds before the big ball would sink below the horizon. I felt mesmerized by the beauty and I whispered, “Thank you”.

I’d worked late the day before and had come home in the dark. I knew the next day would bring another evening trip home, so I was grateful to have caught the sun for even just a few minutes on my commute.

It had been a tough day. I’d worked hard. The last hour of my day had given me a headache, despite my best attempts to push one aside. As I drove out of the parking lot to begin my trek home, I replayed the tape of “What am I doing? Why am I trying so hard?” and listed answers that I knew would get me to return the next day. It is a traditional Wednesday occurrence. Headaches come on this day of the week more than any other day. When the US Postal Service announced the possibility of ending Saturday deliveries, I remember thinking, “If only I had the option to cut out one of my work days! If only I could pick Wednesdays”.

But every once in awhile, when I think nothing good can come out of a Wednesday afternoon, I am mistaken. I am shown immeasurable beauty and I am ashamed of having previously wished to dismiss the day altogether. Today’s sunset served to remind me that it’s not the amount of time I have before the sun sinks below the horizon, rather it’s how transfixed I allow myself to be when I stop and appreciate the beauty of what’s there commanding my attention, demanding my awe.

To Feel Right Again

2011-11-09T20:47:00.002-05:00

For Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Several years ago, a friend of mine lost his mom. My friend cried...he cried nearly every day for months. One day he wrote me a letter. It came out of the blue, but I remember reading it and feeling very blessed that he had trusted me with his emotions, with his grief. I felt a huge responsibility to say the right things but I was pretty sure I was not going to find words of true comfort. I remember writing back to him, expressing my sorrow for his loss, sharing with him how another friend of mine had also recently lost her mom, and offering to be there for him if he ever wanted to talk in person. He thanked me for my letter but he did not come talk to me about his loss nor did he ever write to me about his feelings ever again. I remember wondering if he had finally found peace with his loss. Or did he perhaps think that his grief displayed in front of others had gone on long enough? Was he embarrassed or was he on the path to recovery? Did he find healing or had he been driven into hiding?

When one experiences a loss, people come together to support one another through the difficult time. Bereavement days are taken so that the family can gather and participate in the standard occasions of memorials or other means of closure which take place over a week or so. Of course grief will often surpass a wake, funeral, or memorial service but as family and friends return to their day-to-day lives, people are aware of the loss and speak and act appropriately. But how does one cope with an ongoing grief, long after everyone has returned to their regular lives? I’ve often heard of the expression, “to wallow in one’s grief”. But what exactly is the definition of wallowing? Is it defined by an amount of time, by the measurement of tears, by what one displays of their grief in public or in private?

I know I do not have many answers on the subject, but I do know that I have learned a great deal about this subject in recent years. For one thing, I know that grief is ongoing. It ebbs and flows. There are good days and bad days. There are times when the world is dark and there are days when the blessings we have around us bring to our eyes tears of joy and appreciation. And there are those who know of our internal conflict and those who do not. We fight with the voices in our heads--the ones that dare us to lose ourselves in sorrow and the ones that tell us to soak in and to appreciate the time we have on this earth. “Live for today. Make good memories now. Time is short”.

I also know that grief is uniquely personal. There are those who grieve who cry every day for months and there are those who grieve who smile and put on happy faces and making pleasant conversation, who go on with their daily routines but who are somehow wiser now. There are those who find comfort by writing to a friend and those who turn to prayer. And then maybe, there are those like me. I seem to be trying a little of everything. I cry. I smile. I pretend. I write. I sing and dance. I hold my loved ones a little tighter. And Lord knows, I think way too much. I admit to needing some help. I’m just trying to figure out how to make things feel right again.

In Love with Literature

2011-11-07T19:49:00.000-05:00

“I am really enjoying Hamlet! When we first got these books I told my Mom that we were reading Hamlet and she said, “Oh my God. Don’t turn to me for help!” but now that we’re on Act Four I am really starting to understand it on my own. I like it when we read it together in class because you help us understand it better but I am actually getting to the point where I can read it all by myself. And I really like it!”

This comment from one of my students today made my morning. I watched Rosalee’s excitement and smiled at her sincerity and genuine pride. We talked for a few minutes about the character of Hamlet and others chimed in too, adding their own ideas on whether or not the man is over-the-top in his grief, or whether it is justified. We talked about other Shakespeare plays and other “crazy characters”. These are the times when I know I am indeed the woman for this job. I am genuinely in love with having teens fall in love with literature.

The funny thing is, I never truly appreciated Shakespeare myself until I entered the classroom as a teacher. I never read Hamlet until I began teaching seniors last year. I may have read Macbeth when I was in high school but I am not altogether sure because I know we did not read it or discuss it the way I do now with my classes. Maybe my memory has faded but to my best recollection, there were no witch cackles, no psychological studies of whether Lady Macbeth was an introvert or an extrovert, and no exclamations of “OH MY GOD. WHO IS THIS MADMAN KILLING NOW?!”

Okay, so I tend to get a little dramatic when I teach literature, especially the literature of “the olden days” that my students don’t think will be much fun. But I suppose I strive to make it a memorable experience for these teens. I want them to remember the crazy Miss Havisham from Dickens' Great Expectations. I want them to agonize over the fact that had Romeo only waited five more minutes before drinking that poison, Juliet would have woken up and they could have taken off together. I want them to remember the way we wrote our own “Gielps”, boasting of our accomplishments as we stood on the desks, preparing to be as bold as Beowulf was when he came to announce he would defeat Grendel. I want them to recall their own description of Room 101 when they think back on Winston Smith and his fear of rats in Orwell's 1984.

Sure, I love the literature but more importantly, I love the way literature makes us question ourselves and our world. I love the way that we can work to assess a man’s sanity when he is distraught with grief or the way we can empathize when the young innocent girl feels she has no one to turn to. As we troubleshoot the alternatives these characters had but did not see within their own stories, we begin to see our own options when we are so challenged by life. We begin to be emboldened by Beowulf’s courage to slay the monster and we fight rebelliously against those who say we are doomed again all hope. It is then that we begin to write our own tales, our own stories, our own lives.

No Time for a Tantrum

2011-11-07T19:05:00.002-05:00

For Sunday, November 6, 2011

I pride myself for being calm under pressure. I do not often feel any need to yell and I know when to walk away when I am upset and need time to settle myself before confronting an issue or a person that has me steamed. But I do recall one time when I completely lost it. Years ago, when I was preparing my Master’s of Education portfolio for a presentation due the next day, the house went dark. As I typed away, the power went off in the room where I was working and I lost roughly six hours of work. These were the days before computers automatically saved your work or recovered documents. Tired and overwhelmed at the realization I had to start over at 2:00am, I simply lost it. I sobbed, I screamed, I threw myself to the floor. I did not throw blame at anyone but myself. I hated myself for not hitting “SAVE” and I hated myself for having procrastinated on this portfolio in the first place. But after about a half hour of letting out my emotions, I picked myself up and I got back to work. I completed what I had to get done and turned in my work the next morning at 8:00am. On time.

I thought of this day from the early 1990s when I sat down to write tonight. Once again I am under pressure of a deadline. Grades are due on Wednesday and although I have worked steadily all quarter long, I still have a stack of essays, a pile of projects, and several portfolios left to assess before I can cross First Quarter grades off my list. I am tired after, in addition to teaching and planning work, I graded two groups of projects, a batch of quizzes, and a folder of reading guide questions already today. I want to give up and go to bed. I want to stop. I am negotiating in my mind how much time I will have tomorrow and on Wednesday to complete my grades. I know I will make it. I know I will succeed. I don’t allow myself any other options. But in order to make my deadline, I have to push aside other things that are draining me mentally and emotionally. And that is a challenge.

I often hit a wall when I am preparing a blog post. Some days my mind goes blank as I think of something to write about. “Did I do anything today that warrants a closer examination?” It’s a challenge that I usually enjoy for writing allows me a chance to find wonder in the little moments, or to seek the unique details of a life that is lived at the same place with the same people day in and day out. Then there are days when I know what I want to say but I stop before I exhaust myself. It seems that putting on a brave face day after day is a noble way to live, but truth be known, I long for a day I can fall apart, when I can just FEEL what I feel and not have to keep pretending that I am okay.

I empathize with those who are grieving or for those who have a loved one who is sick. I feel for those who are scared of the future or who are haunted by the past, or those who long for a different present. I nod in understanding of those who keep sweeping their emotions under the rug so they can maintain a steady pace moving forward. I understand that it is not easy to keep up the charade. It takes a great amount of energy to continue being so selfless, for doing what is right for those around you, for not adding to the work or the emotional turmoil of others. But hey. Maybe someday I can give myself the freedom to throw that tantrum in a safe room where no one will judge me. I can sob, scream, and throw myself to the floor one more time. Then perhaps I can begin to heal on the inside. For now, I need to continue to smile. I need to appear that I’m all right. Too many people are depending on me today and tomorrow and the next day....and next week....and next month...and next year. The tantrum will just have to wait.

Odd Girl Out

2011-11-07T17:44:00.000-05:00

For Saturday, November 5, 2011

I was admittedly a little concerned today knowing that not only would I spend the entire day with only my husband and our 11 year old son, but the three of us had plans to go shopping. Although I think we all would have appreciated a lazy day at home, believe it or not, my two boys felt the need to head into the city to do a little shopping. My husband wanted us to go looking for a much needed sofa to replace ours that is falling apart. My son needed new pants to get him through the cold winter months. He’d have been happy to live in basketball shorts all winter long if I would have let him, but since that is not an option, he knew he needed to get some new jeans. So off we went. I had a feeling that I was going to be “the odd girl out”, the one who would have to sacrifice going to any of my favorite stores. We would take the day’s shopping list and shop for the items as quickly as we could, as is the way of my two men. Realizing I was the only girl heading out shopping with two boys, I accepted this and hoped for the best.

My son was in the mood for Chinese food. My husband just wanted to go somewhere for lunch that would be quick as he was hungry. A Chinese buffet restaurant proved to be the solution. As we filled our plates, we began to plot out which stores to go to so that we could be as efficient as possible in our shopping. After dinner, having done a bit of homework, we began at the furniture store. We scoured the showroom, asked questions, compared choices and believe it or not, within one hour, we had purchased a new sofa. It occurred so quickly that I was almost unsure it had happened. Next, it was time to buy pants.

At the department store, I helped my son find the style jeans he wanted--not too blue, not too skinny a leg, nothing fancy. We picked out four pair for him to try on and grabbed a few shirts too as he headed to the dressing room. My husband sighed about the prices, remembering that discount store that was selling jeans for five bucks a pair, but knowing my son’s concerns for what he likes to wear, I shooed Eric away and waited for Paul to try on his jeans. Within twenty minutes we were headed to the register with new apparel. Our trip had been 100% successful and it was only 3:00pm! Oh sure, I had not purchased any new dress nor had I looked at any boots, but my two men were happy.

A celebration was in order. So off to the movies we went. Inside the cinema I sat between my two men, negotiating a pair of glasses for my son who had forgotten his at home, and holding onto the bag of popcorn. As I giggled with Paul over something silly, my husband leaned over and whispered, “I feel like a third wheel”. The comment made me laugh. It appears this only girl, the one who thought she was the “odd girl out” was in high demand today. That’s a pretty cool place to be.

Three Majors, Two Degrees, and Three Babies Later

2011-11-05T00:15:00.000-04:00

For Friday, November 4, 2011

When I first went to college I declared a Theater major. I had an obvious interest in the Performing Arts, however I had no idea what I wanted to study or what I wanted to do for a career. It was a pretty common belief however that undergraduates who did not declare a major would be seen as being “less serious” students than those of us who did. So I went with Theater and I took my first scenework course. I enjoyed the class and I continued taking theater courses along with my general core classes. But I didn’t stick with the Theater major. In my late teens I had so many different interests. I needed to explore my options. I switched my major to Communication and took courses like “Small Group Communication” and “Family Communication”, amongst others. I truly enjoyed all of those classes and I learned a great deal. But then I felt something wasn’t right. Another major shift was on the horizon; I could feel it.

At the end of my sophomore year of college I took a look at my transcript. I was doing very well in my courses but I did not feel enough of a challenge. Unsure of my now-second major, I wanted to make another change, however I had it in my head that I also wanted to be out of college in another two years. I looked over the credits I had accrued and noticed that along with Theater and Communication courses, I had been steadily signing up for classes in Writing. I had always enjoyed writing but had never seriously considered majoring in English. To tell you the truth, I didn’t think I could do it. It was true that I loved writing, but I felt quite limited in my knowledge of literature. I’d done well in high school English courses but had never read any classic novels. I remember my Mom saying just that as I’d come home with different assignments. “I wish you’d had Mrs. Bartley”, she’d say. “Then you would have been exposed to all these classic novels. It’s a shame she retired before you had her”. I’d just smile and think how lucky I was to have the chance to do different units. But now, facing the dilemma of selecting a new major, I felt insecure. I knew that opting to major in English was going to mean tackling a bunch of classic novels. What if I couldn’t understand the texts? What if I failed? I’d read books throughout school but none that were overly difficult to understand. I examined the course catalogue book and saw the requirements for an English major. “It’ll be tough but you can do it”, I heard a voice inside of me say. So off I went to the Registrar’s office again. At the start of my junior year of college, I officially became an English major.

I have never regretted that decision. My classes were tough. They provided me with the challenging academic atmosphere that I had felt I needed. I took a course on Shakespeare and one on Chaucer. Never having been exposed to literature such as The Canterbury Tales before, I annotated the texts and examined every footnote in my textbook. I took a course on Linguistics which had us studying Native American stories and I examined "Writers from Maine" with Professor Jacques who became one of my favorite professors. I took courses in a variety of genres, studied poetry and modern criticism and hit the books so hard that I realized how little I had studied beforehand. I felt proud of myself for daring to take on what I had first feared. When I graduated summa cum laude in 1990 I still had no idea what I wanted for a career but I knew one thing, I had made myself very proud.

As my own children make decisions around college the courses of study they wish to pursue I share with them my own experience. I tell them that it is okay not to have any of it figured out when you’re only eighteen years old. It’s okay to change your mind a few times and that most of all, it’s important to do what feels right. As much as I love Theater, the major didn’t feel right for me at the time, and as much as I enjoyed my Communication classes, I was right in realizing that another course of study more appropriate for me was out there for me to explore. My first two years of college were spent exploring fields of study. Then I gave myself the challenge of becoming an English major and graduating with all the courses I needed in just four semesters so I could meet my personal goal of getting my undergraduate degree in four years’ time. When I succeeded, I carried that win into other areas of my life. If that isn’t what college is all about, finding what it is that makes us know we now have whatever is needed to take on the world, then I have college all wrong.

After graduating in May I returned to school in late August to enter a graduate initiative called the Teachers of Secondary Schools Program. I really had no idea if I even wanted to be a high school English teacher when I applied for the program but as luck would have it, after graduation, I was hired to teach summer school English at a nearby high school. The rest is history. I fell in love with teaching teens. I got my teaching certificate and got a full time teaching job at that same school that had taken a chance on me the summer before. I then won a scholarship and earned my Master’s Degree in Education within the next two years, and along the way I became a parent. And as we all know, that’s when my real education began.

How Are YOU...Really?

2011-11-03T17:52:00.000-04:00

People amaze me...every day. I remember how, years ago, I was told that a freshman student of mine had lost his mother over the summer. I watched this young man for weeks thinking he would start having academic or emotional issues. I waited for him to crash, not realizing at the time that he would instead become the model of resiliency for me. Jason not only survived in spite of his loss, but because of his faith and his strong family ties, he thrived. I know he must have had his share of dark days and I surely would not have blamed him for faltering, but he grew to be one of those students whose character and personality would forever stay with me, long after he graduated from high school. I thought of him often over the years, wondering how he was doing in his adult life. Not too long ago we reconnected. Seeing pictures of him with his wife and child warm my heart.

I meet many students like Jason each year. Students who have incredible burdens to carry yet who, for whatever reason, are most admirable for their strength and perseverance. Some share with me their challenges and others choose not to, perhaps thinking I am unaware of what they wish to keep private. Sometimes I do not hear of a student’s situation until they are almost ready to leave my classroom at the end of the term. And sometimes a student never thinks to mention their personal story, thinking it’s nothing worth mentioning or out of a desire to be seen as being no different than their peers.

But today as I corrected a batch of papers I came across the writings of two of my students, two students who each recently lost a parent. The students are very different from one another and although I am not a psychologist, the professional educator or maybe the Mom I am sees that they need very different things right now, in terms of what I can do or can provide for them as their teacher. One needs me to be fair and understanding with deadlines but also needs me to stay the course, to keep the ball rolling so he can have that healthy distraction of his academics. I find I have connected with this student in the smallest of gestures, such as the card I slipped him when no one was looking or the subtle whisper of, “You can take a few extra days to complete this if you want. Do what you need to do. I trust you”. He smiles and nods “Thanks” to me and there is a look of appreciation in his eyes when he does. I am pretty sure he knows I’m pulling for him. In contrast, the other student needs me to hear her grief, to read of her journey without her mom, to offer words of empathy and consolation. She can’t move on without the regular discussion of her pain and I well understand that. As I read her stories, memoir pieces, poems, and essays, I witness her grief and I reassure her that I am indeed listening. I push her forward gently but firmly, and today I found myself writing her a note, sharing with her my own personal challenge this year, one quite similar to hers. Tears sprung to my eyes as I crafted the note but it felt right to reach out to her in this way. Life can be tough enough without having to face your high school graduation knowing your mom won’t be there to see you in your cap and gown. I wanted her to feel a mother’s love today, even if it’s from a surrogate who is just taking a little time to say, “Hey. Hang in there kiddo. You will get through this. Good times and the fun of life await you”.

I am amazed by people...every day. There is such strength within others that come and go in and out of our lives. Everyone we meet has his or her own burdens to carry. We rarely get the chance to truly know what those burdens are, and it seems even more rare an event that we get an opportunity to be of aid. But maybe, if we can manage to stop more often and take note of what people aren’t saying when we ask them, “How are you?” and they answer “Good. How are you?”, we could be of greater service. I vow to watch more closely and to listen more intently. And I continue to pray that I will do right by others, and know how to help lessen the weight they carry. “How are YOU..really? Can I be of any help? Will you please let me know. I’m here...ready to listen.”

The Circle of Life

2011-11-02T16:14:00.000-04:00

Today is a beautiful sunny day. The snow from Saturday’s storm is slowly melting from the rooftops and the leaves on the trees are glistening. The colors of gold, green, orange, and brown are pretty against the blue skies and a pair of rain boots to walk through the wet fallen foliage and leftover snow is all that is needed for a walk outside.Taking a stroll through the backyard has me thinking of the past summer when I’d walk barefoot on the grass before pulling up a lawn chair to read in the sun. I think of the months to come when snow will be piled to the back windows. I love the snow though and I’ll enjoy the stillness of a cold winter day, almost as much as I will appreciate the way the sun warms my body next July when I return to sit on the back deck again.

It’s true what they say; that the older we get, the more quickly time seems to pass. I now write in a room that was added to our home in 2003, eight years ago when my youngest son was just three and a half years old. I look at the couch I am sitting on; it is the first piece of furniture my husband and I purchased (from a yard sale), back in 1988 when we were married, twenty-three years ago. I was just twenty years old at the time. My eldest child will turn twenty herself in January. It doesn’t seem possible that we moved into this house when she was just one week old. Skimming the perimeter of the room is a construction paper chain, each link identifying a book that someone in our family has read. The chain has almost made it around the entire room, a large room, but it’s been quite some time since any of us added a link. Yet, being the bookworms we all are, new links or not, we’ve all been reading. If we had kept up with this chain, we easily could have circled the room by now, and we probably could have done it twice. But I am comforted by the fact that the links have stopped the chain, that there’s still another ten feet of wall before the chain will meet the beginning links. My husband thinks we’re crazy for keeping this chain in the room. The colors of the paper have faded and it’s probably not something Martha Stewart would approve of as a stylish piece of home decor. But the kids and I would be appalled to have it taken down before it has had a chance to be finished.

I’m struck by how quickly each season passes, how summer turns to fall then to winter. I stop to soak in the magic of each season, thinking these pauses to appreciate will prolong each one, but no, the clock keeps ticking just as fast as it does when I am almost too busy to look away from my work. There is no secret to making time go more slowly. If there is, I have not learned the trick. Whether we cut a strip of paper to record our life’s chapters or not, the chain links continue to be added and the chain is lengthened. I just hope that when the final link is added, that I’ll have the chance to circle around again.

A Sensible Girl

2011-11-01T19:20:00.000-04:00

So today is November 1st. It is the first day of the November is Novel Writing Month annual challenge. But wait. I have 40 Independent Book projects to grade, 20 mini-research papers to score, 20 Creative Writing portfolios to assess, 20 essays coming in tomorrow, and don’t get me started on my list of AP work I need to do. I am seriously behind. That is what sickness, an out-of-state curriculum work conference, and jury duty can do to a busy teacher. I have lessons to plan, materials to photocopy, parents to email, and letters of recommendation to write. There are new initiatives at work to develop, paperwork to complete for administration, and an expense report to do so I can pay my November Visa bill. I already take time each evening to write a blog post after making dinner for my family, justifying the writing as my daily therapy, and I have a 6 month old puppy who needs her exercise, as do I. There are bills to pay, housework to keep at, and oh yes, the normal taxiing and PARENTING that comes with having three children (even if one of them is away at college). I hear it’s a good thing to take time to talk to your husband too each day. And I have extended family who depend on me to keep in touch with them. If I’m lucky, I still have a few friends who forgive me for having abandoned them. And oh yes, certainly not to be listed last on this list, there’s GOD. I have some weekend cantoring for church to practice too.

So certainly, I am not going to undertake this novel writing challenge, right?! To meet the project’s goal I would have to churn out 50,000 words in 30 days. That’s 1667 words a day, roughly three single-spaced pages of writing every 24 hours. To take on this challenge would be crazy. There are only so many hours in a day after all.

It’s one thing to pursue our passions in life but we all have our limits. I love writing but I’ve already begun to neglect exercise and I’m sneaking too many pretzel M&Ms lately. And despite being a woman who needs a good 10 hours of sleep a night but who should settle for getting 8 hours, I am lucky if I manage to get 6 hours of shut eye. This is NOT good. This could have serious repercussions on my health. I know this. I need to be smart about all this.

What would participating in this novel writing challenge do for me anyhow? The challenge is all about output after all. I could easily write 50000 words of crap! I could jump in only to realize that I have absolutely no talent in writing fiction. It has always been mystifying to me how novelists can design their plots and their characters to such lengths. I am just not sure I have it in me, even if I did have the time to pursue this crazy idea. And just WHAT would I write about? Where would I start?

It’s time to start saying “No”. It’s time for me to be grown up and to face reality. To do this challenge would be crazy. I have no time. I have too much to do already. I need to be responsible and give up on this foolish dream of being a writer.

If only I was a sensible girl. If only I did not believe that pursuing one’s passions is a noble pursuit. If only I did not worry about living with regret. I may indeed be crazy and I may not be successful in my attempt with this challenge, but to tell you the truth, I don’t care. Today I began a novel.

Old Gypsies Never Die...They Just Learn to Cackle

2011-10-31T18:31:00.000-04:00

I have always loved Halloween. When I was a child I adored the decorations, especially the big ghost my parents and I arranged on a pulley to fly down the driveway one year, and the floating gauze ghosts I’ve made with my children to hang in the trees of our driveway now, complete with balloon faces that light up with the help of a glow stick. I also used to enjoy our hometown’s downtown tradition of painting scenes on store windows (oh how thrilled I was to be chosen to paint a winning scene one year). And of course each year I am amused by the creepy music and scary movies of the season. But I especially loved dressing up in costume. In fact I never truly outgrew this. It’s probably part of the reason why I continue being involved with theater to this day.

Although I wore an array of costumes over the years, being a gypsy was my favorite character to play. In fact, I remember dressing up as a gypsy a few times over the years, including one summer when our playground recreation group sponsored a “Gypsy costume contest”. (Apparently I was not the only child fascinated by the idea of gypsies! ). I remember my mother suggesting that my gypsy costume could include wearing lots of her fashion jewelry and bright blue eye shadow. Of course, I’m not sure these fashion accessories have any validity, but oh how I loved being donned in my mother’s things. I felt beautiful!

When my children were little, I enjoyed helping them each select their costumes each year. For their first Halloween, each of my babies were dressed as pumpkins and wore a simple orange sleeper. Over the years as they grew, the girls and I would plan the making of each costume and make trips to Goodwill to find clothing to transform. One year my mom sewed Sydney a “Nala” costume, a lioness fashioned after the character in Disney’s The Lion King. It was an adorable outfit! Sydney and I also enjoyed finding original costume ideas such as a few we borrowed from Family Fun magazine (Baby on the back of an old hag, was one of my favorites), but Emma always chose to be something scary (a ghost, a witch, a vampire). She would always play the part too, posing for many pictures with her scary teeth or green face paint. When Paul came along, I wondered what he’d select to do with each year’s costume. He chose to be a knight one year which was cute, but I think my favorite costumes of his came most recently in the last two years when he was first a sumo wrestler and then a taco. After a few years of watching him make safe costume decisions so as not to be seen as anything other than “cool” by his peer group, his costume choices these past two years show the Paul I know best--the one with a leader’s confidence and a fun sense of humor.

There is something wonderful about how a costume can transform us, embolden us, humor us, or reveal us. Whether we are dressed in one to play a stage character or simply heading to a Halloween party, playing make-believe for an hour or for an evening is great fun. It seems that lately I haven’t taken the time to make myself a costume to wear on Halloween. I suppose that’s a little sad. Yet I still don my favorite witch hat as the trick-or-treaters come by, and as is the usual tradition, my children ask me to do my now famous witch cackle so as to shock and surprise their newest friends. If only gypsies cackled! Then my costume for tonight would be perfect!

OctSNOWber

2011-10-30T22:41:00.001-04:00

It felt odd but exhilarating to see the snow coming down last night, in the midst of Emma’s Halloween party. It was forecasted that we’d receive 5-10 inches in this first storm of the season. By midnight the snow covered our still leafy burning bush shrubs, weighing them down and creating canopies for our puppy to hide under. A little apprehensive of the snow, experiencing it for the very first time, Ziva chose to walk along the edge of the house when her paws touched the wet snow. But before long, she had plunged in and enjoyed racing around the yard, burying her face and eating the snow. It was a joy to watch her.

Some of the teens at the party ran outside when the snow began piling up. Sitting inside at the time, we heard them running out back, laughing and screaming as they pummeled one another with snowballs. The snow was wet and heavy, perfect for snowball-making. I snuck outside several times during the evening, happy to see and feel the snow once again, even if it was a good month earlier than expected.

Unless I have to drive in the stuff, or unless it causes a long power outage, I love snow. I love winter. While so many speak of moving south to get away from weather they consider a nuisance, I find a good snowstorm to be beautiful and peaceful. I know it’s easy for me to say this, for being a teacher, a good snowstorm will often give me a day off when school is closed for the day, and I do well appreciate how difficult it can be for many, especially the elderly, to deal with in terms of shoveling or preventing accidents. But in those few hours when the snow falls from the sky and the world is quiet, I feel an inner peace that I rarely find anywhere else.

As I enjoyed the snow of last evening, I thought of all the ways I enjoy the outside each season. Cross-country skiing is one of my favorite winter activities. I never took a liking to the speed of downhill skiing. I’m too fearful. I get wimpy about going tobogganing or sliding now that I have lost that childhood flexibility. I’m always afraid I’ll break my leg. I have enjoyed the few times I’ve gone snowmobiling, but I don’t own a sled. I used to enjoy ice skating but I haven’t been lately. Maybe this year. And no, I won’t be going ice fishing. Of course my all-time favorite wintertime activity is snowshoeing. I am looking forward to taking Ziva out to the abandoned cabin where Charlie and I used to go each winter. It’s going to be bittersweet to hike out with a new furry friend.

And after returning from a jaunt out in the woods, I’ll be sitting next to a warm fire, enjoying hot cocoa under a fleece blanket with a good book, with a batch of homemade soup simmering on the stove. Oh sure, five full months of winter may seem to be too long for many, and I admit, I love the warmth of summer and the vibrancy of autumn, but hey, I live in Maine so as to enjoy all four seasons. I have enjoyed this first snowstorm of the season and I am ready for more.

Party Planners

2011-10-30T19:57:00.000-04:00

For Saturday, October 29, 2011

When I was young, my Mom used to help me throw the best parties. As a child I had birthday parties and as I grew older there were Halloween parties, Summer sleepovers, and yes, even one Disco party. That particular party sticks in my mind for my friends were so impressed with how the Christmas lights glowed off the strips of tin foil that we’d taped to the walls and how the old color wheel light from my Nana’s aluminum Christmas tree recreated a strobe light effect. My home was always the place for my friends and I to gather, the house that would host a cast party, simply, a relaxing, fun, and parent-approved party house.

So when I had children of my own I knew I wanted to help them celebrate their birthdays and other occasions with fun, creative parties of their own. From the time they were preschoolers, my children and I planned each new theme for their next birthday party. We shopped for decorations, organized games and gift favor bags, and designed invitations. I always believed the party preparations were as much fun, if not more fun, than the party itself.

So, imagine my disappointment when due to her schedule of performing as Cinderella at a local theater, Emma did not have time to plan a Sweet Sixteenth Birthday party! We had said she could organize one later in the summer if she wanted to, but no party ever materialized. I felt awful. Was Emma outgrowing parties? Did she still feel comfortable having her friends over? With Sydney off at college and Paul telling me that he doesn’t want anything fancy for his upcoming 12th birthday party, “Just a sleepover, Mom”, I began to wonder what I was going to do...

Then one day, a few weeks ago, I spotted a little hot pink post it note on my family wall calendar in the kitchen. It said, “This would be a good day for Emma to have a Halloween party”. Written in Emma’s handwriting, the note brought an instant smile to my face. “YES!!” It was not time for this Mom to retire her party planning sideline after all!

Of course, the party date could not have come at a crazier time. With tons of work to catch up on, and a house that was looking as though housekeeping had been banned for the latter part of 2011, I knew something had to give. I gave Emma strict instructions that she had to help me clean the house the night before the party. But knowing she had play rehearsal on Saturday, I also knew that bulk of the cleaning would fall on my husband and I. Still, Emma and I marched forward. A Facebook invitation may have taken the fun out of our old homemade invites of yesteryear but before we knew it, a guest list of 22 teens had formed.

Emma chose to have pizza delivered and she got her friends to help with snacks and soda. She chose her costume and as she headed off to play rehearsal, Eric and I completed the housework and went grocery shopping. I came home and decorated the house in record speed and baked some peanut butter-chocolate chip bars. The dining room table was adorned in a black table cloth with wooden pumpkins and candles as the centerpiece. Spider confetti was sprinkled around too and Halloween themed plates and napkins were added. Outside we set up an old fashioned lantern to greet the guests. Orange lights were aglow inside as Emma returned home from practice. “Oh Mom. You are so nice. This looks cool. Seriously, thank you”. Those simple words from my daughter made my night.

The teens arrived and the party lasted until the bewitching hour of midnight. My husband and I stayed out of the way watching television in the family room while the teens had the rest of the first floor. But I snuck in every once in awhile to enjoy the fun of their games and laughter. “Emma, you are such a great hostess”, I heard one of her friends say. I smiled. For if there is one thing I most look forward to, it’s the watching of my children carry on with the tradition of planning and hosting great parties.

A Strange Day

2011-10-30T19:21:00.000-04:00

For Friday, October 28, 2011

It was a strange day. From the moment I began my first period class I knew the day would be out of the ordinary. I could feel it. Although I had planned an activity, I could sense I was going to stray from my original plan for my classes.

This happens every so often. After teaching for 20 years I have learned to trust my instincts. I found myself telling my students of an activity called a “Silent Socratic Circle” and I guided them to form two groups at the front of the room. They were given a prompt of “Overwhelmed/Stressed” and invited to have a group conversation. However, they could not actually speak. They were to write down their conversation. Each student was given their own individual colored marker so group members would know who was saying what if the group should occasionally break into more than one thread of conversation at a time.

The students wrote furiously. There was some giggling as their conversations included humor but they took the task seriously. I added in my own comments in a black marker, guiding them to new angles of discussion or asking a question of clarification. They wrote and they wrote for over 20 minutes. If I had not stopped them, I have no doubt they would have continued.

I decided to do the same activity with my second period class. This group, much more diverse than the first period class, wrote even more passionately about the prompt. They vented about the stress of juggling school, work, and personal issues and when their 20 minutes were up the group and I talked for the rest of the period about the realities of stress and time management. Again, it was not how I had planned to spend the class period but Hamlet could wait another day. This discussion was needed by all today, including myself.

At the end of each class period I told my students how I too was feeling overwhelmed by all that is on my plate. I shared with them my own reactions to stress and what I try to do each day to lessen the anxiety. We shared strategies on how we could better manage our time and motivate ourselves to tackle our To Do lists when all we want to do is bury our heads in the sand.

After these two class periods I was half way done with my school day, yet I found myself continuing to stray from the usual routine. I took time at lunch to catch up with a new friend and colleague. It was nice to be reminded that the two of us look out and care for one another, even when it seems we have little time to talk in person. During my prep period I wrote an email to another teacher friend and shared that I had recently learned we have something rather personal in common. Andrew came by to see me before the day ended and thanked me for reaching out. We’ve made plans to talk further next week.

As I packed my school bag before leaving for the day I realized I still had all of the correcting folders that I’d had when I went to school that morning. My bag was just as heavy. There has been no progress made on my correcting. Yet today was far from being a failed day. It has been a day of taking risks, all very appropriate but challenging just the same. I am exhausted and I found myself sobbing on the way home from school. It didn't last long though. I had just needed to release the day’s energy. It was a strange day at work but I know good things happened today.

To Love a Child

2011-10-28T22:08:00.000-04:00

For Thursday, October 27, 2011

Wherever I look, I see signs of the commandment to honor one's parents and nowhere of a commandment that calls for the respect of a child. - Alice Miller

After a full day at work I headed to my daughter’s school to pick her up from play practice. Not seeing her in the parking lot, I quickly called her asking her where she was, only to discover a text message sent two hours earlier that I hadn’t been alerted to before opening my cell phone. Practice would not be getting out for another 75 minutes.

I knew I was overtired when I felt tears come to my eyes. I had so wanted to pick her up at 4:15pm, head home, and prepare her supper before taking her to her dance class at 6:00pm. But it was really no big deal. I just needed to drive home then head out an hour later to get there at the right time. Emma, receiving my phone message, called me back and was apologetic but there was no reason for her to be. She had done the right thing in texting me the new dismissal time two hours earlier; technology had simply failed me.

Returning at 6:00pm she and her best bud Savannah jumped in the car. We dropped off Savannah and rushed home. I told Emma to grab her dance gear and said I’d wait in the car. I tilted my seat back and closed my eyes. I took a deep breath and came very close to falling asleep, but before I knew it, my daughter was back in the car with her banana and her dance bag. Off we went to make it to her dance lesson 20 minutes away.

Arriving back at home I began to make us all a good meal for our dinner. Perhaps dinner hadn’t been prepared in time for Emma to eat before she was off to dance lessons, but I wanted her to return to a warm meal afterwards. So I found the ingredients for spinach ricotta stuffed shells and mixed up the filling adding extra garlic and parmesan cheese. I popped the shells into the oven and spying some ripe bananas on the cupboard I impulsively decided to make a double batch of banana bread too. Within the hour the house smelled delicious. Saving Emma plenty for her own dinner plate when she’d return home at 8:30pm, the rest of us filled our bowls.

When I was a teenager, I rarely gave any thought to the fact that my parents were constantly giving me rides to where I needed to be. I took for granted all the great lunches and dinners my Mom would fix. As a parent now, I sometimes grow weary of playing taxi and I sometimes question my stamina after working from 7:00am until 3:00pm. Most days all I want to do is come home and take a nap. But there is nothing more important to me in this life than being a good mom. Over the span of their lives there are hundreds of ways we show our children we love them, but being there for them when they need us to be, whether it’s now or 75 minutes from now, and making sure they are well nourished in mind, body, and soul...well, those are the most meaningful and sustaining displays of our love.

A Friendly Face

2011-10-27T23:06:00.003-04:00

For Wednesday, October 26, 2011

One moment. Just one moment.

As I sat down to write tonight I was not sure what to write about for the day’s blog post. I flashed back to different scenes from my day. Talking to my teenage students, introducing a new novel, laughing with a few of my work colleagues, organizing my “To Do List”, attending a meeting, driving home with my husband, going to a parent-teacher conference for my daughter, watching tv, taking time to write. I could write about any of these, but for some reason, the only image that is motivating me at the moment is her smile.

There have been many similar smiles. They are offered up on the first day of class and continue throughout the year. They are quiet nods of understanding and they appear the most needed moments. Sometimes it is offered from the back corner of the classroom, other days I find it in the hallway. It’s not showy and it is not after anything. It is given freely and with kindness. It belongs to one of the friendly faces.

We have all experienced the friendly faces, I am sure of it. These are the people in our lives, or even sometimes perfect strangers, who are supportive while there in the crowd when we’re talking. As we look out into the audience, whether it is in a meeting or in a large auditorium, the friendly faces meet our eyes and with a simple smile or nod they remind us that we are not alone, that we are being heard, that our efforts are appreciated. I always take note of these smiles, these faces. They always belong to people worth getting to know better.

Her smile greeted me in the classroom first thing this morning and later in the day as we passed one another in the hall. She’s more than a good kid. She is empathetic and kind. She is secure and yet humble. And she knows the secret of how a little smile or nod can make a difference in a person’s day.

As I sat down tonight I was not sure what to write about. So I tried to think of one moment, just one moment from my day when time seemed to take pause in just the right spot. I felt myself pulled from the reality of a busy life and brought to a place where we are reminded of what is always important. It is a beautiful gift to find a friendly face in a crowd, to feel the warmth of someone’s smile, to feel an authentic connection to another human being.

Sisters of Serendipity

2011-10-26T22:07:00.000-04:00

For Tuesday, October 25, 2011

On my second day of jury duty service we were dismissed around 1:00pm. I went back to the Jury Assembly room and picked up my lunch bag and other personal items. “See you next week” I quipped to a fellow juror named Theresa. As I made my way to the exit however, I stopped. “I want to say good bye to Janice”, I told Theresa. She and I both knew that we would see one another again the following week as we had been chosen to serve at the same trial. Janice, however, had been selected for two different trials which would be held on different days than our own. We would most likely not see Janice again, so a farewell, “Nice to have met you”, was certainly in order. Theresa and I waited for Janice to return to the Jury Assembly room. When she spotted us, Janice broke out into a smile, obviously pleased that we had waited for her before leaving.

The three of us had met only the day before. Having the luck of sitting next to one another at the first jury selection, it quickly became evident that we had the same sense of humor. Although we each expressed our understanding of the seriousness of our role as potential jurors, we took the instructions not to discuss the cases to heart and found other topics of conversation. During the few minutes of down time we’d received several times as the judge had called the attorneys aside, we’d each made the others laugh with silly observations or questions. How nice it’d been to find not only one, but two women like these to help pass the time. Each had been enjoyable and entertaining. We ended up sitting with one another at the remaining jury selections and gabbed during our lunch break too.

On my way home I got to thinking of how good it is for me to have these opportunities to meet new people. It’s not that I don’t meet hundreds of new teenage students and parents each year but meeting people aside from work usually takes a little extra effort. When I was younger, new friends were made easily and regularly at music festivals, theater competitions, and music camps. In college I met new people with every new course I took each semester. As an adult, the performing arts and educational courses continue to aid me socially. Opportunities with community theater and recertification requirements bring me together with like-minded people, those with the same passion for theater, music, reading, writing, or education in general. But the jury duty experience of the past few days was different. One hundred-eighty people, chosen from a pulling of drivers’ licenses, randomly came together to do their civic duty. And yet, within an hour’s time, Theresa, Janice, and I had met and began laughing with one another. Laughing led to the sharing of family stories and although we all knew our paths would most likely never cross again, the serendipity of our two day friendship is something that has enriched me.

The saying goes that people come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. I am blessed with many lifetime friends and I am lucky to have others for seasons of time each year. I don’t know for sure what is the reason I was led to these two women this week, but I have a few ideas on the subject that I’ll keep to myself for now. What I know for sure is that I will long remember Janice’s wit and Theresa’s candor, and the way the two of them reminded me of how wonderful a feeling it is to meet new people, new friends. As I heard somewhere once before, love is blind but friendship is clairvoyant. I’ve learned a few things about myself in the past two days, or rather I have been reminded of some facts about myself that I had forgotten. I’m going to take these lessons and use them in reconnecting with a few dear friends, lifetime friends, who I miss dearly.

Although they will probably never read this, I want to offer up a simple thank you for Theresa and Janice. I expected to have my nose in a book at every available minute of time I found during jury duty service. As it turned out, I was reminded that opening up and simply living in the moment with people who surround me is the best way to make my way through life. As strange as it may be for the writer and teacher in me to say, the books can wait.

I've heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you...

Lyrics from the song “For Good” from the Broadway musical, WICKED

Jury Duty

2011-10-25T19:45:00.000-04:00

For Monday, October 24, 2011

The drive to the courthouse would take an hour in morning traffic. After parking and going through security, I found my way to the Juror Assembly room on the second floor. The room was set up with rows upon rows of folding chairs. We were encouraged to hang up our coats and to put our lunches in the refrigerator. Coffee, tea, and hot cocoa were available in the back.

Attendance was taken and housekeeping details were reviewed. Parking was validated and instructions on turning off cell phones and when we could or could not have a book open to read were made clear. Soon we were ushered into a courtroom. It was beautiful. I took a few minutes to look around at what I had only previously seen represented before in movies.

We were given more instructions and a pamphlet to read. Then half of us were brought to another courtroom for the first round of jury selections for a civil case. The judge who presided over this first case was quite personable and he took time to explain the process of the day, including the manner of the questions we would be asked. The parties were introduced and the charges were read. The questions posed to the jury pool commenced. After each question we were asked to remain seated if our answer was “No”. We were to rise if our answer was “Yes”. “Yes” answers would often result in additional questions being posed to the juror and finally, “Would this influence your ability to be fair and impartial?” was asked.

In the selection process I answered “Yes” to two particular questions. Both times however, I answered the final question with “No”. There was nothing that would lead me to believe that I would find it difficult to be fair and impartial to the evidence presented. One woman next to me, after answering “Yes” to one of the questions was called to speak privately with the judge and the lawyers who asked her a few more questions. She returned to her seat and whispered, “It’s odd. I have never given much thought to these facts about myself before today”. Answering questions like we did today gave many of us reason to stop and reflect on who we are, what we are influenced by, and whether or not we are able to be objective when a stranger’s fate is in our hands.

The jury for the first civil case was chosen and as luck would have it, I was not selected. I had been surprised to see that juror cards (with our numbers) were placed in a box and that names were drawn to a pool from which they would select the jury. Lawyers had the opportunity to dismiss who they wished to as the judge spoke with them in sidebar conversations. My number did not come up in any of the cases brought before us that morning.

We were returned to the Juror Assembly room and then instructed to take an hour for lunch. A woman I’d had a chance to talk with earlier in the day joined me for a walk to a nearby sandwich shop. We returned to the room to eat and our afternoon was filled with more jury selection. The day ended at 4:30pm and I’d not been selected for any trials. I was instructed to return in the morning.

The day was interesting, humbling, exciting, and a little nerve-wracking. As I sat waiting to see whether or not I would be sitting on a jury to determine the verdict of either a civil or criminal case, I realized the responsibility before me. I gave thought to all those John Grisham and Jodi Picoult books and all those episodes of Law & Order I’d been exposed to over the years. Have they prepared me for the real thing? Jury selection is only the first part. Before the end of the second day, my number did come up, twice, and I was indeed selected to serve on one upcoming trial. Next week’s trial proceedings will be the true test.

Number 300

2011-10-23T22:37:00.000-04:00

These days the number 300 may not easily impress us. I found myself wondering tonight if the number 300 has had any significance beyond being a nice round number. I thought I remembered that 300 is a perfect score in bowling so I did a quick Google search to confirm that fact. I then learned that the number 300 comes up repeatedly in the Holy Bible, such as in the story of Gideon. Unfamiliar with this bible story I took time to read of how Gideon began with 32,000 men in his army but how God said this was too many. Gideon with God’s help “cut the team” down to 300 by first determining who was fearful and thus not good to serve as they would influence others to be afraid. The next means of reducing the army was through a stream drinking test. To shorten the tale, the small group of 300 men were successful in defeating the Midianites. Gideon gave God the glory of the win.

Continuing my research I was reminded of the 2007 movie 300 about the Spartans and the Battle of Thermopylae (another period of research time would be needed to provide the synopsis of THAT one), and I learned that Chrysler developed several models of cars with the number 300 listed in its title series. In baseball, the benchmark of hitting .300 in a season is revered. And apparently in paintball, 300 feet/s is the maximum legal velocity of a shot paintball (I’m honestly not sure whether that is significant or not but it was a colorful piece of information just the same). Oh, and humans are born with 300 bones, although we as adults interestingly have only 206 bones as some are fused together in the natural growth process. I finally learned of a belief in “Angel numbers” and how the number 300 when noticed by humans is said to bring attention to a matter of Divine purpose that warrants our following.

So it seems that the number 300 is quite significant. And I’m happy about that because I am amazed by how content and impressed I feel tonight as I craft my 300th blog post in 300 days’ time. But I am also thinking of how I did not do this alone. First of all, I have had an incredible support system. My children and my husband have allowed me time to write in the past 300 days. My family and friends have sent me notes of encouragement and have left comments on my blog or on my Facebook page, displaying to me that I do indeed have an audience most days that I post. Former students, colleagues, and others have started their own blogs too. It feels good.

Most importantly, whether I have an angel looking over me or not, I have believed myself to have a real purpose in continuing to write. Writing has not always been easy but it has felt “right”. I do not dare say that my purpose has Divine blessings, for that would be awfully presumptuous, however, I will say that I offer up any and all praise to God. He has strengthened my resolve to meet my 365 posts in 365 days’ goal. He deserves glory for any eventual “win” in my life, whether it is this blog or something more significant in the days, weeks, months, or years to come. Onward and upward!

There is always strength in numbers. The more individuals or organizations that you can rally to your cause, the better. --Mark Shields

There is no safety in numbers, or in anything else. --James Thurber

Bike Rides with Andy

2011-10-22T23:28:00.000-04:00

When I was in middle school I began hanging out with boys. Two in particular, Scott and Andrew, would come by my house at least once a week and ask if I wanted to go for a bike ride. We would pick up my friend Carolyn and spend the entire afternoon riding around town. We lived in a town that was quite bike-friendly. We were able to take lightly traveled roads and could reach various sections of town safely. Our hometown also had numerous Mom-and-Pop stores that allowed us to stop and buy soda and snacks along our routes.

One favorite pit stop was the playground in “Little Italy”. Buying Sunkist orange soda, the four of us would park our bikes and enjoy the swingsets. I remember laughing and blaming our silliness on the soda’s caffeine. Of course I realize now that our moods were more likely due to all those middle school hormones!

This innocent memory of my first experiences with dating inspired me several years ago. At the time I had recently returned from my 20th high school class reunion where my husband and I had enjoyed talking with my old friend Andrew for several hours. Between the reunion and memories of my hometown bike riding adventures with my friends, I began playing around with the idea of writing a novel that was titled Bike Rides with Andy. I mapped out an initial plot and crafted the first chapter. My writing group helped me workshop the piece. Over the summer I wrote the second chapter. Then Bike Rides with Andy went into hiding.

A few years later I read Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenegger. The novel included elements that sparked me to revisit my own book. I again worked on ideas for the outline and talked over my ideas with my Creative Writing class and my friend Jeanna. Everyone was excited and I felt motivated to try again. But then I put up a wall. I blamed it on a lack of time. However I know now that once again, I’d allowed fear to paralyze me.

A change has overcome me in the past year. This has been a year of staring my fears down. I have tackled a variety of them and although I find myself slipping every so often, I can honestly say that my outlook on my life’s goals has been altered for the better. I am ready to try again. It’s time to dig Bike Rides with Andy out once again.

I am going to follow through with a specific challenge suggested by one of my daughter’s friends to write a novel in a month. November is National Novel Writing Month and NaNoWriMo.org sponsors an online challenge for anyone. As the website states, “ The goal is to write a 50,000 word, (approximately 175 page) novel by 11:59:59, November 30. Valuing enthusiasm and perseverance over painstaking craft, NaNoWriMo is a novel-writing program for everyone who has thought fleetingly about writing a novel but has been scared away by the time and effort involved. Because of the limited writing window, the ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output". The challenge is about “quantity, not quality”, and although what I produce may need serious editing, the goal is to write intensely and without self criticism to put the words to paper. This is always the first step after all.

It wasn’t a pointed challenge but Deanna put it at my doorstep and having thrown the challenge out to my own students in the past, I now want to try it myself. One of my Creative Writing students last year was successful with it last year and had his novel self-published for his graduation. I was pretty darn proud of having pushed him in this direction! Ben’s book sits on my window bookshelf. Now it’s my turn. Sure, I have a lot on my plate but if I were to wait for the perfect time to write, I’m afraid I would never get there. I am not going to consider myself a failure if I don’t make the deadline, but I will be disappointed in myself if I don’t at least TRY.

Just as my time with Andrew and Scott back in Middle School was my starting line when I began hanging out with the opposite sex, Bike Rides with Andy will be my starting line for my novel. I have no idea what my finished product will look like. I don’t know whether I’ll stick with my initial ideas or abandon them and take a detour, but I am getting familiar butterflies in my tummy once again. It’s almost as much fun as trekking around town on my ten speed all those years ago. Or perhaps it’s simply the caffeine.