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.)