What I am most thankful for and what I crave the most is this: a good laugh, a good talk, the easy banter of two people who get each other. I had a couple hours with Clover today and that 120 minutes will last us until the next time she is in town, months from now, or until the time I make it to Denver.
We always have a talk that involves:
– laughing (instant contagious unfurling bliss)
– and tears (though I always cry more than she),
– some hard truth (that is easy to admit),
– the adjective “Fucking,” (as in “that was a crazy fucking day,”),
– TV watching habits (yes, it’s true),
– and a discussion about our current state of happiness.
I love my friend, Clover, and I fully trust that we will always have conversations like this. I have never left Clover not lifted, buoyed and sated.
Today was good day for laughing, in general. With my school friends in an all-day meeting. With a neighbor after school.
I love starting the joke or responding to someone else’s quip. I love the cascading laugh that Tori has, I love the darting laugh that Jennifer has. I love the authentic bellow that Katie has so much – it may be my favorite laught of all time. I can be so fucking serious – see there’s that word again – but I love to make people laugh. I love to feel the energy laughter gives my body. It’s like food to me, like sleep, like air – something essential.
One of the best things I learned about Dad in the last month is that he had uproarious times with Dan Merry, laughing so loudly at their church meetings that it echoed down the administrative wing. That made me so happy – happier than his steadfastness, his generosity, his kindness. I loved that he had someone to crack up with.
So tonight, at the end of this month of trying to observe and acknowledge the things I have gratitude for, I am so happy to have landed on joy. On laughter. On friendship. Because, really, what matters more?
When I was leaving Zagara’s with my very on-sale English muffins, I saw an older man trying to push his cart from the door to see if he could get it to then into the cart line about 15 feet away. All this for his own entertainment, as no one else was near until I entered the foyer. He just barely missed, so I said, “So close!” and I gave home a wide grin. He said, “Oh, you have a magical spirit, what a great smile!” I had given him a good one, a huge one, like I do many people. But this guy noticed and said something, and, man, that warmed my heart. Set me flying.
I know some of you may think this is odd, but I think I am beautiful – not in the normal skinny blond hip way that America worships. I am beautiful in the same way my mom was. Open. Good eyes. Pinch-able cheeks.
I watched the next five people enter or leave the store. Young man, no smile eyes averted. Young woman, no smile eyes averted. Busy mom, eyes on kids, not smiling. You get my drift.
I know I spend too much time grousing with a very serious face, but when I smile purely without restraint, I know it matters. Except, I didn’t, because no one had ever said so. This whole month, I have been trying hard to remember to greet people, shine some love at them, use my face as a tool for connection. Because, you know, there’s a whole lot of shit happening.
This Zagara’s guy was actually my second favorite man of the day. The first best was Mac, who got my car started in the morning. The battery nodes were corroded. As first he was surly. In fact every time his business phone rang, it sang out, “Asshole calling, asshole calling.” But he and I hung out for a few minutes after he jumpstarted my CRV. Talked about his Dodge Ram. His house payment. His advice for me about tending to my car. We did not make a business transaction, we made a personal transaction.
Thank you Mac, thank you, Zagara’s man. You both were beautiful to me today.
I am most thankful this month for my father and brother, two good guys. My brother has shown grace after grace the last few months – his whole life, really – but I feel particularly thankful for this last stretch.
Devotion. Gentleness. Commitment to the right thing. Love. Calm. Kindness. Gratitude. Hard work. Humor. Generosity.
The list works for dad too, who in his own way, exhibited the same traits no matter the circumstance.
These two guys loved and admired each other. A great allegiance shared.
We thought we’d have more time together, but the time we had was good time. Thank you, dad. Thank you, Mark. I love you both.
I’m thankful that, despite not having children, I have children in my life. And that they make signs like this – with a surprised person sitting on a toilet – to make sure we all get along.
It’s so clear with them, in elementary school, that justice is just, kindness is kind, and people are meant to do the right thing for the greater good. They are self-centered, but not like grown-ups. They are self-centered this way: they do not want to veer from what is right and appealing to them and the people they love, but never to the detriment of others. There is a large dose of principled empathy in their hearts.
“No one should be treated unfairly.”
“Everyone should be given a chance.”
“I deserve as much help as everyone else.”
“It’s okay, he can go first.”
They have bound themselves fiercely to goodness and to believing they will get what they need, so they can make a difference in the world. Even if that difference simply means you won’t get caught with your pants down.
Thank you 30 years of children – all 4500 of you. You made my life, lifted my spirit, and anchored me to virtue.
One of the positive things about our dad’s death is finding hidden treasure troves of memories. One of the best finds was a box of our Papa Cowan’s travel notebooks. The classic story is that, after Grammy’s death, Papa bought a Cadillac, an Airstream trailer, and a poodle then set off on a coast-to-coast trip to discover where he would settle for the last part of his life, which was, if you are interested, the tiny town of Thomaston, Maine, new Camden, which was near Rockland, about an hour into the state on the coast. He called it his Quest.
The notebook is full of trailer repair details and sighting of buffalo in national parks and it also contains thinking like this: I deeply sympathize with young people who resist being forced into a mould which they don’t fit. I believe each of us has a destiny, a career, a job, a life work, if you will, for which he or she is superbly fit. It’s worth some soul-searching, some delayed commitments to make sure, this is, indeed, “my life’s work.”
I have dreams of following my Papa’s path this summer or next – stopping where he stopped, seeing what he saw – to make my own observations. Tell me, who doesn’t need a good quest?
I also found again, the sweet document my dad made in the last year of his life – where he recorded if he read, wrote, worked on a hobby, had an “event” or went out. When I saw it, I could not stop crying – I am my father’s daughter, someone who really has to be pushed out of her introversion and nesting. It breaks my heart – in that beautiful combination of love and sadness and understanding – that dad was working so hard to stay part of the world.
I find it remarkable that I have parts of all of these people in me – recognizably in me. My Papa Cowan’s ability to travel alone, my Papa Reinhold’s civility, my Grammy Reinhold’s legacy of teaching, my father’s reserve, my mother’s sociability. Somehow, I lucked out – having all of these qualities built into me before I had a clue. And, of course, all of these traits come with a shadow side: isolation, distance, snark – but, mostly, I was incarnated with generational blessings and now, as I understand the impact of what one can leave behind, I just want to live into the best from these who have gone. I want them to know I saw them, learned from them, and wish to honor them, as best I can as part of my life’s work.
Today I am thankful for all of the people at Fernway who carry and get things for me. I know I should be moving and walking as much as possible, but it is not prudent for me to walk large loads down stairs (I am a fall hazard, for real). Or hurry to get something far away. Today, Kenny carried some boxes of electrical kits downstairs, Chris moved science kits, Jayden L. retrieved rulers from my room, Ibrahim got my phone when I needed it in a hurry, Tori brought up some white drawing paper…Every day is like this day. I count on people to do the things I cannot physically do. Years ago, I never asked for help. I would rather brutalize my body than admit I could not do something. Now, with great frequency, I let my weaknesses be known without shame and ask for the things I need. It feels good, this interdependency. It feels like the way it should be in all things. People helping me, me helping people. Thank you, Fernway, for keeping this less-than-able person still in the game.
Back to the pool finally, after four weeks off. You are welcome, Peter B. Lewis Aquatic Center for the $72 check I wrote at the beginning of October. I went to the pool once last month; that was an expensive 35 minutes.
We have a new teacher, Mariah. I never thought anyone could replace our old teacher, Tammy, but Mariah is starting to inch up on Tammy’s number one ranking.
When Mariah first started, we did a lot of stretching and not-repeated enough movements. We asked if she could make the workout a bit harder, and she did, but we still spent too much time in warming up and down. So we asked for exercise that would get and keep our heart rates up.
That was the last thing I knew four weeks ago before my hiatus, and today upon return, holy fucking God, she is giving us exactly what we asked for. If you doubt the strenuous nature of a water aerobics class at a therapy pool with a whole bunch of 50+ year olds, I double dog dare you to come down and give it a try. Lordy.
I feel good, right now. Achy, but good. My quads are tired, my arms are tired, my core – which is hard to locate but exists down there deep – is tired. And, more importantly, I am happy. Because I kept up, I worked hard, I sang “I’m a Believer” at the top of my lungs, I danced. I cracked Mariah up.
I’m thankful for Peter B. Lewis, which continues to lift and save me. My body is thankful and so is my spirit. My legs not so much right now, but they’ll reconsider by the morning.
I am grateful for music. I had forgotten about it the last year and half; my radio was always tuned to NPR or CNN or FOX, trying to get a gauge on the election and its aftermath. But in the last week or so, for no apparent reason other than news fatigue, I switched back to Coffee House and the Pulse, and, good lord, there has been some mighty loud singing going on in my car. Some stoplight dancing too. None of it sounds good or looks particularly skilled, it feels great.
You know when you are sick and even the sight of certain foods turns your stomach? That’s what it has felt like with music – like the notes would hurt my ears, like the beats would tear a hole in my skin. But that’s over, now. The muse is back and I am very very glad.
When my mother (I mean I) wrote my college application essay, she (I mean I) used the word “melange.” I had never heard nor said word, but she thought it was a prefect to describe her my thinking.
I have never forgotten the word, and tonight I shall use it. My melange of thanks for this day: this view out my bedroom window upon awakening, mustard in my scrambled eggs, the wheelie chairs in room MS 45, John Moore’s enthusiasm, Kristin Clark’s brainpower, Eric Foreman (just because he is so damn funny all of the time), being surrounded by smart integrity, productive thinking sessions, knowing the work my school has done matters, taco bar, bathroom stories, sitting next to Dawn Sizemore as a professional colleague, hyperlinking documents, skipping the pool (again) which I really needed, fried chicken from Heinen’s, salt and vinegar almonds from Crystal, being able to pay bills online, clean carpet, Cullen and Hannah (birthday twins), Sean’s warm greeting and smile, the sound of the wind, eight grade band music, Iron Chef Showdown, the warm water in my bath, being in my pajamas and ready for bed at 7:18 PM.
I hope I never cannot see and be grateful for (so many) small, easy blessings.
I am thankful for Erin Herbruck who gave my name to the JCU Education department to help teach a class in integrated methods. And I am thankful to Annie Moses, who said yes, and has been an ideal planning and teaching partner. I am invigorated by the chance to help young teachers anchor themselves to professionalism and collaboration as they begin their careers; I pray that something we say or do, together, has an impact that reaches out to many children in many places for many years to come.
When dad died, my cousin Jill could not make it to the funeral but she asked if she could come to town and have dinner with Mark, Jean and me. Tonight was the night she flew in from Philadelphia to catch up with us. It had been 26 years since we had been together, except for a time Mark visited Jill in Florida. 26 years.
We had a delicious dinner at Lola trading stories and looking at a collection of photos Mark discovered in dad’s condo. It was lovely. All of it.
What I want to tell you is this: I have had many invites from Jill to visit her and her family in Philadelphia and Martha’s Vineyard. In the last few years I went to Princeton, just a stone’s throw away, and yet I did not take advantage of Jill’s offer to meet up. And years before that, I flew to Philly for a concert and stayed downtown but I don’t think I even let Jill know.
Yet, Jill persisted. She could have given up on me years ago.
We’ve stayed in touch across time – about my mom, who Jill loved fiercely. Jill helped me with some advice for depression. She also tried to help me get an agent.
I know why I was reticent to actually see Jill. I was the only unmarried cousin, the only childless cousin, the only cousin doing pedestrian work, the only gay cousin, the only fat cousin, the only poor cousin, at least at the start. I bite my fucking nails.
Those excuses? Now, tonight, at this ripe age, I know they are all horseshit. A big fat pile of shame.
But none of those things mattered tonight, or ever, to Jill – I could tell. She smiled and hugged me the exact same way she would have had any of those truths been reversed.
Don’t waste time, people, on shame. Don’t throw away years – decades – of your life because of the anomalies. Weigh only the goodness in you and lead with that.
Thank you, Cousin Jill, for flying in from Philadelphia and meeting us for dinner. Please accept my sincere apology for all of the years of self-doubt I put before love. You are a beauty in every single way and I am thankful for the time we spent together tonight and the time we will be spending together in the future. I mean it, most sincerely.
Honestly, I don’t even know what to say about the generosity I received today. After a morning meeting, my IB colleagues presented me with a bag of comfort. A lush purple throw blanket. A book of daily readings, a candle and a gift card to use with loved ones. All so I could know and feel God’s light and hope. Amazing.
Then, when I got to school and found a gift on my desk, I discovered that my first grade colleagues had provided me with an envelope of fun times – with gift cards for several places to share dinner with friends and family, and another to go to a movie. So damn cool.
When I got home, I found a letter from Fallingwater saying that two of my colleagues had made donations to my father’s favorite place in my father’s honor. And another piece of mail was a condolence card with a long message about how my colleague had hosted an especially good birthday party because of the message in my dad’s obituary: in lieu of flowers and donations, enjoy time with people you love. (That was my brother’s idea and I love what has grown from it).
And now, as I write, I am thinking about my mother – whose 81st birthday would have been today. Why? (I am sure you are wondering).
Well, every weekend, my mother would call me and ask what I had planned. Mom was a social beast and loved spending time with others. I, on the other hand, found that question to be incredibly taxing because I like to recover from a week of socialization with rest and alone time. That worried mom, and it worried me too, especially during the years that were clouded with depression. One time, I remember kind of yelling at mom, saying, “I just don’t; have that many friends, Mom.”
And I know mom worried about dad too, and his propensity to spend too much time alone.
Today, I am thinking about how happy mom would be by this massive and unexpected outpouring and how she would feel so good knowing that I surrounded by people who know me, care for me, and are offering their support in such generous and kind ways. I think the gifts that were given to me are birthday gifts and assurances to my mother, whose spirit I feel around me, too.
I don’t know why I am crying as I write this, but I am crying hard, an ugly snotty cry. It’s all the goodness. Thank you, friends. Thank you so, so much.
These two trees have grown up with me on Dellwood Road. The foreground tree, a cheap maple planted by the city the first summer I moved in. And the midground, a Japanese maple, was planted the spring before I arrived.
Today was the day. Theeeee day when both trees are in perfect flush. So stunning I just stand there looking and looking wishing I could hold the colors in my mind forever, wishing I could eat the colors, wishing I could bathe in the leaves somehow – flit in and out of them like a sparrow. Both are strong and healthy, both have witnessed my coming and going. Both have stood quiet guardian to my sorrow and loneliness. And today, both are lifting their voices like the best song you have ever heard. And somehow, it feels like they are singing every note to me. Thank you, beauties. Spectacular.
I’m thankful for Ralph and Alicia, from the Merrill Lynch Bank of America credit card and point redemption centers. I have a list of things to do to handle the bill-paying part my dad’s estate (my brother is handling dad’s property expertly). And, it seems as if every time I attempt to solve a problem, there are about thirty steps to take with multiple communications to a thousand departments. I have to write everything down to keep it all straight.
But today, when I made a follow-up call to Merrill Lynch Bank of America credit card division, Alicia let me pay an outstanding bill within 12 minutes and Ralph awarded accumulated points to the statement to drop the bill amount. It was smooth as silk, smooth as butter, smooth as a baby’s butt – use any metaphor. So smooth, that when I hung up the phone I cried.
I know that every single person I have talked with over the last three weeks is doing his or her best to help me understand what to do and how to take the next step, but it has felt like spinning tires on ice, no traction, no movement. Finally, something was easy, something was fully accomplished and checked off my long to-do list.
I know I was just one of dozens of calls you handled today, Alicia and Ralph, but thank you, sweet Jesus, thank you so much.
Today, I give thanks for all of the upstanders. From Thurgood Marshall, who championed innocence a hundred times over, to the student I talked with today who said, “I knew it wasn’t right, so I said something.”
One time, about this time of year, I was taking a fall ride on my very very dorky bike. The air was sweet and golden. The trees were showing off. I was so elated with the scenery, I went up and down the parallel roads off Lee, soaking in every honey drop of November.
Until…several young men saw me and started to heckle me. True, I weighed less than I do now, but I was big, and I could hear them say, “Fatso.” And, “watch out, your tires might pop.” They were young men, maybe 14, 15 years old.
I rode past them, then I u-turned my way back and ended up peddling at just their speed right next to them. I said, “You guys don’t even know me. I’m just out enjoying a beautiful ride on a beautiful day.” Their heads ducked. They stopped speaking. They were mortified that I, a middle-aged woman, was saddled up next to them giving them the what-for.
But I kept talking, never raising my voice. “All we have to give each other is kindness, guys. That’s all we can ever hand to a stranger. Kindness. I’m going to keep riding and I hope you remember what I said today for a long time.”
Then I peeled off and headed back down to Shaker Lakes. I heard them laugh – but it was an anxious laugh, a “trying to be cool” laugh (as a teacher I am expert in recognizing those). And then the guys ran off, probably, I bet, to make sure I did not kidnap their attention again.
I have no idea where those men are now, and I have no idea if the words I spoke had an impact, but my prayer is that they stuck in one of them and they have changed the way they treat their girlfriend, or their chubby daughter, or a passerby at Home Depot.
We don’t all have to be like Thurgood or Mary Bethune or Rabbi Arthur Lelyveld. But I guess we can just drop small doses of justice wherever we go, even if it’s on a bike.
This book appeared in my school mailbox from the Harris family. I taught Hannah in 4th grade and had the good fortune to work with her during her senior project. Julie, Hannah’s mom, is one of those people I liked the instant I knew her – and someone I wish I knew better. Last year, we had the sweetest conversation in the hallway at Fernway; both of us with tears in our eyes. Julie has a tender heart and know I she sees goodness in a fragile world.
Today I would like to give thanks for Julie, this book from her family, and for all of the people I admire from afar, but wish I could know a little bit better.
William Stafford says it best…
There are people on a parallel way. We do not
see them often, or even think of them often,
but it is precious to us that they are sharing
the world. Something about how they have accepted
their lives, or how the sunlight happens to them,
helps us to hold the strange, enigmatic days
in line for our own living. It is important
that these people know this recognition, but
it is also important that no purpose or obligation
related to this be intruded into their lives.
This book intends to be for anyone, but especially
for those on that parallel way: here is a smoke
signal, unmistakable but unobtrusive—we are
following what comes, going through the world,
knowing each other, building our little fires.
I am thankful for these three people, and the other three dozen people at Fernway who keep making it known that they 1) have not forgotten about me, 2) have my back, and 3) are willing to show up in funny and kind ways. When my dad first when into the hospital, I asked that people send prayers to Pittsburgh, and Adrian sent a message that said, “Even though I am Cleveland born and raised, I still know Pittsburgh lives matter.” It made me crack up on a day that had very little laughter. Jim Belk has sent me a couple of those silly messages too. Crystal has been flooding me with emails, always calling me “Reiny,” a nickname no one else calls me (that I love.) Ellen stopped by last night for a good chat (and she even took out my garbage). Big hugs from Jamie and Matt. Sweet tears from Lorene and the promise of a strada, (which I will not let her forget). Messages and miles and miles of leeway as I struggle to get back into the swing of things. Lots and lots of love from Fernway. Notes from kids, even former students. Colin somehow remembered that we had talked about funeral wishes in a law unit when discussing wills, and I shared that my dad was going to have Pink Floyd played as the prelude. When he heard that dad died, he asked, “Was there Pink Floyd?” Then he smiled, really big, when he was told yes.
I love my school. I love what my school teaches and gives me. Thank you, Fernway.
About ten years ago, when my neighbor, Anne, saw me mowing the lawn for the third time in one week, she had the good sense to ask what was wrong. I said that I just liked mowing (which I did), but the truth was that I needed control over something. I wrote this poem:
Last weekend I mowed my yard, then plowed down
my gardens with the mower. I killed everything in sight.
Angry, my mower and I reconfigured it all,
wiped it down to its roots then I stood there,
my hands on my hips, king of a very small kingdom,
victor in the war of “I am losing my shit.”
Today, I mowed my yard, the Sweeney’s yard,
Margaret’s yard, and I would have kept going
all of the way down Dellwood, if I had the gas.
Not angry, but sad. This time trying to create rows,
One for the things I did wrong, one for the things I did right.
One for the things I cannot fix, another for the things
I will never know or feel again. One for the ways
in which I am lonely, one for what I now see and understand.
So many, wishing I could set things straight.
They say that it is good to cry in the shower,
but I tell you, it is good to cry while mowing,
the sound drowning out your tears and twists.
The sound drowning out other sounds too:
fear in a waiting room, the loneliness of
your two feet in your house, the neighbors’ laugher
dancing in the October air, death’s sweet whisper,
things breaking all around you,
rust growing, paint cracking, skin wrinkling,
and dozens of gray hairs popping out of your head.
There was a lot going on in my mind before October came – failing at a relationship, thinking about retirement. Casting myself into the last third of my life, carrying grief and wonder about who and how I who become. I had already started seeing a therapist and she was helping me feel and figure it all out. Then, dad died.
One of the first things I did when I got back to Cleveland after the funeral was to hire a landscaping company to help with the fall tear down of my yard. Then I called to get all of my carpets cleaned. Then I went on Angie’s List to hire a window cleaner, exterior and interior.
And last night, when the trick or treaters came, and tried to grab a fistful of candy after I said, “Have a couple,” I flinched and yanked the bowl back.
No one gets to take more than offered. No one gets to exert their intent on my candy bowl. My yard will look nice. The rows will be parallel. The floppy edges will be trimmed back. The garden will be skimmed down to its skin. The carpets will be cleaned and I will see the work of the machine, line next to line. There will be order, order must be maintained. The world is orbiting at 450,000 miles an hour and, these days, I can feel it. So I grab onto anything with a handhold and grip, I grip hard to make it all slow down and make sense. And when it doesn’t, I will mow. I will mow and mow and mow some more.
Only a few of you know that I sent my dad pictures every single day for the last five years. It was something that started as a Christmas present in 2012 and just kept going. In the last five years, I sent dad 13,166 pictures. In all that time, I only missed 6 days and 2 of those days I was in the hospital.
Each morning, he would look at his digital Ceiva frame to see what I had been up to. About half of the time, he would send me an email with the exact same heading, “Question,” then he would ask something about the pictures I sent:
– who were the kids on the monkey bars?
– did you really have ice cream twice in one day?
– what movie did you see?
– did your chili turn out well?
– why don’t you hire someone to rake those leaves?
It wasn’t anything special, but it was constant, this exchange we had. Even though we were far apart, I liked that Dad knew what I was up to.
But now, for the last few weeks, I have stopped taking pictures.
I forgot dad was gone and I took this photo of Vanessa and her man coming to take my sleeper sofa away after I posted it on Facebook. She said she had been sleeping on the floor the last few days – I did not ask, but I was glad to help a sister out. When they were ready to drive away, I took this picture, thinking, “Man, dad’s going to like this one.”
But, it won’t get sent to the Ceiva frame and it will never be seen by dad.
Sometimes, when I let myself be unrealistically optimistic I can hope that mom and dad are together somewhere eating chips and sitting around talking to each other. That Papa and Grammy, from both sides, are there too. And that Aunt Jean, who my mother adored, shows up too. But, I know that’s not exactly the way heaven works.
Maybe the energy of dad has found the energy of mom and they are swimming around each other again. That’s the best I can hope for, pray for.
I can’t let myself think about Thanksgiving or Christmas, when dad loved gifted us with his presents. I can’t think about the trip we would have planned for the fall Amish Country tour. I can’t bear to think about aged cheddar, or Gin Rummy, or giving a sermon without dad in the wings. Today I am sad for today. Today, I am sad that dad will not see this picture and laugh – as he putzed around his condo in his slippers tomorrow morning. Today, I am sad that he will never know again that I am thinking of him.
There have been many blessings of this too – knowing who and how people show up. Seeing the love others had for dad. Being a solid team with my brother. Appreciating dad’s organization, his friendships, his simple grace. Reconnecting with old friends. Spending so much time with Jean and my nieces and nephew. Understanding how little material stuff matters. Absolute thanks for longterm care and hospice workers. There is always good in the hard, of that I am sure. But, I do not feel any of that goodness. I just feel the bones of loss jabbing me in the ribs and causing tears to rise up on the waves of sobs. I miss you, Dad tonight. So much. I hope you know that – somehow, I hope you know.
I thought my ex had moved to Indiana a few years ago, and that relieved me. I would never have the chance to run into her again. But just now, driving home on a constant cut-through street, I recognized her tippy toe walk. I always recognize her walk. She was making her way around the block with a tiny toy dog and her wife, who gathered up a big hocker, and spit while they were walking. Turns out, she’s lived 4 minutes away the whole time.
When I have seen her in the past (which was rare), I was filled with emotions. Shame, anger, massive distrust were at the head of a many dog pack. This time, I said out loud, “Thank you, God.”
Thank you for everything that has come after. The coming out. The sermons at church. Dating Tia, who taught me more about trust than anyone I know. Dating Kim, who made me feel something akin to a very familiar home. Adventures alone. Telling the truth. Getting layers and layers of counseling. Writing. Photography. Artwork. Adopted families. Riding my bike. Going to the pool. Being an IB Coordinator. Going to Ghost Ranch. And Austin. And Houston. And every inch of Amish Country
When we were at Supper Club last Sunday, we talked about the questions: what was the happiest time in your life and why? I won’t tell you what others said, though the conversation was rich, but I said, there was a time before happiness was possible and time after which happiness was guaranteed. The pivot date was February 16th, 2008.
That’s the day I walked around Fernway School telling people who I was and who I loved and that I was sad she was leaving me. Desperately sad. Before then, I was filled with hatred and embarrassment. But that day, I finally became human and I have never turned back.
When we met months after she left me, she tried to take credit for my foray into cranial sacral therapy and my honesty at work. That’s how much she needed to believe she had done the right thing.
I knew that was bullshit then, and I know it is bullshit today.
In crisis, I took charge. I owned up. I stepped forward. I risked it all to find and feed a new iteration of myself. That was not not her, that was all me.
I am more beautiful than I was then – not actually physically, but my smile tells the truth. I am smarter. I am more confident. I am more loving (though not loving enough). I am more giving. I listen with both ears. I am unrelentingly committed to the truth.
I don’t lie. I don’t spit. I would never own a teeny weeny dog.
She ended up with the right woman and so did I. I ended up with me.
Twelve hands shot up when I asked if anyone wanted to share poetry today. Then, while others in the class kept working on their writing, the poets who were ready to share met on the front carpet. Stunning work. Better than anything I cold write. Ten-year-olds.
“N” wrote this:
You’ll never know that I’m a stranger in my mind, that I always have a great big brave dog running through me, and that my actual love is always just.
That from a girl who knew a hundred words in English last year.
“D” shared this, a memory from his life:
I remember when I first went kayaking with my friends. They were experienced kayakers, but not me. Their boats got so far ahead of me, they looked like colorful dots in the distance. I was scared, lost, and tired, but I knew I had to keep paddling. I did, I paddled.
“G,” a boy who barely did one ounce of math homework for me last year, wrote this. Apparently, he has found his calling.
My secrets live deep inside my heart,
and they are locked up.
I will whisper them to you
if you want to hear them.
Then “I” asked me to read his poem. He prefaced my reading by telling everyone “it was deep.”
My name is XXXXXXXX.
I love to ride my bike down the road with my friend.
and play in the pool in the summer.
My shadow self is sadder and more upset than my real self,
he punches his pillows and cries
while others play and laugh.
You don’t know that I to used to always be shy and dark.
You also do not know that I went with my dad
to the gun range and got to shoot a bb gun.
You will never know what I love or who I love.
You never know what happens in family.
My secrets stay close to my heart,
the secrets I have you never know until I trust you
You can find me in at the bottom of the earth,
each burn on your skin,
with every pain in your body.
The whole squad of fourth graders was silent, respectful, looking at their classmate with love. I said, “We never know what is going on in the cave of someone’s heart, that’s why we must always try to be kind.” Then the poet told his classmates that someone from school hurt him last year, said something to him that he will never forget. His eyes welled. His classmates listened. Then one of his classmates – a girl – stood and gave him a hug. Then another. And a third. Not half hugs. Not one arm slung around his shoulder. Heart to heart hugs, arms completely circling this boy, holding on tight.
This is a moment that changed all of us. The poet. His friends. Me. His classroom teacher who was sitting at her desk, listening in with tears falling down her face.
This moment was a tribute to our school, all of his former teachers, his current teacher, the children who surround him, and the sweet kiss of poetry. Ours is a school where this happens. Ours is a school that leads with the heart.
Middle English enspire, from Old French inspirer, from Latin inspirare ‘breathe or blow into,’ from in-‘into’ + spirare ‘breathe.’
When I tell people I am teacher, I always add, “but not a real teacher.” Then I explain how my main function is to be the IB coordinator at our school, which I then explain as a position that helps teachers develop and work on curriculum and its components within certain framework.
Truth be told, mostly, I organize.
This week I spent a lot of time organizing BLT meetings, field trips, document storage, district surveys, a behavior matrix, planners in Managebac, visitation from Kent State. I typed a lot. I emailed others a lot. I creates and shared google docs a lot.
But today? Today, my friends? I was inspired as if I had been blown into with new energy.
Over the course of many years, the teachers at Fernway have developed inquiry units and all of the pieces and parts that go with those units. It’s a broad and engaging set of learning experiences and I’m very proud of the work we have done.
But a couple of weeks ago many of us attended the Service Learning workshop with Cathryn Berger Kaye and her ideas have been stewing around in my head. Today was the day they decided to bound their way into our grade level meetings.
I was juiced up when the 2nd grade teams liked my idea to flip their next unit and lead with action. From the get go, students are going to have to figure out how they can raise enough money to help support a micro-economy in a third world country. Second grade!
Then in the third grade meeting, we discussed doing more “under direction” of students such that they might end up doing passion projects related to an element of culture. Maybe someone will study the pastries of France. Maybe someone will study the origins of Kente cloth. Then we just kept rolling…maybe they could hold a mini-exhibition…maybe it could be tied to the international feast…maybe we will decide to take further action to help the hungry nearby while we feast…maybe instead of multi-layered rubric we will try a “one point” rubric to increase student reflection.
Maybe we could, maybe they will, if we tried – the whole day was filled with ideas that will build a better iteration of the good work we are already doing.
I was so excited at one point in the afternoon, I noticed my hands were shaking and my speech was quickening. I was that pumped by the shifts we were imagining together. It was a full-on dorkfest of the charismatic kind.
All of this is to say that today felt like the kind of day I always dreamed about when I started teaching. Creative, energetic, the best minds coming up with the best ideas.
Also today erased and stomped on the idea I have been floating around about moving to retirement. All because I knew my gifts were being used and given a long leash.
That’s what happens when we are at our best. The people around us give us the free range to riff and jam. The people around us get caught in the current. The team unifies around something it has never attempted before but knows it can do.
Once inspired, we conspire to aspire to new heights.
Thank you, second grade team. Thank you, third grade team. I am so grateful you let me be me and that, together, we made the big leaps we made today.
Sarah, my niece, is heading off to St. Louis on Wednesday to begin her first real job. John, my nephew, is a senior at St. Ed’s. Their parents are in London with Grace, their sister, who is studying abroad. I told Sarah and John I would take them out for dinner while the others were traveling and, boy, am I glad I did.
It was one of the best conversations I have had in many years. There, at Wahlburgers, in kitty-corner to Jack’s Casino, we talked and talked and talked. About so many topics. Taking a knee. Political parties and the purpose of government. The consciousness one needs in this diverse world. What it is like to pigeon-holed. Sexual orientation. College choices. Abortion. Gubernatorial races. Grant funding. Apprenticeships. Unintended and intended stereotyping. Calculus. Hockey players.
These were my two favorite sentences of the night. When we were talking about putting and being put into boxes, Sarah said (and I am paraphrasing), “Our brains want to do that. They are programmed to look for patterns. But what needs to kick in is the soul. That part of you that asks you to see beyond the pattern.”
Later John said, “My morals matter more than my political views.”
God, I love these kids. And now, not because they are related to me, but because of who they have grown to be, with their own well-developed thoughts and personalities. They are lovely, loving, aware and committed young people. Easy to admire.
We were talking about homophobia at some schools and how it is hard to be clumped into a group of people who behave that way. And for the first time in my life, I explicitly said these words to Sarah and John, “As a gay person, I spent so many years worried about what people thought of me. ” I started to tear up as I continued, “And I grieve those years that I wasted.” John nodded, and Sarah gave me that look – like she knew we had just crossed an edge we had never wandered before.
What I really wanted to say, but could not because I would have lost it right there in that burger joint, was, “And I grieve the years I missed with you, even afraid of what you would think.” Thank God we have found our way back to each other.
This talk tonight made me realize that I want to do this kind of thing more frequently. I have been thinking for years that I wanted to have some kind of Supper Club.
It would work this way. I would post the place on Facebook and whoever could come would come. I’m thinking a medium priced place, not typical (because honestly, as someone who lives alone, I want to go to more places downtown). The 1st and 15th of every month so the dates would be known. Always at 6. We would probably cap the number at 6 per dinner.
We would gather – everyone would know me, but many would not know each other – and we would talk about a question that that’s month’s host would pick. Possible questions might be: What one decision did you make that shifted your life in an unexpected direction? Or, what trip made the largest impact on your life? Or, when did you feel a breach in your civil rights? The host job would float around and be given after the location was posted.
I want to do this because a) life is short and we might as well eat at good places, b) I want to know the layers beneath the layers, c) I think people are craving this kind of thing, d) tonight’s dinner with Sarah and John completely energized me and gave me hope, e) why not?
Give me some feedback – if you’d be in, let me know.
I am so thankful to know Sarah and John in this new way, as fellow journeymen in life. Helen and Grace too. I am so grateful to have had a chance to talk as we did tonight, person to person, idea to idea, feeling to feeling, fear to fear.
I want to have this happen every time one of them is in town. Every single time until they are middle aged and I am old, old, old. Maybe, the Supper Club will still be going on and they can be my guests. Until then, thank you, Sarah and John. I am so proud to be your aunt. I am happy you are on this planet, thinking and feeling what you think and feel.
Every month, the service jobs in our church shift to a new group of volunteers. September is my group’s month and I requested to greet today, my parents’ anniversary. I hate greeting, truth told. It’s a form of punishment for extreme introverts like me. You have to smile at everyone, make extended eye contact, give and receive hugs (sometimes unexpected). You can smell people’s breakfast breath, they get so close. You can smell whether or not their suits have been hanging in a musky closet.
Today, I arrived at 10:40 and plastered myself against the wall in the far corridor (it’s way worse if you take the main corridor to the sanctuary). Then I did my job, trying to summon my mother, now ten years gone. Mom loved greeting. To me, it seemed like she did it every week. When images of her float through my mind, I always see her dressed in a red and black plaid Liz Claiborne outfit. Stockings, black low heels. Makeup, jewelry, a big smile shining off her face. In the Hall of Fame of Greeters, my mom would have her own commemorative bust. She was that good.
I tried, I sweated my way through it. I did it for her. And dad too, a steadfast servant at Southminster Church. Today would have been their 57th anniversary.
I snuck into service a tad late. And from the transept I could see the rest of the sanctuary facing the front of the church. One woman, with dementia, cleaning her nose with her finger. One man in a wheelchair. One man, nearly 100, curved over the hymnal, his back unable to straighten. One woman, just a bit older than me, facing early onset Alzheimer’s. She kept looking at me, because – I suspect – I have been to her church, I am a lesbian like her and her partner. I returned every gaze as if to tell her that she was here with us, in a new church to her, and she was welcome. She will always be welcome. I saw grandparents hugging their grandchildren. I saw a man who brought his new girlfriend. I saw a woman raise her hands in praise.
The offering song was a song whose lyrics I penned. Our Music Director wrote the music. It’s long and mystical and I always get a bit nervous when it is played. But I watched the congregation settle into it and I watched my minister, Lois, nod in affirmation when it was done. For most of the hymn, I buried my head in my hands and listened to what a younger me was trying to tell me on this day. My own words told me to be loving, quiet, patient, courageous.
After the hymn, several people from across the crowd and in the choir loft were trying to catch my eye, acknowledge their appreciation for my poem.
Then, in that moment, I felt like I was greeting the church – and by that I mean seeing them and being seen. The word “greet” comes from the old German word meaning “salute.” An act of honoring.
And I knew that standing at the door and shaking hands is not the way I contribute to my church. I’m not my mother, but I have within me her strong current of service. I am not my father, who could balance the books and do long term strategic planning with his gifts. I can serve by seeing people, accepting what they bring to altar and by writing (and sometimes speaking) words that tread on that sweet long arc to justice.
That’s what mom and dad were doing too, in their own ways, reaching out for justice with love, and planning ahead for justice with a calculator and a spreadsheet.
God bless, Sally Cowan and Bruce Reinhold. God bless their marriage. God bless their unbending commitment to doing good in the word. Happy anniversary, mom and dad. I love you.
You know that notion that peace begins with me? That we cannot start to create a peaceful world without the actions we take as individuals?
Well, today I saw three things that made me take this idea in a new direction. I am kind, I hope, more days than not. I have done things to create peace with my actions, like the 30 years of heading up mediation at Fernway School, or speaking to the Presbytery of the Western Reserve during a critical vote. I hold doors open every single time. I let people pass in front of me when exiting space, men, women, child. It does not matter. I defer.
Yes, I know I can be untempered and raging. I know I lose my shit and I can be overbearing and outspoken. I can snap at people. But best I can, I know it and apologize.
I used to want people to think of me as smart but now I want them to perceive me as kind because it matters more. Way more.
This notion of being peaceful by showing personal acts of peace, though, has shifted in the last ten hours. I saw one woman – a beautiful middle aged, well-dressed woman – at East Coast Custard get a triple scoop of vanilla then go eat it in her car. Then she came back in and get another triple scoop and eat it in her car. I wanted to say, “C’mon in, honey. Come sit right here beside me and have six scoops of custard. Its okay. No hiding , no judgment.”
Then, just minutes later, I saw an older woman, maybe 70, walking down Mayfield Road all dolled up. Short skirt, lots of rouge, purple in her hair, spiky glasses. It would have looked great, or more great, if she were nineteen, but she wasn’t nineteen. And I wanted to say, “Come here, sweet cheeks. Now who has you thinking you need to dress that way? A man? Our culture? Something you saw in a magazine? It’s okay to be you without all of this jazzing up.”
Now, before I go seeming all preachy, I ached for these two – whatever was making them shield and decorate. I am a liberal though and would never deny each the right to do and dress as she choses. It just seemed heartbreaking.
Then, just now, I was watching The second season of Tig Motaro’s “One Mississippi” and there was a flash-forward scene of Tig with Kate, holding hands in a nursing home when they were much much older.
That, to me, would be a perfect love. Sitting next to my love into old old age. Her protecting everything that is sacred to me and me doing the same. Smiling, every day, just because we were together.
And, boom, this idea of “peace beginning with me” sunk down a deeper layer. It’s good to hold doors and say thank you. It’s good to ask a waiter, “May I please have the…: instead of saying, “I’m gonna do…” All of those pleasantries are crucial for a generous society.
And “peace beginning with me” is so much more than that. Peace means acceptance of self.
It means saying I am a heady, anxious driven woman. I am fat and yet I am grateful for this body. I swear too much and often at the wrong time. I am proud. I am beautiful. I am filled with a mercurial hope that will not release me. I am young. I am failing. I have contributed my best at Fernway School. I have contributed my worst at Fernway School. I wasted too many years. I am bold and confident. I am loud. I am too quick sometimes and magnificently quick other times. I am a math wiz, I don’t know where Estonia is. I don’t fit in an airplane seat without a seatbelt extender. I am the best conversationalist on a long trip. I say too much. I say nothing at all. I keep pushing against a system that will not change. I am a great kisser. I am afraid of dying.
Peace is saying all of those things. Knowing all of those things. And accepting them. Fully. Not with resignation or placation, but as truth. The same way I accept that there are five toes on each foot, and a breastbone above my heart.
So, what about that? What if today we could welcome peace of self? Imagine how hard our brains have been working fielding troops and munitions in the war we rage against our self-perceived faults. Put down the weapons. Here is an olive branch. Go now, right now. Wrap it around your tired head like a crown.
At 3:45 this afternoon, I texted a friend and asked 1) Dinner? 2) Columbus? 3) Los Gauchos? And she said sure! Now I know most people who live in Cleveland don’t drive to Columbus for dinner, but Tia and I did. It was the very best way to start a new year.
For a Presbyterian, I really love the High Holy Days from Rosh Hashanah to Yom Kippur. I know that this day is to be spent in the synagogue, celebrated with the call of the Shofar and by eating sweet apples dipped in honey.
I know you’ll have to suspend judgement, but I would call the car a temple of sorts, where we reconnected and spoke true truths – the ones beneath the crust. Work, bodies, broken promises, therapy, relationships, new iterations of understanding. It took me a long time to really learn how to pray, saying honest words to God about what matters most. That’s what the trip to Columbus was for me – that’s what any good conversation is. I know it’s not your typical sacred text, but the trip down was sacred nonetheless.
Then, yes, I know that a Mexican torta made with al pastor is not exactly an apple dipped in honey, but, with that slice of pineapple and a bottle of Mexican Coke, is a sweet meal. A special meal, something that happens rarely and means a lot.
The shofar? Well, the whole way back, we listened to music. My friend and I share a love for the same genre, lyrics-driven alternative folk (Joshua James, The Pines, Avett Brothers, Amos Lee, David Gray). Two hours of music, uninterrupted by the words she and I needed the whole way down.
And, to do this – start the new year – with an act of invitation, friendship and adventure? Well, I hope that signals the tone of the coming twelve months. I know in the next ten days, I will think about my place, my mistakes, and how I can rectify the ways I put distance between me and what God intends for me. I know I will beg to be included in the book of life as I do every year.
I hope that, this evening, God noticed the way I entered this period of reflection. Asking for companionship, doing something unusual, and listening to invocation and intercessions heard in word and song. I mean business this Rosh Hashanah. I’m taking it seriously. You get that God, or should I say, G-d? I hope so.
Well, I went from the best professional development to the worst in four short days. At the PBIS training, when I realized the pace would be slow and the content unclear, I paid attention but also started grabbing lines from the facilitators that might form a poem. Here’s what I came up with:
Everyone has a jagged profile. No food, no backpack, some skin that will never see sunlight. We are gambling with heaven, so we must receive the message. Find assets, create success.
Collect any ticket you find. We have an obligation to listen and give every voice a voice. Place all of your expectations, all of your restraint, in one place. There are no green kids, no red kids, only a village.
What are your strengths? Write them down. Do it now, before the timer chimes.
I had a crazy day. Taught three classes back to back, then practice and lunch with the mediators, then Common Planning Time with the kindergarten team. From there I zoomed to a coordinator meeting with my PYP colleagues. We talked about all of our responsibilities and, by the end of the meeting, I was – honestly – completely overwhelmed. And I am not someone who gets that way easily. I work efficiently and productively; I can keep all the plates spinning.
But I don’t actually know how I will get pacing guides done with teams, schedule field trips, analyze all of the units with rubrics, make curricular changes, upload everything to Managebac, teach classes, organize Heinen’s, schedule the Kent Sate visitors, then the JCU students. And, and, and…I really don’t know that I have the time and talents to do all of this well.
That may be the first time I have ever said that about anything I have ever attempted at Fernway School.
The expectations exceed even the most capable among us, and, trust me, my coordinator colleagues are supremely talented and supportive. Massively skilled and motivated to do their best.
After that meeting, I ran through the store grabbing dinner then lurched into my seat at a church meeting by 7. We start every meeting with Joys and Concerns. I thought about saying something, then I backed out. Finally, being jabbed by true need, I eeked out this. “It is only September 18th, we have been in school for a month. I am completely overwhelmed and I do not see the load lessening at all, ever.” I took a breath, and starting tearing up, adding, “And I am doing all of this without any social outlets, too exhausted for anything at the end of the day. I am tired and lonely and I need your prayers.”
“And I need your prayers.”
It’s so simple to say that. And so hard. We save our public prayers for illnesses and lost jobs and strange spots on our feet. We ask for prayers after death, before weddings, when facing an unknown.
But I turned to these church friends and told them I am weary. That’s it. A small truth, nothing climatic. I asked that they hold me in the light. That they think of me, a time or two, and send me some energy. And I know they will in whatever way they see fit.
Do not be afraid to tell these small truths. Do not be afraid to say you need help. We are all we have, after all. Thank you Forest Hill peeps. You know I love being with you.
There were 500 images to see this afternoon at the annual Art Museum chalkfest, but once I found the section with circles I barely moved from the zone. I ignored 3/4th of the paths. I just wanted these wobbly concentric images. I wanted them all. If I could have, I would have laid down on the sidewalk and tattooed my black shirt with them. I would have asked an artist to draw one on my face. I would have swallowed them like sweetarts. Like pizzas, like pie.
Is is womb? Is it sun? Is it a hole? It is pattern? Finite yet unfinished? Is it unity? Wholeness? Layers of personae? An egg? An onion? I do not know.
I am curious if this image arrives and speaks to me when I am most laden and low. I wonder if it pulls me in, hypnotizes me with its simple integrity.
It’s funny how fickle and jagged my days have been. Yesterday, flying high. Today, morose and woolly. I prayed in church. I went to the sanctuary of Cinemark Valleyview. But today the circles saved me.
I think it may be because the circle contains both the falling and the rising, the turn of events and the recovery. The circle is like breath, it is like the beat that leaves and returns to the heart. It is season, it is plate, it is the moon shining back the best and worst in us, indiscriminately with light.
One of the first things Cathryn Berger Kaye had us do was to stand up and, on the count of 3, make an action figure pose. I raised my right arm like Tommie Smith did in the 1968 Olympics. That’s what most of us chose to do – we powered our limbs up, or forward. We leaned into the space around us.
By the end of the day, that is exactly how I felt. Like I wanted to lift kids up, I wanted to move them forward into meaningful action, I wanted to lean into hope. It was an extraordinary day.
100 years olds have lived through a remarkable time in history. They have seen the world before planes were invented and now they are reading about unmanned missions directed to distant planets. They have moved from coal to solar powered energy.
The same is true for the field of education in my lifetime. We have gone from workbooks and getting the correct answer in the limited given space to creating ways for students be purposefully engaged in shaping the world. We have moved from gaining power and starting “life” after graduation to asking that students mold and create their lives at the very earliest age. Teaching is not about delivering wisdom; it is about stirring and unleashing power.
Thank God these were the 35 years of my career. Thank God I have had a chance to be part of this transformation. It makes me wish I were 40, with the ballast and confidence needed, and 15 more years to make a difference. I don’t have that time, but I am able to peek at what is coming and it’s revolutionary.
Another inspirational part of the day was simply being in the presence of a woman who thoroughly loves what she does and is unrelentingly excited to give it all away. Sure, she earns a living doing what she does, and she has earned a status that most of us will never achieve, but she wears a cloak of generosity, humility and humor. It’s almost as if she completely knows why she was put on the planet and she is going to enjoy every single minute of making the world a better place. There was no complacency. There was no I-have-done-this-talk-a-hundred times (though I am sure she has). She was a host and she wanted us to leave sated and curious about our next meal.
There is something distinctly magnificent in that – seeing someone so gracefully, and agelessly, living into her gift and mission. Megan said she wanted to be Cathryn’s new best friend, and I relied, “Line up, sister.” If I had a wish, it would be that Cathryn would be my accountability partner. Someone who asked me every few weeks, “What are you doing that is making a difference?” Followed up with, “And are you having fun?”
One of the things CBK starts her workshops with is the sharing and trading of quotes. She has them printed on the back of her business cards. The one I ended up with today was from Will Rogers: Even if you are on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there. True dat.
Today, I am thinking of one of the most motivating quotes I have read, from Marianne Williamson:
“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
I have met just a few people in my life who seem to know and live into this. Today, I met another. Thank you, Cathy, for sharing your time and talents. Amazing.
I spent some time after school with A, working on taking and editing photos. I hope I convinced him buy a Lumix bridge camera after using mine for a bit. I love the way it “walks the image right up to you,” as my friend said. I liked passing on information to A. He has a great eye, and he’s curious. That’s the best combination.
This is my favorite of the photos he took. Just a guy watering his lawn. A fall tree changing in the background.
One of my Facebook friends put up a challenge to switch your perspective and simply look up. Dozens of people commented on her post with images of skylights and chandeliers and ceilings.
I like the challenge of getting closer. Just now, I studied the grain of my coffee table, a piece of furniture that’s been in my house for twenty years. Earlier, it was the hydrangea. Not the whole bush, just one flower – dappled with pinks and blushes and April greens. So damn beautiful, this ordinary flower on an ordinary bush in an ordinary yard in an ordinary town. So amazing.
Look close, friends. Pass on what you know to people who want to learn.
How else will see beauty, now, and for years to come?
…because I don’t want you to see the pounds of fat that puff out around my neck. Nor do I want you do see my big boobs, the ones that hang like full beetle catcher bags. Or my stomach that bulges out from edge to edge.
So you see this over and over – half of my face, the good half. I told my mother I had a perfect nose when I was ten. That’s a story I’m sticking with.
At counseling tonight, we talked about many things. One of the goals I have is to not eat after dinner. I know for some of you, that is a weird sentence. Isn’t dinner the last meal? Who eats after dinner? I do, every single night.
I’ve been charged with doing something else instead of coating my loneliness and feelings with food. I am listening to music, Passenger (my favorite artist), and writing. It will take two loves to counterbalance my ardent affection for food.
I am so thankful for D, who will guide me through the next phase of my life. I am so thankful for her direct compassion. She said, “Together we will figure out how to make you as responsible to your own wellness as you are to school, or church, or your house.”
I am thankful for Les, who years ago said that we keep giving ourselves chances to solve the biggest challenges in our lives. That’s what I am faced with now: another chance to solve this challenge.
I cried. God, I cried, tonight about so many things. What I have lost, what I may lose, how I feel about myself, what I long to experience.
When D asked me what I did, years ago, to injure myself (which resulted in a massive weight loss), I told her about when I broke my arm and could not work for 5 months, could not drive for 5 months, did not have working nerves for 8 months. So many of you helped then – Lorene, Melanie, Sherry, Sheri, Dawn. I am still thankful to this day.
I cried thinking about how my exploded bones found their way back to each other. I cried thinking about how every night, when we lay down our bodies, white blood cells are zooming to their targets – healing, healing, healing – a mantra they never abandon.
I think bodies long to be healthy. Spirits long to be whole. Becoming healthy will not be hard if I keep remembering that my body is here to serve me. My body is aching to move through the world with grace.
There are hurricanes and mud slides, fires raging all over the west. There are refugees seeking sanctuary. There are far bigger things for me to weigh in on than my weight. But, to me, right now, I’m in a natural disaster and I need to muster my own Red Cross, I need to cast out my own life boat. I may do some of that here – working it out own the page. Thanks for permitting my indulgence.
Ok – here it is, the link to my collection of poems. I was going to apologize for the price, or about the quality of the poems (any real poet would have a thousand edits including the 4 typos I just caught), but then I decided no. It’s flawed, as am I, and I hope you will find that charming.
You know me – you who have read my Facebook poems, my Lenten poems, my Advent poems. I have given this community a lot and it seems as if this community believes that my writing helps. Something in it strikes a chord.
So, if you have been someone who has been moved or challenged by my writing, please consider buying this book. And, if you feel so called, please share this link with others. I say this not because I want more money (to be transparent, I will earn 6.81 a book), or some vague future fame. I say it because I think there is something in this simple collection that might make a shift, a change, a movement or commitment to light. And damn, when we do that individually, the world itself grows wings.
Thank you, faithful readers, over the years. And thank you, in advance, for buying “Squinting for things I cannot yet see.”
This reminds me of the monologue in “Bull Durham” when Kevin Costner says, (excuse the language if it offends), “Well, I believe in the soul, the cock, the pussy, the small of a woman’s back, the hangin’ curveball, high fiber, good Scotch, that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, over-rated crap. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe there oughta be a constitutional amendment outlawing AstroTurf and the designated hitter. I believe in the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve. And I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days.”
I only believe in one of those things, and it probably isn’t the one you are guessing. The designated hitter rule in the American League still feels like cheating to me even though I have lived in an American League city for 31 years. Roll Tribe.
What matters to me?
Fixing my mistakes, and they are many.
Trying to help kids understand that who they are matters more than what they know.
Sitting in a church a couple times a month, praying to a God I am still bashful around.
Listening to music, finding the perfect song.
Eating food around a table with people I know well. Surrogate families.
Having a person I can be soft and quiet with. Being soft.
Seeing the world and by that I mean, really seeing it. The colors, the sounds, the seasons, the water rippling, the sky changing, the slug and her spots, the stretch marks on the trees.
Trying to find beauty. Trust beauty. Rely on beauty to bring me back around again.
What matters to me is what my camera teaches me. What books shift in me. What shows and movies can reverberate in me. Learning matters to me, ripening.
Speaking up when there is injustice – to anyone – stature does not tend to stop me.
Healing. From what, I am not sure. How? That too evades me. But I try.
Trying to have, seek, and shine light, even though I have darkness in my bones and buried in my brow. Trusting that my belief in goodness, though sometimes naive, stays burning.
Being kind. Opening doors, letting people merge, saying please and thank you.
Trying to make my father and brother proud.
Doing well, being someone others rely on.
Having important conversations.
Telling the truth, even when it hurts or is scary.
The ridges and rocks out west, how they make me feel like I am the right size and that I belong in a world that is grand.
Knowing, perhaps too acutely, that this is my one precious life and I ought not fritter too much of it away. All the while, loving frittering. Feeling easy, calm.
What matters to me?
Had I compiled this list as a senior in high school, I would have used more highfalutin words: I would have fostered a something, or claimed a myriad of something else. I would have said something about striving and goal-setting. I would have made sure I wrote in paragraphs with nice smooth transitions. I would have thought about what the readers would have wanted me to say.
Had I been honest then, I probably would have said that these things matter to me: playing tennis, having a crush on David J. and making it through calculus without letting anyone know how confused I was. I’m pretty sure that would not have gotten me into any college, not even my safety school.
Now, what matters to me are the things that matter to me. They are non-negotiable, and not at all determined by what some else might need to be impressed with. I aim, not narcissistically, to be selfish responsive with what I want to do with my time and energy and my love. Thank God I know what really, really, really matters to me (a take on what Elizabeth Gilbert says). And thank God I have a chance to keep figuring this out as long as I shall be lucky to live.
My Timehop has been flooded with all of the things I did in the summer of 2013, the summer of 2014, the summer of 2015. Seems I have a habit of listing all of the miles I drove, all of the attractions I saw, all of the classes I took at the end of the summer season. I account for it all annually, especially this weekend, the last before the start of school.
Well, comparatively, I did nothing this summer. Two years ago, I took three writing classes in three different states, attended a baptism 500 miles away, then a wedding 500 miles in the opposite direction, relandscaped my garden, and wrote a book.
This summer, I – um – rode my scooter a bit past Beachwood Mall every day and took a water arthritis class with 15 older women. And – ah – I had my bathtub reglazed.
I did see Nadia Bolz- Weber in Pittsburgh. That was cool, if you are a seminary dork like I am. I also attended six billion discernment task force meetings at my church.
I went to a retreat in a small town on the Canadian edge of Lake Erie and rang up $110 of international data use.
I saw an old college friend and reunited with an old Ronald McDonald House friend. Went to Columbus to check on retirement and back and forth to Ann Arbor a few times. I visited Mitchell’s ice cream a few times – the cool one down in University Circle. Saw the wacky conflagration of people at the RNC.
Had a getaway weekend in…ah…the city you always think of when you think of getaways, Detroit. I took two daytrips to Amish country to photograph barns and eat some pizza. The highlight was a day spend scootering through Lancaster, Pennsylvania. But, mostly, I went to the pool and exercised.
Friends at work went to Alaska, Ireland, California, Montreal, Maine, New Mexico – exotic locales – and I went to Beachwood, 3.2 miles away. Sugarcreek. Columbus and Detroit.
My friends filled up their summers with classes and second jobs and family reunions. I sat on my porch and waited for Fiona to come over. I took pictures of her cowboy boots, always on the wrong feet. And I drank lemonade while I watched my grass turn brown.
And yet, there is always an “and yet” this was one of the best summers of my life. I felt relaxed all of the time, every single minute of every single day (except for driving home from Columbus in a torrential 5 hour storm).
I declined invitations when I wanted to. I accepted offers when I felt drawn to the activity. I slept when I needed to sleep. I ate the food that whispered in my ear. I did nothing out of obligation. Nothing.
And so, for the first time in the longest time, I was blissfully, selfishly, immeasurably self-pleasing. And that, I would argue is an adult accomplishment. It may not seem it to all of you who equate adulating with responsibility, but I just looked up the etymology of adult and it springs from “maturitatem” which means ripeness. Or “goodness” and “timeliness.”
This was a summer I needed to regain and anchor myself to happiness, to a sense of calm and goodness that eluded me all of last school year. So I let myself ripen, grow heavy on the vine. I did nothing but to seek and fill myself with goodness.
And it worked. I have not been this happy and steady in a long time.
So thank you, Summer of 16. You were slow, soft, simple. Just what I needed. I look forward to seeing you again next year. June 2nd, 2017 will come round soon enough – I have already marked my calendar.
Describe a problem you’ve solved or a problem you’d like to solve. It can be an intellectual challenge, a research query, an ethical dilemma-anything that is of personal importance, no matter the scale. Explain its significance to you and what steps you took or could be taken to identify a solution.
What I am about to say will cause me to completely lose the respect of my former students and current colleagues, especially my math buddy, Crystal Hayduk, then – crossing fingers – I will earn it back.
When I opened the BC Calculus AP exam on the spring of 1979, I did not recognize a single thing. I did not know what a second derivative was nor a secant line. I always picture taking the exam in the choir room at the high school (with its auditorium seating) and, once I recognized the predicament I was in, I recall sitting for a long time trying to figure out a way out of the room without everyone seeing me.
Sure I had earned a solid B in class, but that came from incrementally understanding what to do with the numbers and symbols facing me on each particular day. I had no idea how it all worked together, and, in all honesty, I don’t think anyone ever explained why I might need to know the area of the shape formed under a curve.
Later that spring when everyone was sharing AP scores, I was reluctant to share mine. I’d say, “Oh, man, that test was hard.” Or, more vaguely, “Glad that’s over.” I never admitted to my result, which was a score of 1.
I think you get a 1 (on the 1-5 scale for those of you who don’t know) by signing your name and making a few marks on the page. I had done that, but nothing more.
So problem: I wasn’t nearly as smart as I was supposed to be, especially after all of those years of good teachers in a great system with throngs of others equally talented.
When selecting freshmen classes at Miami University, the first thing I did was to sign up for an 8 am 5 credit hour calculus class. Monday through Friday, first thing, before most people were even thinking about getting up.
I needed to know if I was as dumb as I felt, and I needed to prove I could do better.
I went every day, sat in the back of the class barely taking notes. I just listened. I tried to see the point and make the connections that had been previously lost on me. I did my some of my homework, but mostly I helped the others on my corridor who were taking calculus for the first time.
I must have gotten it because I had the highest score on every test every time. I broke the curve (a curve whose area I could now measure). I broke it so badly that, at some point, the TA teaching the class decided to drop me off the curve altogether.
One day after class she asked how I knew what I knew especially because I didn’t even seem to need to take notes or hand in homework. I explained what had happened senior year in high school. That I had failed and I needed to know why.
And, that’s pretty much been my modus operandi for all problems. I want to know why and where I went wrong, then I want to fix it. It works for most things: overcooking pork, conquering Google Drive, or repairing friendships.
Other times, that strategy falls flat. Like when you need to make amends to your mother after she has died or want to question hiring practices (especially when you are not the person who has been hired). Then, I find it best to use the completely opposite and equally effective technique: letting it go.
That’s the big point of problem solving, after all, isn’t it? To know and train your response. To build recovery muscles.
There’s no way to live error-free; there is no point in assuming life should or will go smoothly. I needed – when I was very young – to know that I could solve my own way out again, I could always count on me to recalibrate. Except, of course, that year or two or five when I was depressed. Then I needed medicine and a weekly session on the couch.
I have relearned the lesson of self-determination many times. It will get rocky. You will open the day’s docket and it’ll look like goobly gook. You won’t recognize what you are being asked to do and you won’t know how to proceed. Then you will remember that you have the capacity and inclination to figure it out. Instead of needing to know the area under a curve, you will need to know the swerve of the curve – so, you will duck and twist in a new direction and rectify the differential between being lost and certain. It’s a certain kind of calculus, this recovery. The kind of calculus I use every single day.
3. Reflect on a time when you challenged a belief or idea. What prompted you to act? Would you make the same decision again?
This one is easy – you can just ask my current principal.
For some reason, when I was hired for my current job at the very young age of 26, I entered on even ground. My then principal assumed I was a leader, so I lead. My gifted education supervisor assumed I was skilled, so I showed my skills. The assistant superintendent wanted my opinions, so I gave them.
I was treated as an equal by everyone in the institution, as was everyone else. People who did not know each other assumed that every other was good at what he/she did and, when put together, we could solve any problem.
I have worked (and argued) with so many talented people: high school principals, central office administrators, a Harvard professor working with the district, even the superintendent. At one time in my career, I was able to walk into the administration building and be warmly welcomed by everyone even at the highest reaches. About 10-12 years ago, because of the capacity to explain and engage thinking, I was a co-lead in an achievement initiative for the whole district with an adjunct consultant. God, how lucky I have been to have had my talents needed and encouraged, even though I was “just a teacher.”
I know not all teachers have this purview, but I did, and it was incredible. Not because of the informal power that was vested in me, but because of the trust. To have been seen and known and counted on? Well, that’s an ideal professional setting, no matter what the profession.
I especially loved to get in a room with the assistant superintendent to throw down. We would and could debate about nearly everything. When trying to begin a new initiative, we would wrestle with all of the yes-buts and the what-ifs. If I felt strongly about a certain course of action, I would share those feelings (bolstered by reason, of course) and we would maneuver toward or away from the given path to find the best solution. When she needed insight, she would call me. When an established procedure was not working, I would call her. So too with all of the people I worked under. I gave, I took. It was mutual, this grinding. And, I loved it.
One time, the superintendent was thinking about making a big change to an established program, and when he put his idea into the mix on a professional day session he was attended along side the rest of us, I vehemently disagreed and made my opinions clear. I did so assertively, just left of the edge of impropriety. He listened – as did the rest of the room, somewhat shocked by the strength of my tone and argument. He asked more questions. He weighed my input.
It was, despite my accelerated heartbeat, exactly what should happen in a strong institution. Grounded in the belief that we all want to do our very best for our charges and honor the immeasurable trust the community gives us, we should go at it. Disagree until we agree, debate until the waves abate.
And, even now, with my colleagues in my school, I think – I hope – we welcome disagreement. Not the petty kind, of course, but we are willing to wrangle with differences. And doing that? It builds capacity, it cements understanding, it brings out a more resounding quality of thinking.
Now, at the end of my career, that kind of healthy deliberation has become more limited. Maybe it’s because of my age, maybe I have been there too long, maybe because people don’t know about my intellect or don’t jibe with my style. Maybe there has just been a shift in shared decision-making. I’m really not quite sure.
Luke Arthur states that workplace conflict benefits business in five ways: It engages people, gets employees’ attention, improves relationship, morale and ideas. That’s the most important claim: when people trust each other enough to disagree, then the flow of ideas is wider, deeper and stronger. Collectively, the group can refine a good idea to great.
I guess I have always known that instinctively and wish that I could move through the last part of my career with the same fervor I was granted earlier.
At least I have my principal, my favorite debater and co-conspirator. When I drop by for a quick chat, we end up discussing the pluses and minuses of, well, anything, everything really. The rotation of PD days, the use of leadership team time, painting the blacktop. Neither of us would have it any other way. Our relationship is founded on the deep and exercised belief that we can figure it out (it being anything) and, in doing so, we will disagree for the greater good. Sometimes, the conversation walks itself all the way to my car when I am trying to go home. Sometimes, it involves a late night “but maybe” text. I love it, the engagement, this overt display of respect.
So, have I challenged a belief or idea? Yes, every damn day, 185 work days a year. Would I make the same decision? Yes, thank God, always yes, yes, yes. Not because of what I gained but because of my deep held belief that when we fight, we are fighting our way to excellence.
2. The lessons we take from failure can be fundamental to later success. Recount an incident or time when you experienced failure. How did it affect you, and what did you learn from the experience?
Failure. I guess that is what I am having trouble with. The word, itself. What it connotes.
I have lost many things. Countless softball games, tennis matches, golf tournaments, so many swimming races I cannot even attempt to log.
I have not been chosen for many things. I did not get into the yearbook committee in high school. The coach passed me over for the softball team, too. I did not get into my top two colleges. I was not picked for organization at Miami that everyone cool got into – what was it called, MUSF? I did not get to attend a Summer Media Institute in film one summer. I was not selected to be Disney Teacher of the Year, nor was I awarded a few OAC individual artist grants (though I did one, yahoo). I was not placed in a district job I thought I had earned. I was not deemed worthy of being a workshop leader. I wrote a book and got eight healthy rejections.
I have not be successful at recipes, especially those involving pork. I tried to be a great dancer in water aerobics class but lacked a certain necessary rhythm. I tried choosing the just right paint color of my dining room for months until I figured it out.
I lost a kid at the zoo during a field trip.
I passed out when getting stitches removed from my face.
I have tried to stop biting my nails for forty years and could only string together a few weeks without crumbling.
I tried loving a person or two and am just now starting to understand the kind of generosity and acceptance that takes.
I once was so sad that I thought about driving off the side of the road. That lasted for a year or two, but, thankfully, I can’t even remember what that feeling felt like.
But failure? I cannot think of a time I failed.
When I looked up the etymology of the word failure, this is what I got: mid 17th century (originally as failer, in the senses ‘nonoccurrence’ and ‘cessation of supply’): from Anglo-Norman French failer for Old French faillir (see fail).
You see, I have not had nonoccurances. So many things have occurred. Nor have I had a cessation of supply. All of the above occurrences were abundant in supply. Not the kind of huge life lessons an admissions board might be looking for, but, as with all events, the above nudged and shaped me in ways, conscious and unconscious.
I keep playing games. I keep trying out for opportunities. I still trust and lean into love. I count all of the heads when I go on field trips now. Twice, I count them twice.
And, I write.
These “failures” are the semantics of stories. These “failures” are ripe with supply. I do not know who I would be if I could have broken one minute in 100 freestyle. I don’t know who I would have been had Ohio University welcomed me into their film class. I do not know how much gentleness might have been stripped from me had I not known depression. But, why wander down that hypothetical parallel universe anyway? It is what it is, as my friend Kathy tells me.
My job, your job dare I say, is to accept every single thing that put you here. In this place, in your skin, with all of its wrinkles and bruises. Grace is sometimes disguised as failure. So, appreciate each of your days, take it all in – maybe even as gift.
Last year on this day, I heard some bad news and my reaction (healthy as it was) was to start writing again. I did, wholeheartedly, expecting to be “picked up” by Huffington Post or “snatched up” by a small press. Something to affirm my talents.
But that’s not a reason to write. Needing to write is a reason to write. Having good ideas to share with good people is a reason to write. Hence, no picking up, no snatching.
I’d like to say the pain of last year’s rejection has worn off. It hasn’t, especially as people I know have started traveling to IB schools and leading IB workshops. I wish them all well; they are amazing people. It’s just that I am amazing too.
Last night I ran into Brian and his mom at Target. We talked about applying for colleges and eventually wound our way around to University of Chicago’s essay questions and Common App essay prompts. I decided, right then and there near the self check-out, that that’s where I would begin writing again. They say youth is wasted on the young. Well, I think these good writing prompts are wasted on them too. I can’t imagine what my 15 year-old high school junior would say, but I know what I want to tell you as an end-of-career, 54 year old.
This is the first in a series of College App essays. Here is Common Application essay prompt #1:
Some students have a background, identity, interest, or talent that is so meaningful they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story.
I want to tell you about my marble collection. I have a jar in every room of my house, even the bathrooms. Most of them come from an antique store in Berlin, Ohio which, most days, exists as a tourist trap for those wanting to see the Amish. I like being in Amish Country, but it’s not for their food (too bland) or way of living. Honestly, I have been so many times, I have gotten used to the things that charm others: buggies outside of a bulk foods store, black hand-sewn pants, bowl haircuts on little boys, picturesque laundry drying on the line. I go to Amish country for the rolling farms way off the beaten track. The jungle-like impatiens in a thriving garden. The nods I get from the buggy drivers because I pass slowly and carefully. And I go for marbles.
When my first girlfriend and I first went to Amish Country on the weekend before school started, I impulsively bought a jar of antique marbles for an ungodly amount of money. Forty dollars. As soon as we got to the hotel, I rolled them all out onto the white bedcover. “Look,” I said, “at these colors.” These were not like the cheap sparkled marbles you can get at Walmart. They were clearer. The glass seemed more pure. I could almost feel the hands that had held them up to the light.
That was fourteen years ago. Now there are marbles all around me. Most are antiques, but my favorites are from a company in Reno, Ohio, called Jabo. I like them, not because they are rare, but because they remind me of the earth. One batch made me think of Utah – crusty orange, sky blue and sunset gold. One run reminds me of the waters at the head of the Mississippi. Silty brown, green-blue stream color, undergrowth moss.
You might be thinking that I’m an expert in playing marbles. I am not. I think the big ones are called shooters but I have no idea what they are shooting at or why they might be shooting. There is a circle, I think. Made of string?
I collect marbles because each has its own beauty. And you have to look at each carefully, closely. Now, I know you are expecting me to pivot this essay to a metaphor: how I think each person is uniquely wondrous and we must look closely to know and understand each person. That’s what I would have done when I was 15 and I needed a college to like me and like what I have written. I don’t think about metaphors when I am looking at my marbles. I just look at the marbles. The same way that I look at the barns when I drive through Kidron or Walnut Creek. Or the way I look at leaves flipping over before a storm. Or the way I look at kindergarten print with its sloping slant and confident capital letters.
It is enough, sometimes – oft times – to just stop. Look. Appreciate. There is ample time for metaphor, turning one thing into another, connecting like ideas to experiences. There is time, and sometimes not enough time, to tend to your daily living. The rush of grocery carts, online logging in, Netflix and making beds.
And there is time to just be still. Too love colors, shapes. For you, it might be a walk in the Forest Hill Park, seeing fox on the ridge of the trail. For him, it might be a trip to the Packard Museum in Warren, running his hand across the chrome of a 1953 Clipper.
For me, it’s marbles. Untwisting the Ball Jar lid, clinking them onto the floor. Holding them up to the light, to see the way the glass seems swirled. Swirled just for me.
I read yesterday morning that a friend of mine lost her 20 year old son. I don’t know how or when or why, and I never met Robert, but I can’t stop thinking about my friend. How I knew Lindy when she and I were twenty.
Lindy and I learned how to play a little guitar together freshmen year at Miami; we both had a crush on Dan Fogelberg. She brought home some ducklings and we all played with them (on the sly) on the first floor of McBride Hall. We hiked out the Pine Groves a time or two and I think we slept there overnight. She was a sorority sister for a couple semesters. Her little sis was my best pledge class buddy. Lindy was like me just enough to make us friends, and different enough to make me admire her. That’s always the best combination. Similarity with stretch.
And as I followed her on Facebook, she’s become a remarkable woman. A farmer – horses, alpacas, llamas. An incredibly skilled artist in at least two mediums, fiber and photographer. A teacher. A great mother, a great wife.
I have no idea how this must feel. I wish I knew what to do other than to send love.
A few years ago, I took an intro to Buddhism class at River’s Edge. We read and discussed the idea of our one precious life. How knowing death is eminent, no matter how many years away, makes us more acutely focused on living. The blessing of life came radiating through as an idea.
One of my best friends works in hospice and, because of the nature of her work, the blessing of life comes shooting through as reality every single day.
So, today, for Lindy and Robert, I want to give up the false notion that I have time. I have said, for years and years, when I move to the west, when I go on that cross country trip, when I get to Selma and walk the Edmund Pettus Bridge, when I save enough money, when I __________________. I could fill that blank with a hundred other phrases.
When the security of my job does not matter, I will speak to _________________. When I feel better, I will ___________________.
I have gotten better about wasting time over the years, having lost the kind of anger that makes no sense: the kind driven by gossip, by other people’s business, by the addition of a task or demand I did not anticipate. I will not waste energy or fuel disdain over such small inconveniences like I see so manner other doing. I’m trying to work from a stance of acceptance. I was never born to be a radical. My bravery – when activated – is small, slow and steady.
This notion about not wasting time does not mean that I’m about to get in my car and zoom down to Alabama to check something off my bucket list. It is snowy, very cold, and I am fairly sure that I will lay on the couch and cozy up in a good blanket to watch the end of the democratic debate. And, maybe, if the snow slows, I will do what I normally do: go to a movie, eat some popcorn and a big jug of diet coke.
But maybe I can realize the blessings in even these simple things. The fact that I live in a country where a woman, a socialist, a billionaire, a second generation immigrant can run for the most powerful position in the world. And I will be thankful for the “Life is good” blanket my brother gave me. And for my brother, who I will call because we do not speak together enough. And I will listen to music, music I love, including Dan Fogelberg. And I will think about Lindy, my eyes welling, and I will give thanks for this woman – who, while not a huge part of my life – surely formed who I am. And my tight little heart will break for hers which is now cracked wide open.
And if I go to that movie, I will look the clerk in the eyes and smile when I greet him – the one that looks like Ashton Kutcher, who is about twenty – and I will wish him a good day. What else do we have to give each other than kindness? What else can we do but to be gracious, drop by drop, in this short wondrous time we call our life?
I must give up nonchalance and be more alert, even the tiniest bit, trying to remember that this is temporary – all of it — and we are lucky just to be here.