with fashion as with breakfast cereal

I finally did laundry, three weeks after moving in with my brother and sister-in-law. I finally had choices for my school wardrobe. And what, pray tell, did I choose? Baby blue pants, a carnation pink tank top, and a puce sweater on top. Puce. I thought it looked fine in the half-dark before I got in my car that morning, but after I'd taught all my classes, I finally got a chance to use the restroom, and I caught a glimpse of the whole outfit. In roughly five seconds, I had a headache. Pink and puce -- don't let the alliteration fool you. Terrible, terrible idea. Kids were staring at me oddly all day. And here I thought perhaps it was my boobs. Not so much. 

My brother, after a well-warranted chuckle, explained to me the following principle of fashion. Though it may come from an unlikely source, I think I shall take his wisdom to heart.

• With Lucky Charms, it takes some amount of concentration to eat all the gross oatmealy pieces first, leaving all the delectable marshmallows to cling to the spoon at the end. Good idea.
• With clothing, this does not work. Do not throw all the oatmealy pieces in one outfit.
  

my parents on the beach at sunrise, April 2008

Why so many forms? Why not just that one hydrogen atom? The creator goes off on one wild, specific tangent after another, or millions simultaneously, with an exuberance that would seem unwarranted, and with an abandoned energy sprung from an unfathomable font. What is going on here? ... freedom is the world's water and weather, the world's nourishment freely given; its soil and sap: and the creator loves pizzazz.

- Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

walking

I've tried to take a walk (or super-short jog which probably looks to the naked eye like an awkward walk anyway) about everyday since the weather has warmed, and the daily progression of blossoms has not escaped my notice.

On a street perpendicular to mine, I've trained my eye on a few trees that sport small blood-red buds. I'm so curious what and when they'll pop forth. I mean, there's a relatively narrow range of possibilities, I suppose -- small white flowers, small pink flowers, etc. Still, it's a mystery, and I like surprises.

My favorite trees at the moment are, I think, tulip trees. There are four or five on the walk I took the other night, and as I walked beneath their pink and white elegance, long petals dropped around my feet. I picked up three perfect petals to make up for the dozens I crushed underfoot, and held them up to my face.

They felt less like rose petals and more like taut, springy plastic.

I smelled them. They smelt of hot dogs, with the faintest hint of old lady perfume.

And here you have the tension in which I live: the poetry v. the curiously prosaic reality

breathless enthusiasm on the same old seasonal drivel

Spring makes me so frantically happy! I find lots of excuses to walk places, like to church this morning, and to the coffee shop this afternoon, and I bounce all the way, smiling madly. I find a singularly lovely tree and I stop beneath it, neck craned, swirling myself around to get at all the angles, to get inside the shy new green.

I saw a cardinal today, for a flash of a second, and then he vanished. 

I told my sister-in-law last night, as we walked home from the video store, that I think spring is like an annual low-grade dose of falling in love. 

There's probably nothing new to say on either subject in any language, but I'll take this hackneyed breathless foolishness any day.

analogies

Some time ago, a student gave me a list of the most beautiful metaphors and analogies, supposedly printed from an article by Norm Rozinsk's of Northbay Biz Magazine. I can track down neither Mr. Rozinski's credentials nor the original article, so this may, in fact, be purely manufactured. That said, genuine or otherwise, these analogies, allegedly drawn by high school students in their essays, brought tears of mirth to my eyes. Here are some of my favorites:

1. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.

2. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.

3. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

4. He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant, and she was the East River.

5. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

6. He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree.

7. They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.


And my all-time favorite:
8. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds that had also never met.

before spring break

I'm not always wholly certain why I write here. Blogging is almost a sort of pressure valve for my creative juices, and letting out something is better than nothing, I guess, unless the nature of that something is inferior to what it might build to if left to grow and ferment in stillness and silence. Lately, I've let many things stir in silence, and have resisted the urge to 1) reach outside what is real and urgent and write about the irrelevant, and 2) throw precious things into the cybervoid, to everyone and no one particular. I think, on the whole, my decision has been for the best.

But today I think maybe I want to share anyway. Fermentation will not sweeten or deepen this thought. It's too ephemeral.

Today was the last school day before spring break, and I am even now sitting at my desk in front of rows of empty chairs, watching out my window as teachers drive away, into whatever life it is teachers can realistically have outside of school.

To my students' chagrin, today I gave tests to three out of four periods, and as I sat on a wooden stool at the front of the room, scanning the room as they stared at the tests, I almost couldn't stand the sight of their long eyelashes and new shoes and clumsy, stained mechanic's hands and holey shirts. It was all too beautiful and sacred. I had to look away.

Sometimes when I stand in front of them and look into their eyes, my breath catches. Sometimes the big blue eyes are so naive, so sweet, and sometimes other eyes seem older than mine, challenging, very very awake. In the presence of such strong, old souls and such open, vulnerable ones, I feel... unworthy. I cannot find my way around the strange transactional nature of education, this two-directional teaching and learning. There are moments when I feel sure that I am not the wisest in the room.

On days like today, I feel that I am sharing this space, not with students, but with eternal things. The merely human in me senses the presence of the divine in them, and I tremble a bit.