God’s Plan

For Sunday, September 18, 2011

I was once again inspired to write today today after listening to the words of my parish priest. Father Paul spoke of mornings and how many times we wake up on the “wrong side of the bed” and begin our day in a sluggish place. He encouraged us to do our best to renew our thinking in the morning or even in the afternoon or night when we feel the day has gone poorly or has even been lost. He reminded us that even in our days or lives’ late hours, there is still time to be renewed in our faith.

The homily’s discussion moved me. Although I have had hours or days when I have struggled with my own faith, I am one of those Father Paul spoke of, a person who has had a pretty strong devotion to God “since my brow was first wiped at baptism”. In fact, I remember playing “church” when I was little, the way many children play school (although I did that too). I used to pull off the day bed’s long cushions and place them in the floor of our den to set up “pews” for my stuffed animals and dolls to sit in, and having borrowed a copy of our church’s paper missalette, I’d poise myself at the front of the room and do the readings. I even took small oyster crackers from the kitchen to use as the communion hosts. I’d sing the responsorial psalms, the alleluias, and various hymns too. In fact, I was quite disappointed to learn that being a Catholic woman, I could not hope to become a priest someday. I did not have any desire to become a nun for they were not the ones who gave the homilies. Sure, this was all role play for an imaginative child who would later develop other games and play “office”, “taxi”, “newspaper reporter”, and “detective”, but even at a young age I felt a stirring, a desire to be in church, to be close to God.

As I entered school I would lead a group of my classmates home once a week for our faith formation classes which for a few years were taught by my Mom. We’d come home after school and be greeted with snacks then have an hour of prayers and activities. Later my friends and I went to CCD at our church. I remember having rich discussions with my teachers and never minding the time spent there. Being let out of school early on holy days to go to the stations of the cross for example was part of a comforting routine in my childhood. I joined a youth group and had a hearty group of friends from both my church and others in town. Going to church and church activities was something a healthy percentage of children and adults did in town.

However, in the years I have raised my own children, it’s been quite apparent that they are in the minority at their schools. The practice of receiving the sacraments of baptism, Holy Communion, Reconciliation or Confirmation is looked upon as unfamiliar or even strange. To my knowledge, my children have never been discriminated against for being Catholic and have not been teased for going to church, but they have not had a large peer group of friends who share those practices either. In fact, the world seems to be quite secular nowadays. And both in the school where I teach and where my own children go to school, calling oneself an “atheist” is as natural a practice as calling oneself a teenager. My daughter often says that she is asked many questions when the subject of church comes up. She handles her peers’ inquiries with honesty and that makes me proud. I’ve often told her that God is working through her. I truly believe that her peers’ curiosity is a gracious gift and that the way Emma handles that curiosity is part of God’s plan.

So today, Father Paul’s talk on how a person may be led back to their faith in God or how he or she may come to know God’s love after the wisdom of the years pass, gave me comfort. What I have had since being a small child may wane in others but it can take only a single moment in time for a person’s faith to become present. The intensity at which it appears may more than make up for the tardiness in which it arrives. So, perhaps I can stop worrying so much over those who seem to have walked away from weekly mass or who are tempted to. Perhaps I can relax and instead work on strengthening my own path in life as I am quite sure God expects more from me. I’m hopeful the seeds I have planted will take root someday but maybe it’s for the best now that I let go and let God. For surely, God’s plan for the children I have raised, both my three at home and the thousands I’ve met in the classroom, is far wiser than my own.

Remembering Fourth Grade at Forty-Three

For Saturday, September 17, 2011

Fourth grade year brought many challenges. When my parents decided to move from the house where I’d lived for my first nine years to a home across town, it was necessary for me to move to a new elementary school also. For the first time I was looked at with scrutiny rather than being just “one of the guys” who had grown up with everyone in my class. At my new school I was placed in an advanced reading group and I felt intimidated by the eye rolls and comments from fifth grade girls in my group who indeed had to wonder who exactly was this “new kid” being promoted to the fifth grade for reading and who was being so kindly praised by their teachers. If things could not be more uncomfortable, fourth graders also began square dancing with the boys! Just when I thought I would run away from home to return to my old neighborhood to hide out forever, a girl named Carolyn entered my life. She was a godsend. Easy to befriend, Carolyn had a sweet smile and sharing the same silly sense of humor, the two of us quickly fell into fits of giggles, time and time again.

Through the rest of elementary school and even into middle school when I was reunited with friends from my old school, our friendship was strong. We roomed together at music camp, began riding bikes around town together, and made up creative games which we played for hours. Time with “CG” was always easy going and full of laughter. Whether we were talking about boys or doing our Howie Mandel impersonations, we frequently giggled so much that we lost our breath.

In high school, Carolyn and I remained friends, but we spent less time with one another due to friendships with others and our different interests. Carolyn became quite an athlete while I threw myself into more and more music and theater groups. Still, we came together at concerts, show choir competitions, and plays.

Today is Carolyn’s 43rd birthday. Although I have been 43 years old since March, there is a funny feeling I have thinking today that Carolyn is this age. I realize we all grow older and I have surely seen Carolyn over the years at various times, but when I think of Carolyn I still imagine her as that little blonde nine year old girl with the cute smile and the adorable giggle. She was a friend who set my world right again and who offered me a warm hand of friendship when I needed it the most.

Tres Chic

For Friday, September 16, 2011

After a full work week I had mixed feelings about making the trek to Darcy’s 40 minutes away. I would have loved to have pulled up a seat out on the sunny deck to simply read or nap. But I knew that in an hour’s time I would not regret the trip. Besides, Emma was joining me today! The girl who never pierced her ears and who before today had never dyed her hair, was getting lowlights, shades of a darker color added in to her already beautifully hued hair. I would get highlights and go lighter and feel “brighter”. I knew I had to summon the energy. The trip would be worth it.

It was. It’s amazing how uplifting a trip to the hairdresser’s can be. Emma’s eyes widened with glee as she saw her darker head of hair. A change is fun, necessary even, once in a while. We drove home, stopping for supper along the way. We laughed over how we each stole glances of ourselves in car windows on our way to the restaurant and complimented one another on our “new looks”. Feeling freshly chic, we arrived home looking forward to our big entrance when we would awe the boys. Unfortunately a ringing phone and a rush to answer it would interfere with that grand plan, but alas, the boys did eventually give us the attention we felt we were warranted.

The next day, Emma would don a new dress and her new hair at the Homecoming Dance whereas I would pull on an old pair of jeans for my son’s soccer game. But the venue did not matter, we each held our heads a little higher, our smiles a little brighter. The confidence a trip to Darcy’s adds to our life may be silly, but it’s real.

Sharing Stories

For Thursday, September 15, 2011

I hadn’t planned on sharing stories of my brother John today but after assigning my class to read an excerpt from Annie Dillard’s memoir, An American Childhood, I did just that. I’d begun telling my AP students of how I had grown up with four older siblings and how being between 10 and 16 years younger, my childhood was greatly influenced by the four who had come before me. The stories of my brother, and more specifically, the reasons John had not been trusted to babysit me when I was little, made my students chuckle. By the time the bell to change classes rang, we were all laughing and sharing stories of our own American childhoods.

I absolutely love the genre of memoir. I love reading memoirs and I enjoy writing them. That is probably quite obvious to anyone who happens upon my blog, for on here I share daily recollections of my past or present. But I think what I find to be the most interesting aspect of reading memoirs is the way in which another person’s story allows us to connect. Being able to hear someone’s tales we all find common ground. We stop and reflect on the adventures, big or small, that make up the minutes, hours, days of our lives, and we smile learning that we all celebrate and struggle through similar occurrences.

In 2006, William Zinsser, author of the classic guide On Writing Well, talked about the challenges of writing memoirs. Zinsser shared his opinion that since the 1990’s many memoirs have focused on victimhood, rather than forgiveness. He also commented (his books) “are about small episodes that were not objectively "important" but that were important to me. Because they were important to me they also struck an emotional chord with readers, touching a universal truth that was important to them” (From The American Scholar 2006).

Reading his words, I began thinking of this blog and of how writing in this way has allowed me to create a memoir in various pieces. It has been fun to share the “small episodes” of my life and more enjoyable have been the ways in which, after reading my blog posts, others have shared with me their own stories. As Zinsser suggests, I am now supposed to, “Read them through and see what they tell...what patterns emerge. They will tell you what your memoir is about and what it's not about. They will tell you what's primary and what's secondary, what's interesting and what's not, what's emotional, what's important, what's funny, what's unusual, what's worth pursing and expanding. You'll begin to glimpse your story's narrative shape and the road you want to take”.

Maybe I’ll eventually look at the pieces I’ve created here in that analytical way. And all I’ll have to do is put the pieces together to form my story’s “narrative shape”. But I don’t know. I’m in no rush. I think of the puzzle makers in my family. Although there is pride as the last puzzle piece is placed in that last blank spot, and although there is admiration of the completed picture, I know that the true enjoyment of puzzle making is within the process of building the puzzle.

My former students have often come back to visit or have written to tell me they still remember the day I told them a particular story and that’s when I know that it’s not so much the funny tale I told one day in class, it’s more that I dared to share something that gave them a window into who I truly am, where I came from, or how I came to be “me”. My students are now selecting a memoir book to read and they have begun crafting their own memoir piece which will be shared with classmates, first in writing workshop groups and later through the creation of a digital story project when they'll record their personal history story and add visuals and perhaps music. The unit will end with a digital story showcase day. It's always one of my favorite days of the school year for the films of everyone's memoir pieces are masterful year after year. How could they not be? Making those connections with others is a beautiful part of life. We are nothing without our stories.

The Last Five Minutes

For Wednesday, September 14, 2011

It was one of those afternoons. An afternoon when I can’t get into my car fast enough for the drive home. A day when I clench the steering wheel so tight my fingers turn white. A day when I tell myself, “Breathe”. It takes about twenty-five minutes to drive home. It’s a good thing it doesn’t take twenty. I sorely needed those last five minutes today.

In the last five minutes of my drive home I passed by the school where my two girls attended fourth, fifth, and sixth grade. The school closed before my son would have gone there. Instead he stayed at the school he’d attended since kindergarten. I was more than okay with that, however, as it has always been my favorite school in the district.

Passing the closed school however, I got thinking of my three children. I thought of how each of them have thrived in school. They were surrounded by a loving community of teachers, coaches, neighbors, and friends. They worked hard to meet our expectation that they tried hard to do their best in school while making time for fun and relaxation too. Passing the closed school I thought of the various experiences school life has brought to my childrens’ lives: Involvement with instrumental and vocal music, theater, student council activities, and community service.

As I came into the town where I live I passed by the store where we always order our delivery pizza. I passed by the plaza where my son gets his hair cut and where we used to go to rent videos. I passed by our local grocery store where we frequently stop to buy milk and bread during the workweek and by the old antique shop which used to house the cutest little ice cream shop when the kids were little. I drove into our development where my children have gone trick-or-treating and where they knock on the doors of our dear neighbors every time there’s another school fundraiser. I drove into the cul-de-sac where our kids bike and walk the dog and finally, down the driveway to our home. This is the community that helped raise our children. And a wonderful little community it is.

The last five minutes of my drive home from work reminded me of what is most important when it comes to the raising of children. Politics and the newest packaging on what’s "best" for our children pales in comparison to the people, the community that raises them.

Literature and Film

For Tuesday, September 13, 2011

I love many aspects of being a teacher. But one of my favorites is introducing my students to old films they have never seen before. I could say the same of stories, novels, and plays that I bring to their attention, but with some new courses that I teach, including Literature and Film, Horrific Tales, and Dystopian Literature, I have had more opportunities to use films to highlight some pieces of literature that would otherwise be sacrificed for the sake of time in what are now a series of one semester courses. This morning I am showing An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge, a 25 minute 1962 French film based on the short story by Ambrose Bierce which was first published in 1891. The film won awards at the Cannes Film Festival and the Academy Awards. I learned recently that it was also once an episode of The Twilight Zone on tv.

The students are not used to seeing black and white film. They are not accustomed to watching films with little to no dialogue, with only sound and a little music provided with the action of the story. For example, when the main character in the story begins to laugh in delight that he is “a living man”, my teens grow a little uncomfortable, begin looking around at one another as if wondering if they can give in to their temptation to laugh too. Those who have read the story for homework know what is coming up in the ending of the film. Those who did not do their homework are shocked at the ending and in their confusion they whisper questions to one another, “What happened?!”

After the film concludes we discuss the film. We review the story, the characters, the shocking ending, and the different tools used by the writer as well as the film production team to bring the story to life. But I first begin our talk by asking them, “What did you think of that?” It’s their reaction to the grainy footage, the twangy guitar plucked song during the “escape”, the tweeting of the birds in the final scene, and the muffled voices of Peyton’s executioners that garner some of the best comments from the class.

As the semester continues I’ll show more old films and we’ll view modern movies too as we review various story adaptations. Our unit on Hamlet is one of my favorites. As we read Shakespeare’s play, we view a few scenes from various productions. Everyone has their own “favorite Hamlet” and idea of who makes the “best Ophelia”. It’s one of the perks of my job to bring these young people to the movies as if we’re all traveling together to an old fashioned cinema perhaps, as they develop an appreciation for the creative minds of the past and present, those who so artfully interpreted the words of some classic authors. It’s wonderful to have the means to share my appreciation of literature and film with young people. I cannot help but smile.

Enjoying Eden

For Monday, September 12, 2011

After losing my nearly 17 year old dog Charlie last February, I went several months returning to a dogless home. Her absence was surely felt. For years Charlie had greeted me at the end of a long day at work. She reminded me of the simple joys. She greeted me with reminders that I was her reason for being. She excitedly wagged her tail and followed me around the house as I unpacked my bag. When I came home angry, she knew how to make me smile. When I was happy, she was the first to see my joy. When I felt like a failure, she challenged me. Oh how I miss my sweet girl. Her presence, her love, her protection meant everything to me. She was so much more than just my dog.

As the school year came to a close, I was overjoyed to bring a new puppy home. She quickly acclimated to our family and we all had a glorious summer together. Two weeks ago, we all returned to our normal fall routine. Ziva would now be left home to await our arrival at the end of our day.

Sitting on the deck with my 5 month old puppy has become my favorite after-work activity. I can’t get home quickly enough. The weather here this September has been beautiful, allowing for these late afternoon rests together. We sit and cuddle or sometimes, I sit and we play fetch from my perch. I sometimes bring out my computer thinking I’ll write or connect with friends or family, but most of the time, my lap is free for her to find.

After about an hour with Ziva on the deck, I head inside to prepare dinner. There is sometimes a trip in the car to pick up Emma but Ziva usually joins me, enjoying the ride. I watch her choose to sit and watch me driving instead of looking out the window and I smile. As with my 17 years with Charlie, this time with Ziva is a treasure; there is simply nothing like having a sweet furry girl waiting for my company again at the end of the day.

"Dogs are our link to paradise. They don't know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring--it was peace."
- Milan Kundera