"where is my mind?"

I just wrote a comment on a student's paper.
I asked him if he'd run out of time or if he was confused about a concept.
Except I spelled it "thyme."

This type of error takes a special sort of stupor.

"your flowers will grow without you"

I work on Sundays. I know that strict biblical constructionists will censure me for this, and I suppose that's a thing I'm willing to accept. The problem of keeping Sundays holy is one of pragmatism: I cannot possibly get all my work done in five days, and I cannot maintain my sanity (nor any sort of efficiency) if I work on Saturday.

So I've worked most of this day, most of it at a coffee cafe, and a bit more of it at a soup cafe, and then the rest of it slouching on my newly made bed. And I'm not done. Not even close. But I'm calling it good for tonight.

I just got off the phone with Chelsea Meyers, the woman who took over my position at Whitko. Before I turned in my keys this July, I left her a note with as much information as I could about technology and professional hierarchy and newspapery troubleshooting. Why reinvent the proverbial wheel, right? I told her to email if ever she had questions. And she has. Several times. Questions on computer programs, questions on classroom motivation and management. Today, for the first time, she called me to clarify a few things.

 I think I was able to help her on the critical issue of photo resizing in InDesign, though I'm certain that she would have eventually figured it out on her own. She told me about the ten or so students who are still involved in the newspaper, some of whom I expected, though some of the diligent journalists of last year have opted not to continue with the paper. I cannot help but feel a twinge of guilt and pain at this. I cannot help but blame myself some. But things continue. Chelsea is exhausted, as all first year teachers are, but she's working out kinks. She is, most importantly, still publishing the paper. I had so worried -- selfishly -- that all my work would be for naught, and less selfishly, that the students' work would be so. 

It was a nice conversation. Pleasant.

And as I mopped our wood floors with Murphy's Oil, I listened to The Lovely Sparrows on my ipod, and I heard the following lyrics from their album Pulling Up Floors, Pouring on (New) Paint:

"Please don't take this the wrong way --

You're just a ghost with a body...

And your flowers will grow without you,

Your flowers will grow without you."

And it's true, you know? Such a sweet delusion it is, that we're irreplaceable. Paradoxically, we are very much and not at all. 

I love Frederick Buechner's words:

Humanity is like a giant spiderweb. If you touch it anywhere, you set the whole thing trembling. As we move around this world as we act with kindness, perhaps, or with indifference, or with hostility, toward the people we meet, we too are setting the great spider web a-tremble. The life that I touch for good or ill will touch another life, and that in turn another, until who knows where the trembling stops or in what far place and time my touch will be felt. Our lives are linked. No man is an island.

I vacillate between understanding my life as a fable of community and one of the solitary nomad, and perhaps my life as all others is neither and both. Dichotomies always break somewhere. Yet, if I were to choose, I do begin to feel that I'm more of the latter than the former. Though my arms and my thoughts yearn to be held, though I long to pour out of myself as an intellect and as a woman, does not each one enter and exit the world and walk around in it alone?

The lyrics of the song in some way accused me of self-importance and absolved me of some measure of guilt. I left Whitko because of a choice, not a moral imperative. Don't ascribe to me some sort of disinterested benevolence. But, to consciously mix metaphors, though I have and do set webs a-tremble, I also know that flowers bloom without my presence. They did in Japan. They did in Huntington. They do in South Whitley. And I know that in the end, we each of us must walk our own winding paths with whatever measure of grace we can muster - my students as well as me.

life in my life

I could tell you how many hours I've spent at school or preparing for it this week.

I could tell you how many students I've worked with individually after school and before school.

I could tell you about every relationship with a student that I've tried to cultivate this week.

But I want neither applause nor pity.

I could tell you how my sophomores nearly staged a coup this week when I didn't give them enough support for a writing assignment,

but I'd rather tell you about how the tide turned and we found a better space.

I could tell you how I nearly cried in Whole Foods Monday when I smelled the produce and realized there was no time for cooking,

but I'd rather tell you how my kind roommate washed my sheets for me and my coworkers buoyed me up with kind words.

Sometimes, for a day or two, I'd like to trade in my life for one that is slower, one in which I might bake more bread and write more poetry. Yet there is a hard-won polishing that comes from pushing the self to give more. I've never worked this hard. Never have I spilled myself out so wholly as I do now.

where I work

two dreams

Two nights ago I slept fitfully. I could partially blame this on the lovely black tea I drank late in the evening, but really, I think it was rooted in something else.

I dreamt that on the first day of school I was in charge of teaching fifth graders in the morning, a thing I'd not prepared for at all. I walked into the classroom completely clueless about how to use our time on day one. I found Meg, one of my real-life coworkers and asked her what I was supposed to teach the kids about World Lit. She looked at me with a flash of dismay, as in You didn't prepare for the first day of school?!? Then she gave me some sort of useful tip on how to decipher the textbook which I subsequently couldn't locate. I got back to the classroom and began getting some behavior problems from students, one girl in particular. Eventually, I had to pull her out of the classroom and march her down to the principal's office, stupidly leaving the rest of the class completely unsupervised. When I got back to the room I was surprised to find myself in the back of Bad Behavior Girl's father's SUV, listening in on a phone call between him and my principal. He was demanding my removal from the school. And who could blame him? What parent wants their child taught by an incompetent.

In contrast, one of my favorite dreams ever was one I had several years ago. In it, I was wandering around a Roman bath house. The place was dark and frightening. All the open spaces concealed something undefined but sinister. I stood against a wall, trying to be small, invisible. And then, this man found me, a man I cared for deeply. He stood in front of me, his face toward me and his back to the open spaces. He never touched me. Never said anything. He just stood there, with his back to the open spaces. I can't remember ever feeling so safe. I woke up weeping.

I suppose right now, on the brink of a new and challenging school year, I feel small and vulnerable again. I sometimes wish I didn't stand alone in it.

dahlia

"When you have only two pennies left in the world, buy a loaf of bread with one, and a lily with the other."

- Chinese proverb

with the curl

Haircuts can be traumatic when your hair is curly.

In Japan, I nearly drove a stylist to tears. Other stylists were consoling her because nobody wanted to touch my head. Fortunately, teaching has provoked me to grow some thick skin. Rather than be offended, I mostly felt sorry for the poor thing.

In the US, despite the general prevalence of curly folk, shockingly few people cut such hair well.

Last night I caved. I got my hair cut and highlighted by someone who had been trained to cut with the curl rather than try to brush and yank and blowdry it into something that looked sensible. She actually said cutting my hair was fun! Fun! A word that has NEVER been applied to my head.

I gave her a solid tip.

sweet home

I listen to the distant rush of wind across the mouth of the chimney, and I trace the staccato rhythm of light as it skips across the carpet. My sister strums a guitar in her bedroom upstairs, starts and stops in the refreshingly frank way of those unashamed of the learning curve.

My eyes drink in. My eyes well up. The rich wood, the textures of fabric, the contours of familiar faces.

A new sound: a tiny antique clock marks the seconds, grabs them and proceeds.

Last night my sisters flitted off to youth group and my father to a prayer meeting while my mother and I occupied opposite couches and observed the waning light. We spoke of movies, child development, education, my grandfather's cancer. She asked about men. The sky above the church blushed but we did not. There were pauses. I grabbed a book and she a newspaper. The seconds ticked on. We talked about going out but didn't. My father joined us. We drank coffee. We yawned. We just sat. For a long, long time. Until the sky was utterly black and a chill had fallen.

Since I've last come home, my parents have replaced the kitchen's dusty blue paint with a warm muted yellow. Below the chair rail are vertical white stripes that transition to a picket fence in the hallway. Over Christmas, I am to paint vines here, but for now the white picket fence stands without irony, marking the idyll.

the final countdown

Exactly two weeks from today, classes will begin. I still have a long checklist of things I want or need to accomplish in order to feel prepared, but I've made my paper countdown chain to prepare my emotional self.

Here's my countdown chain:


And below is my chart of my emotional journey over the last month, (expressed in convenient pie charts!) The process of acclimation and curriculum design has been overwhelming at times, but on the whole, I now feel like I'm at a good place.

the downside

Leaving school today, I stopped in at the Angora Cafe across the street for a smoothie. As I sipped and read, I also noted the ominous darkening sky. I thought perhaps I would be wise to catch the train home soon before the heavens opened up.

It seems I had this thought about fifteen minutes too late. Standing at the Babcock Street stop, I had just a few seconds before I felt small dots of moisture. Then the drops became more frequent and larger... like speedy little peas. And then they were furious little apricots. Apricots of water dropping on my head, down my neck, puddling about my toes.

By the time the train arrived, my teeth were chattering and my gray dress was plastered against my body. Half the papers in my bag were soaked, and black rivulets of mascara traced all the way down my face.

I was a sight. I walked in the door of my apartment, ripped off my clothes, and took a nap. For four hours.

So although I'm happy to be eco-friendly and have noticed better muscle definition in my calves from all the walking I've done, today I would have welcomed a car.

"you can surely try to be more alive"

On the same block as my school, a mere twenty minute walk from my apartment, Mates of State played last night.

Their opening band was interesting. Judgement Day is an instrumental San Francisco-based band comprised of a violinist, a cellist, and a drummer. Think of a cross-pollination between Y0-Yo-Ma and Korn. Somebody's orchestra teachers would be proud. I've never heard such angry strings. They were.... exhillarating. I sort of loved it.

And there's little more romantic in the world than a husband-wife band. Kori Gardner and Jason Hammel were brilliant. Shocker. I'm glad I went.

(Sorry for the low-res pictures. It was either that or try to use my flash, and I'll resist false lighting until the bitter end, even if my ISO is pushed to extremities.)

I'm so dizzy, my head is spinning. Like a whirlpool, it never ends.

I feel like I should apologize for failing to write here, but I think I won't. Because, in the end, I'm living a lot and writing only a little. I'm planning and dreaming and scheming and baking and carousing... okay, not carousing.

But my brain really is spinning all over the place, thinking about the place of narrative in history and how to find entry points on some of the more abstruse elements of curriculum. I've been considering what I want this chapter of my life to look like, how I want to order it, where I want to place emphasis.

Some things that I've experienced lately:

1. Revere Beach Sand-sculpting contest
2. Lauren and Jim Shaw's home in Woodstock Vermont - a veritable Stars' Hollow! Lauren and I attended the self-named "World's Greatest Book Sale" at the Unitarian Church. The sale also featured a table of "ethnic foods" -- hot dogs, chili (Mexico?), quiche, and gazpacho. Also, a minstrel. Later, we went to a Shakespearean performance at the town hall/movie theater. Lauren tells me that on Thursdays they might have a zoning committee meeting, and then on Friday the entire town turns out to see a showing of Wall-E. Moreover, the entire town is blanketed with flowers. It's completely surreal. I'm so going back, particularly for the Wassail Festival in December. Here is a completely typical house and lawn:
3. AP US History conference - Though I won't be teaching AP, I'll be preparing my students for it. I learned a lot about the skills the students will need, but also what it feels like to be in a classroom listening to lecture. I must never forget this feeling. It's probably good to take one class every year, if only for this reason.
4. Taught myself to make baguettes - So easy! Only four ingredients! Time-consuming, but simple. Here's the recipe I used.
5. Walden Pond - I chaperoned a freshman field trip to Concord where we saw the actual Walden Pond, a reconstruction of Thoreau's house (tiny!) and a statue of Thoreau himself (also tiny!)
6. Welcome dinner for the MATCH Corps - The MATCH Corps are the recent graduates who will be living at the school and tutoring the students all year. There were 648 applicants for less than 60 openings. Thus, the ones who got the spots are really impressive. Their average SAT scores are in the 1400-1500 pt. range (in the old 1600-max system). Smart cookies. And speaking of cookies, we ate them. We also ate some of the best lasagna I've ever tasted. I even got to help cook the fancy-schmancy lasagna! What fun!

Yesterday, I signed up for a free trial at what my roommates affectionately term "the fancy-pants gym."

So today, before I left for my AP conference, I packed a gym bag.




Yes. The thought is funny to me, too.

I highly recommend this book:




Also, I am growing increasingly excited about the coming school year. Ninth grade non-fiction is going to be superb! So much fun to teach! And though tenth grade US History is less organized at present, it's shaping up in some fairly compelling ways as well. This week, I'm being sent to an AP US History conference on behalf of MATCH. (And yes, I routinely pinch myself and wonder how it is I'm living this life!)

doors of opportunity

Today, for the ninety or so lucky freshmen whose names were drawn at random from a much, much larger pool, the month-long summer academy begins. While their peers are watching TV and swimming and flirting, these kids will be doing fun-filled academic activities like math tutorials. Some of them, I learned today, may even commute nearly two hours each way to get here.

Students at MATCH have to dress the part. They wear khakis with white collared shirts or official MATCH tees, or, if they like, they can sport a shirt with a college logo on it. In the sea of white shirts, one lone red Harvard tee stood out, symbolic of the courage and hope each kid must nurture to get through these doors, hinting at the hope that these doors will nudge others open.

I watched these students as they tried to focus on their work, eyes shyly darting around the room sizing up possible friends. All so nervous. And I thought about how much each kid must commit -- not just 8-5, two hours more than their peers. Sometimes they're looking at staying until nearly 8pm, and then commuting home. Students admitted that staying in school can be tough, what with the strict discipline and high standards and financial and social pressures from home and friends. But they also said they dreamed of owning their own businesses, becoming doctors, lawyers, architects, forensics specialists, and teachers.

I know nothing of this level of commitment. Nothing. Together the students read and analyzed an excerpt from a speech by Martin Luther King, Jr. My eyes could not help but well up as they read these words:

And I say to you, my young friends, doors are opening to you--doors of opportunities that were not open to your mothers and your fathers — and the great challenge facing you is to be ready to face these doors as they open...

This hasn't always been true — but it will become increasingly true, and so I would urge you to study hard, to burn the midnight oil; I would say to you, don't drop out of school. I understand all the sociological reasons, but I urge you that in spite of your economic plight, in spite of the situation that you're forced to live in — stay in school.

And when you discover what you will be in your life, set out to do it as if God Almighty called you at this particular moment in history to do it. Don't just set out to do a good job. Set out to do such a good job that the living, the dead or the unborn couldn't do it any better.

- Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. "What is Your Life's Blueprint?" to a group of students at Barratt Junior High School in Philadelphia, October 1967

the comparatively minor molasses fiasco of 2008

Once upon a time, there was an intrepid girl. She got up early on Sunday to check out one of several churches she'd earmarked in her Newcomer's Handbook for Boston. While waiting for the trolley, she bought a beverage at the convenience store.

Alas, alack, there was a five dollar minimum for using a debit card. So, visions of bran muffins dancing in her head, she bought a jar of molasses to raise her total. No, no, I don't need a bag, this would-be eco-friendly girl informs the clerk.

(You see where I'm going with this, don't you. Sadly, intrepid girl does not.)

She disembarks the trolley, follows the map from the church's website, and notes the site of a lovely coffee shop. I shall stop at this charming establishment on my way back, she thinks.

When she finds the church, she is pleasantly surprised by two or three youngish women who greet her enthusiastically. They chit-chat and shake hands, and then find their way to some seats. It's nice to have someone to sit with, the girl muses.

Then she happens to brush her dress with her hand. How odd! I could have sworn this was a clean dress, but it seems strangely sticky.

I know, dear reader that at this point you've ascertained the direction of our lamentable tale, but our heroine is yet unaware.

Sometime during the middle of the worship set, she reaches down into the yellow cloth bag she's comandeered from her roommate until her own purses arrive. Her hands come out covered with brown goo. She looks at the bottom of the bag. There is a pool of molasses. At least a cup's worth. She is in church, she remembers, so she contents herself with whispering Drat! under her breath.

During greeting time, she warns all prospective hand-shakers that her hands are covered in molasses. They look at her quizzically, but don't ask. Undaunted, they shake her hands anyway. Hopelessly embarrassed, she doesn't explain.

After church, she lifts her bag. A foot-wide circle adheres it to the floor. Despite being invited to stay for a church picnic, she wants out of that place. So she finds the bathroom and methodically removes every last item: cell phone, ipod, brand new greeting cards (ruined), camera lens (fortunately unharmed), book, wallet, various receipts and writing implements. The earbuds are shot, as are the greeting cards, but nearly everything else cleans up painlessly. Then the girl rinses and re-rinses the bag as women and children filed past, clearly wanting to inquire but opting instead to wash their hands silently.

Except for one lady who regales intrepid molasses girl with the alarmingly true story of the Great Molasses Flood of 1919.

She learns that in 1919, a tank containing more than two million gallons of molasses exploded in Boston's North End, flowing through the streets at roughly 35 mph. I wonder who stood there and clocked it, she wonders to herself. Twenty-one people died and 150 were injured. She cannot help but wonder how the obituaries were composed.

But in the end, as she treks back to the trolley station with her wet, earthy-scented bag, she feels connected to Boston in a whole new way.

first days

Day one was a bit rough. I was tired, emotionally overwrought, and dehydrated. But I took my mother's advice and slept it off, and days two and three have been infinitely better.

This is my school, the nexus of my universe after July 21. I believe it is roughly a twenty minute walk from my apartment. Yesterday I put on comfy shoes and hiked all up and down this road, checking out furniture stores and restaurants and supermarkets and bicycle shops.


Today I decided to broaden my exploration. I took the "T" (Boston's subway system) about thirty minutes to the public library. My geekiness paid off, though, when two sixty-year old Italian men stopped me inside to tell me first in Italian, and then in English "You're gah-geous!" And as I walked away, one said to his friend very loudly, "Now that was a woman! Did you see that woman?" Ha! Inappropriate, probably. Flattering, absolutely.

Anyway, I successfully got myself from the library to a stationer a few blocks away, and then popped in a few tantalizing but pricey stores (Anthropologie, Crate & Barrel) before the blisters on my feet became prohibitive. Here I am at the T station, waiting to return home. And yes, my eyes always have circles under them, even when I'm well-rested.

And later, I met Susan Bensen for dinner. We went to this tiny little sushi bar called Snappy Sushi. It had few but fabulous vegetarian options including portobello mushroom sushi with basil and red peppers. Yum! And all their sushi is made with brown rice - a first for me! I finished off the evening with the chocolatiest chocolate ice cream I've had in my life. On the whole, it's been a splendid day.

Soon I'll give you pics of my roommates Eva and Nikkii (delightful women), and of my room (beautiful in essentials, but sorely lacking furniture),

Wish me luck! Tomorrow the great and terrible church hunt begins. I deplore this process.

in transit

My nail polish is a garish red, and it's chipped around the edges so that each little nail looks like the bloody inside of a shark's mouth. As the day wears on, the white teeth close tighter. This is what I'm thinking about as I sit at my gate in the Detroit Airport, waiting to fly to Boston.

A silly fixation, but today it seems sinister.

New Cities, take two

My mind has been a tumult for weeks. And now, finally, I feel prepared to address it.

The aforementioned cities to which I submitted my resume were: Chicago, D.C., and Boston. The aforementioned ennui emanated from the fact that none of the schools I contacted seemed in any way interested in me.

And then one contacted me-- MATCH Charter High School in Boston. It's a fantastic school, one that's employing some innovative strategies to close the achievement gap. The school boasts some impressive results, taking students who often arrive well below grade-level and moving them to a point where they can not merely enter, but succeed, in a four-year college. 

Frankly, I'm dumbfounded that such a school even pulled my resume from their probable stack, and more so that I slid through the interviews with the Executive Director and Principal. Last weekend I flew to Boston and taught a sample lesson to twenty students on a Saturday, and just yesterday they offered me the job.

I've agonized over this choice, not because I don't love this possibility; I do. I've struggled because I picture the faces of all the students I've loved this year, because I replay all the conversations I had this May in which kids told me how much they were looking forward to being in my class again or starting a film club or writing for the newspaper. So when I told my principal and English department today that I was not going to come back this fall, I barely held it together. And when they told me goodbye, I ached. I came home, plopped on the couch and sobbed for a good hour.

But I've decided, and though my heart grieves for all that I'm leaving behind, I'm resolute. Come this fall, I'll be teaching sophomore history at MATCH. 

deconstructing the headlines

Look at this headline. I just saw it on CNN's homepage moments ago. Answer, if you will, the following questions:

1. Who committed the crime? Based on the headline, do we know anything about this person's gender? Political affiliation? Motive? Age? Whether he/she represented a group or was simply a psychopathic individual?

2. Who is the victim here? Is the emphasis in the lead/headline placed on her nationality or her humanity? Is she treated as the representative of a group, or as an individual human?

3. If you were to make conclusions based on this headline, which would be the most "Iraqi": the perpetrator or the victim? Would we conclude that most Iraqis are more like the perpetrator or the victim, based exclusively on the rhetoric of this headline?

4. Do you see any connection with this type of labeling and the fact that I have students refer to all persons from the Middle East as "towel heads" and "terrorists"?

5. Why, of all the things going on in the world, is this the primary headline on CNN? Let it never be said that the news is ideologically neutral.

"like a fragile lover"

Yesterday, I heard an interview on NPR with Dan Gottlieb, a psychologist/author who also happens to be a quadriplegic. His health is failing him, and he clearly believes that the end is imminent. Regarding his body, he said:

"I treat my body like a fragile lover that I adore."

This wise man, though he has every reason to rage at his body, treats his body with compassion, as a "fragile lover."



I have a body that works, though it is not everything I wish it could be. I have none of his difficulty, and none of his wisdom. I cannot think what it would mean to be kind to my body in this way...

I would certainly not put it down for its stubby toenails or hundreds of moles.
I would kiss each imperfection gently, silently thanking God for each uniqueness.

I would not force it to eat too much chocolate or drink too much wine to quiet the tumult in my mind.
I would hug it fiercely around the ribs, being present with the fear or pain until it subsided.

I would not demand that it sit quietly in the room while I serve my job well into the evening.
I would listen to its shyly expressed wish for movement, and I would speak courage when it quailed at its lack of skill.



What patterns would you have to change if you were to treat your body as a "fragile lover"?

Re: new cities

All in due time, guys. I'll reveal all. For now, because there's always the outside chance someone from school could read this, I'll keep everything under wraps.

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.

magic blanket

When I was a little girl, my parents always made us take a Sunday afternoon nap. I hated forced naps. Now I really wish someone could override my responsibilities and make me nap. How lovely!

The only thing that made nap time passably fun was the Magic Blanket. My father's aunt had given my parents a quilt as a wedding present, a quilt with brilliantly colored silk squares and a faux fur backing.

My siblings and I would argue over who got to sleep under the Magic Blanket every Sunday. I remember laying beneath that heavy rug of a thing, running my fingertips over the silky top, staring at the dry-walled ceiling. I would try to keep my tongue still, neither touching the roof of my mouth nor the bottom of it. I would hold every fiber of my being immobile, trying to calm my mind enough to sleep. I would concentrate on the feeling of the fur on my bare legs, the silk beneath my fingers.

Aladdin himself never had it better.

Why yes... yes, it is.

All my furniture is moved out. I now basically live with a futon mattress, a yoga mat, and a computer. Oddly, my apartment feels less stressful to me.

With the magnetic poetry on my desk at school, some students recently wrote this:

story I heard today

My friend Mandi is getting married in April. Today at her bridal shower, I sat across from her future mother-in-law. She told me this story:



When Tom's Mom (TM, we'll say) was in 10th grade, she had to move from her childhood home in Minnesota to California. Her best friend, Carol, was loathe to see her go, and the two promised that whatever happened, they would be each other's maids of honor whenever matrimony should find them.

Shortly after high school, TM was planning on getting married, and could not get ahold of Carol. She asked a California friend to take her place, but dear Renee (probably not her name as I can't remember such things) said that if Carol showed up, even the day before the wedding, Carol should be the maid of honor.

Oddly enough, a week and a half before TM's wedding, who should call but Carol? Carol was staying in Sacramento with her aunt. TM asked if Carol would come, and Carol did so, delighted to fulfill her old promise.

Fast forward eight years and Carol was living in Chicago. Carol called one day, shortly after TM had had her second child and had bought a new house. Carol said she was getting married and would TM be willing to fly out in April to be her matron of honor? TM was sad to say that money was too tight and the baby was too young. April wouldn't be possible. Carol hung up and called back half an hour later. What about August? Carol moved back her wedding, and TM kept her promise.

Don't you think that's an extraordinary story? They just don't make friendships like that anymore.

ways in which I wish my life resembled the Gilmore Girls

1. Endless variety of worthless movie/TV marathons.

2. The most ridiculous junk food diet, and yet neither Lorelai is ever apparently sick, sluggish, or fat.

3. Love interests around every corner, and only a few of them profoundly annoying (read here: Jason Stiles).

4. Coffee. All day every day.

5. Lots of parades and town events, some of which include lots of small children walking around in apple costumes.

6. Everyone Rory knows is well-read.

7. Sukie St. James. I want to be her friend very much.

Obama

Two nights ago I had a dream that Barack Obama was hanging out with my family at our old church in Pennsylvania (which was really the central office building for a group of Mennonites). Anyway, we had a nice old talk before he had to jet off to another speech somewhere, and I remember telling him that I sure hoped he would be able to find some time to take a vacation after these Texas and Ohio votes were done. He seemed to think that was a good idea.

Apparently, my subconscious seemed to be less worried about the fatigue levels of Clinton and McCain.

anime

A few weeks ago, at students' behest, I showed the movie Tonari no Totoro (My Neighbor Totoro) after school in my room.

They wanted to do it again, this week with The Cat Returns. I made a school announcement that I would be showing the film and "anyone who enjoys anime should plan to come."

The school secretary, who was reading the morning announcements, had never seen the word "anime" before and, after an awkward pause, eventually just skipped to the next word. She and the other secretaries, I heard later, decided they would look it up the definition for a "nime".

They found... a number between eight and ten.

email is so last year

It is a much better idea to use The Bureau of Communications.

There are templates for all sorts of occasions, from accusation to romantic revelation to thank you notes. You just fill in your preferred answers and email them to your pals and enemies. I particularly enjoyed this somewhat specific gem, pictured below. (I feel I should not like the Internet as much as I do.)


P.S. I found this on How About Orange.

raisins may be inferior, but a cookie remains a cookie

Students hit me up for fundraising all the time.

Last week I got a box of pre-portioned cookie dough. I decided to buy Oatmeal Raisin because it's:
1)healthier than chocolate chip
2)less likely to be eaten raw, big wads at a time



I'm not sure about #1, but I think you should know that #2 is flat out untrue.

re: Tianenmen Square

Yesterday, a student told me he wanted to become a dictator over stupid people, like the Chinese.

Me: Chinese people aren't stupid.
Boy: Yes they are. Why else would they stand in front of tanks?


What I wanted to say and didn't: I have no words in the face of this kind of ignorance.

What I wish I'd thought to say: May you possess that level of moral courage at any moment in your life.

Last night I went to a yoga class for the first time in a long while, and we worked on relaxing the tension in our necks, backs, and shoulders.

I've felt like crying all day.

I'm not sure these things are connected, but nor am I sure they're not.

Two films

This weekend, I went to see two films, both of which I recommend. I loved, loved Persepolis, and The Savages was indeed a "serious comedy."

Persepolis:

The Savages:

7515 Apartment 3-D

Dear Apartment 3-D,

People have always laughed a little when I tell them where I live, like you're an IMAX theater, but I'm fiercely serious about you. 3-D, you're no joke to me, like you are my ugly child and I refuse to acknowledge the fact that your ears stick out.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should say that I leapt into you impulsively like some do with matrimony. In a giddy rush, I signed that lease, picturing so many things -- you and me and my sister, you and me and my boyfriend. I didn't picture just you and me, frankly. I didn't anticipate so much quality time, but I think this was my fault entirely. I guess part of my hurry to enter into a contract with you was to get away from somewhere else, and nobody could reasonably hold you culpable. I sure don't.

I've taken you for granted, 3-D, you and your appliances. I've known that I could count on the ease of your lightning-quick dishwasher, so I've let my messes pile high. I've strewn my grading and my dirty clothes all around. I'm sorry. Sort of. Maybe that's just part and parcel of what it means to live with me, mister.

But I've also loved you wantonly. In an April flurry, I blasted your walls with my orange and yellow enthusiasm, and I festooned you with tree roots and a prayer garden. I hung a bird feeder and ribbons with wishes. And I've always been wholly enamored by your fireplace. I've roasted my toes and my back dozens of times, and I would happily reside in your warm glow all day long if teeth didn't need brushed and students didn't need taught. I've spent hours outside on your soft lawn, my blanket and I basking in pretty words and in quiet. We've had some good times. It was never meant to be a forever thing with us, and I think we both knew that, but we've gotten used to each other and I'll be a little sad to see you go.

Our days are numbered, 3-D. Perhaps in light of this new knowledge, I see you more fondly. In my literature classes, I teach students about round and flat characters, the former with complexities and nuances, and the latter without. Well, to me, 3-D, you've always been a delightfully round character. Three-dimensional all the way.

Let's make the most of our last days, and let's part on good terms. Okay?

Sincerely,

Erinn

holding jesus hostage

I saw this video on Dooce, and it's just so outlandish that I almost can't believe it was on an actual news program. I'm proud to hail from West Michigan. (Thanks for noticing that, Julie!)

anything + "loins" = hilarity

For part of their Romeo & Juliet exam, students were supposed to memorize a few short quotations from the play. On the exam, they had to fill in blanks. Here are some of their answers.

Actual text:

• A plague on both your houses!
  - Mercutio

Student answers:

• A shame on both your parts!
• A head on both your sides!

Actual text:

• From forth the fatal loins of these two foes,
  A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life.
  - Chorus

Student answers:

• From forth the tomb loins of these two people
• From forth the long loins of these two families
• From forth the cut loins of these two lovers
• From forth the prodigious loins of these two lovers
• From forth the vexed loins of these two families
• From forth the deep loins of these two lovers
• And my favorite, which gives me a hilarious visual:
  From forth the fighting loins of these two lambs
  
  

Are you telling me you built a time machine... out of a DeLorean?

Walking through the halls today, I heard a sophomore girl say to her friend, "No! You're an Alf ninja!"

Not. Even. Kidding.

confession

Today is Fat Tuesday, the day before the beginning of the Lenten Fast. For centuries, households have taken the day prior to the fast as a time of excess, a moment in which to use up extra fat and sugar. Growing up in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, I joyfully experienced the German tradition of eating fastnachts, potato-based doughnuts that put all other variants to shame. They remain to me the most delectable of sweets, and no pastry or cinnamon roll can ever aspire to reach the golden glow that my childhood memories lend to the fastnacht. I haven’t eaten one in well over a decade.

Last night, I decided to try my hand at a homemade version.

I gorged myself on seven doughnuts. Seven. At probably 500 calories a pop, I consumed double my daily caloric intake in a few hour span. By the end, the smell of hot grease turned my stomach. I carefully bagged the remaining items, satisfied that I’d finished making them, excited to give them to friends, but disappointed that they weren’t nearly as delicious as the ones I’d eaten as a girl. They were good, mark you, but fell short of divinity.

Of course they did.

I sat alone in my apartment with dozens of doughnuts. As my body protested, I stuffed more and more of them down my gullet, perfectly sentient that this act would throw my physical equilibrium to the wind for yet another week. My head knew better, but there was a tyrannous thing that snarled and clawed and reason gave in, as it always does. It was gluttony, and the worst form of it – solitary gluttony.

I think Fat Tuesday is supposed to be a group time of rejoicing and fellowship, a moment to revel before buckling down into the serious contemplation that Lent inspires.

But for me, it was an excuse for me to listen to ugly self-destructive things, and not to my body.


In many circles, Lent is unpopular, the bad cop to Easter’s good one. We don’t much like depriving ourselves, and we wonder at why we should when we’ve been blessed with bounty. We don’t like letting things stand between ourselves and the objects of our desire.

It seems, though, that Lent can be something other than legalistic joy-killing; it could be freedom. The long wait that Lent marks casts a brighter light on the joy of Easter, on the moment when sin and death lost the war for humanity.

After gorging last night, I woke this morning feeling rather like a synthetic version of myself, more chemical than alert, more plastic than human. This morning, looking in the mirror, I noticed that my skin seemed dull and my hair dry and awkward. I was ashamed at what I’d done, and my body looked back at me confused and sad.

I know that for me, it is time for Lent. It is time – not for restriction, but for reality. It is time to be limited. It is time to recognize that joy is a property of the Spirit and not of the bakery. It is time for me to recognize that my body is not my own and that my sustenance matters enough to God that I ought not scramble after it nor fear its absence. All of my attempts to care for myself end up resembling neglect or worship, or some unholy amalgamation of both. Self-limitation is beautiful and strong and, at least for me, infinitely more difficult than self-indulgence.

South Whoville

An attractive man in a business suit walked into Subway after me today. He ordered a roast beast sandwich.

I did not think he was very cute after that.

faith and finance, ad naseum

Hello, My name is Erinn. 

I'm 27 years old and I still don't understand money. 

I'm currently taking a class called Financial Peace University, designed to help people prioritize their spending, get rid of debt, and live more generously. It's a fascinating class, and I'm making some positive changes in my habits, like eating out less frequently and cutting up my credit card. 

Christian doctrine seems to be a bit schizophrenic on how stable and/or significant a Christian's finances ought to be. 

This well-covered ground of faith-centered finance talk has been up in my face a lot of late. The sermons I've heard over the last few weeks have been about wise decision-making, some specifically with respect to finances. 

One of the (many) books I'm reading, Living More With Less, talks a great deal about how Christians ought to live in a way that is essentially near the poverty line because such a lifestyle shows greater respect for the way much of the world lives. One contributor quotes Gandhi's saying, "He who has more than he needs is a thief."

How is this idea to be reconciled with the idea that God wants us to be financially secure so that we might bless others?

It seems as if these two lifestyles fit snugly within the framework of (Western) Christianity. It does not, however, seem as if these two lifestyles are wholly reconcilable. 

And, mark me, I cannot truthfully claim to be consistent with either direction. I don't have financial peace, and I don't cultivate simplicity. I talk about such stuff all the time, but if I'm honest, I'm a closet materialist. Too often I spend my money selfishly, an act that is unconscionable no matter which direction you take. 

I've known godly people in both camps and in neither. What are your thoughts on this?

Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. - Carl Sanburg

Teachers should never, ever say that they choose their profession because of snow days and summer. Never. And I do not wish to sound as if I'm in league with this reprehensible lot.

However, there is so much to be said for snow days.

Snow days are my second favorite kind of day, second only to Christmas Eve in splendor. Summer and spring break and all of these vacationy days fill quickly with family plans and neglected doctor visits. The days pile upon themselves; one day rolls into the next, and soon the vacation itself becomes unpleasantly routine. 

Snow days are perfect because they cannot become routine, and they cannot be planned. I am always prepared to work on such days, awake and usually showered long before I hear the phone ring with news. And then, like glorious petals, the moments unfurl before me. I am, for once, conscious of time, precious time. At all moments of my day, I thrill at the knowledge that I am living the seconds of a gift. The cornmeal wheat pancakes I made for breakfast? A gift. The painting I will finish after lunch? A gift. The fire I sit beside? A gift. Time seems powerful, deep, brimming with meaning and possibility in a way it could not have been if I'd known what it would hold. I run my fingers along its contours, I dip my toes into its oceans. 

Time is a gift, they tell us, a finite set of moments that cannot be stored, only spent. 

thumbs up, thumbs down

thumbs up:

1. Eragon, leant to me by a former student

2. having the third issue of the school newspaper printed and distributed

3. a clean apartment

4. dinner and heady conversation with good people

thumbs down:

1. make-shift hot chocolate of cocoa powder, cinnamon, melted ice cream and soy milk... clumpy and gross

2. being forced to use half a personal day because my car doors were frozen shut even after trying to melt them open with most of my delicious coffee

What have been the high/low moments of your day?

not a big fan of "zest"

I think Zesty Orange Air-borne should be titled Pureed Moldy Sock.

I'm just saying, if I get sick after this, I'll be peeved.

because Ninja Turtles don't cut it anymore

I Want to Barack Your World Valentines

On the lunch menu:

One of these things is not like the other
three of these things are kinda the same.
Can you tell me which one just doesn't belong here?
Now it's time to play our game.
It's time to play our game.

Nachos
Stuffed Crust Pizza
Chicken Petals
Potato Soup

Veggie Sandwiches

For some time, I've been a self-styled "social meat eater," like lots of people are social drinkers. This means that I pretty much never purchase or prepare any meat. There are lots of reasons for this, ranging from the ecological and economic to philosophical to physiological to unadulterated laziness, but I will spare you this. I'm not evangelical or dogmatic about it all at this point, though nor am I ashamed of it, at least partly because the transition for me has been so gradual and natural.

That's not my point.

This is: it is tricky, tricky to eat out. Most menus have at most one meatless item, and some of those are awfully anemic in both appearance and flavor. Thus, I've been making mental notes of some of the better veggie sandwiches I've sampled in the Fort Wayne area in the last year or so, some from local restaurants and some from chains. All (relatively) easily duplicable at home.

In case any of you are in my boat, I'll share my findings:

1) Mediterranean Veggie Sandwich (inspired by Panera)

Ingredients:

bread - sundried tomato or other, preferably homemade

herbed hummus - parsley, perhaps?
cucumber, sliced
tomato, thinly sliced
canned red pepper slices
feta cheese, crumbled
dark leafy greens

Directions:
Spread a layer of hummus on the top and bottom slices of bread. On the bottom slice, place a layer of greens, followed by feta cheese. Next, add tomato slices and red peppers. Top with cucumber and the second slice of bread.


Others to follow in my little series:
- Henry's Southwestern Something-or-Other
- Jimmy John's Avocado/Provalone Concoction
- The Firefly's Grilled Cheese
- The Firefly's Veggie Sandwich
- The Brickhouse Cafe's Veggie Wrap with Cream Cheese

desert island singles

If I knew that tomorrow I would be taken to a desert island where I would live out the remainder of my days, I would pack very carefully. And these are the top five songs I'd make sure I had with me at present:

5. Our Life is Not a Movie or Maybe - Okkervil River

4. Sinister in a State of Hope - Loney Dear

3. Failsafe - the New Pornographers

2. The Temptation of Adam - Josh Ritter

1. Green Gloves - the National

They are pretty, pretty magic carpets for the emotions. 

What five songs would you take?

Edit: I almost included another song by the National because I thought one of the main lines was, "Your mind is racing like a pronoun," which I found puzzling and whimsical. Then I realized it actually said, "Your mind is racing like a pro, now." Forget it.

100 Things That Make Me Happy: 11-20

11. the warm yellow light from the midmorning sun and the way it renders clementines and beads and books and skin magical
12. the way my friend’s voice gets very shrill when she’s excited about something
13. looking around my living room and realizing I’m surrounded by my own artwork
14. having a whole Saturday stretch out before me with boundless creative possibilities
15. waking up early on a Saturday when everyone else is sleeping and feeling like I know something secret
16. stacks and stacks of books I want to read
17. the smell of rosemary
18. Japanese fabric
19. staying within my budget
20. feeling hopeful about a church

See more progress on: identify 100 things that make me happy (besides money)

letting in the light

This is my favorite time of day, when the light comes in all slanty and orangey through my western windows. I always feel crafty in these moments. The light does this to me. 

This week I repurposed some empty wine bottles. I covered them with beautiful images from catalogs I never requested, then attached tapers to their mouths. I love the reckless way wax streaks through the image frames. 

right here, on this mat

My favorite yoga instructor, a lithe little man named Larry, likes to guide his students into breath awareness by saying things like this:

Concentrate on the exhalation. Do not worry about the next breath. Do not hold it in. Push it out and trust that the air will rush back in. Don't be greedy. This is the way of yogis. In their old age, when it comes to the end, they are not selfish with their breath. They exhale, and when the air does not rush back in on its own, there is peace.

Be here, right here, on this mat. It doesn't matter what has happened this day, or what you have to do for tomorrow. Be here, in your body, in this space.


These days I cannot afford to attend classes, so I spend the last moments of most days practicing asanas by candlelight in my apartment. My back and shoulders now tell me when they have not stretched sufficiently, and I know how to listen to them. I catch myself holding my neck tensely while I teach and think, "Why am I choosing to hold onto this stress? What have I to fear?"

Last night, as I stretched to the sky and brought my hands, as in prayer, to my heart-center, I focused my gaze on my fingertips and was startled. They were to me as an infant's, new and clean. My hands were not tools, not pretty or ugly. I was present in my body, not judging it, not wishing it to be anything else.

Whatever yoga does for my posture or my muscles or my breathing, if it can bring me back into the present and into myself, I am thankful for it.

free day

One thing I've learned about being healthy as a teacher is that I must build big high walls in places between schoolwork and my life. And school is not welcome at all on Saturdays.

This Saturday has gone as follows:

I woke up at Emily's apartment, teeth unbrushed, after a raucous movie marathon with some of her girls - The Great Debaters followed by I am Legend. Let the record note (and my brain internalize the fact) that I am not and no longer wish to be a college student. Midnight is just not my cup of tea. On Thursday night, I was dead to the world by 8:10. I wish I could say that was an exaggeration. Be that as it may, rabid zombie people screaming at the screen kept me effectively awake until midnight. I had my hands firmly pressed over my ears and my down coat covering all but a few inches of my face, but still the zombie screams came through. Eek!

Anyway, after driving back to Fort Wayne this morning, I plopped on my couch and read Far from the Madding Crowd. Then the general scumminess of my skin/teeth/face became overwhelming, so I read for another hour or so in the bathtub. Then I got pruny, so I read for another few hours while eating lunch on my floor in front of the windows.

Basically this has been my day. I have also tried to sneakily put down my book and turn my torso ever-so-slowly as to catch the birds feasting at the feeder, but alas, they're speedier than me every single time. Drat. But you know, if I imagine myself as a zombie and the birds as Will Smith, I can empathize.

In an hour or so, I will go eat Indian food with my sister-in-law. Until then, it's back to my book.

Happy Saturday to all.

a useful exercise

I read a lot of blogs. One of them is by a woman I've never met named Andrea. I stumbled onto her blog by chance a few years ago, having been searching for a certain Anne Lamott quotation and having been too lazy to find my book. 

Anyway, Andrea is doing this year-end roundup ritual she calls Mondo Beyondo, asking people to respond to the following prompts. I did so and found the process empowering. I'm sharing it here, even though I worry that it might be too personal for this medium. Be that as it may, you might find this helpful, too. What about you? How would you answer? (You can comment anonymously if you want.)

1. What do you want to acknowledge yourself for in regard to 2007?
(What did you create? What challenges did you face with courage and strength? What promises did you keep to yourself? What brave choices did you make? What are you proud of?)

This year I gave myself to students. I graded hundreds of papers and encouraged dozens of budding writers. Almost single-handedly, I started a school newspaper for said writers. I resisted the impulse to cut and run when things got tough. I wrote dangerous words and read them aloud. I drew and got a beautiful tattoo. I began a yoga practice. I taught in China. I fell for someone. When he broke my heart, I told him I forgave him (even though it wasn’t true yet), and walked away with my head high. I forgave him.

2. What is there to grieve about 2007?
(What was disappointing? What was scary? What was hard? What can you forgive yourself for?)

I forgive myself for letting a friendship implode, for not seeing it sooner or being able to change myself enough to fix things. I forgive myself for letting the Gilmore Girls ooze into all the empty spaces that three-dimensional friends should fill. I forgive myself for letting my garden die.

I grieve that I am alone and that so many people’s lives seem to move on without me, and I forgive myself for feeling guilty about that.

3. What else do you need to say about the year to declare it complete?

2007, you have made such little sense to me. You’ve broken hard and fast across my back and I don’t appreciate the bruises. I’m still here, though, and I declare you complete.

Here’s to 2008, a year of moving outward.

Jen has beautiful brains and an awfully cute baby.

Jen & Annalyn Dakin met me halfway between their home in Kenton and mine in Fort Wayne. We did lots of fun things. We visited a coffee shop and then a diner-like place where nobody uses menus. Afterward, we found a small eye doctor's office and Jen tried on glasses. Annalyn mostly sat there and cooed and utilized her diapers and stared at me while I snapped dozens of pictures of her.

We ended our afternoon together at this phenomenal library inside what looked like a castle. I'm not sure if I drooled, but I definitely skipped. Man. If my eight-year old self even knew that library castles existed, I'm pretty sure that would knock all the curl right out of her hair. In all, it was a delightful way to spend a Friday.

Aren't they beautiful?

If you'd like to see the whole photo set with Jen & Annalyn, I've added it to this set. I've also finally posted pictures from Japan and China on Flickr, so if such things are of interest to you, check them out. Visually, I think the China pics are better.

home again, home again, jiggidy jig

I'm back home in my very own apartment. I made pumpkin spice muffins and red tea and watched this Human Tetris video. You'll like it:

Peoria

My mother's family is spread all over the country, but we congregated on Dec. 27-28 in Peoria, where two of her sisters live. Here are a few photo highlights.

here and there and back again

Shepherd me, O God,

beyond my wants,

beyond my fears,

from death into life.

The past year is one I would not wish to repeat. There has been too much crying and not enough sleep. I have a job I love and incomparable family and friends, but broken bits have forced my gaze inward, and I have seen things in myself and in others that I wish I had not.

Shepherd me, O God,

beyond my wants,

beyond my fears,

from death into life.

But how could I beat down my own selfishness if it went unnoticed? How could I learn to seek out connection if I had never shivered in isolation? What would my trust mean if it had never been disappointed? How does anyone know life without a little death?

Shepherd me, O God,

beyond my wants,

beyond my fears,

from death into life.

May this year see life spring up all around. May wounds heal and may hope be restored - for all of us.