The Mess

"Miss Weisman, what's your opinion? Do you think students here are actually authentic?"

"I think... you all are in a state of becoming. I think you're still figuring out who you are, and what you believe in. I think we're all in a state of becoming. I look at myself-- and I'm someone that knows herself pretty well, I feel like I've had a handle on 'me' since high-school-- but I am still figuring things out. I have a LOT to figure out. When you're a teenager, you're going through SO much growth-- you're recognizing for the first time that your opinions might differ from your parents, you're figuring out what you believe in, who you want to be... I think people who are honest about where they're at with all that are recognized as authentic. But I'm not sure anyone can have a permanent handle on who they are-- because we're always changing."

You know when the wound is open, and the surgeon is working with his scalpel and his retractor?

You know when a cook is in the middle of her creation, and the incredients are spread out all over the counter, and the eggs are cracked and the flour is spilled?

You know when you first get out of the shower, and you're wet and dripping?

You know when a baby is born, and is still connected, and is not yet washed, and is wailing in the biting air?

It's messy.

It's all messy.

It's becoming-- and it's messy.

Today, I am forgiving myself for not having yet become. I feel messy today. But I hope that indicates a heart in progress.

Remembering

I just had a very Mondayish-Monday. Kids in 6th period didn't have their drafts. 7th period sophomores ticked me off. I remembered that I had forgotten to do something-- many things. I have three different organizations to call that will put me on hold for decades before helping me with my problems. I have too much to do and too little time. I am ready for Spring Break. Spring Break is three weeks away.

It's amazing to me-- in these 26 years-- how little I actually remember. I remember the truly good things, and the truly horrific things. Days like this though-- they slip away. It's one more wave onto my desert island that is as forgettable as the next. It's one more leaf off a tree that will be ground into the soil. It's one more cherry blossom off in the breeze.

This day doesn't last. Literally, or figuratively. I will forget essentially everything about this mundane Monday. And that, in this case, is a good thing.

I will remember playing princesses with Heidi in our front yard.
I will remember climbing trees with Shane.
I will remember waiting backstage at the Spokane Opera House, waiting to dance on as Clara in the Alberta Ballet's Nutcracker as a 5th grader.
I will remember walking through the halls of my Arts School High-School when it was still under construction.
I will remember the day I heard the terrible words.
I will remember my first kiss.
I will remember being ricocheted onstage as "Ariel" in The Tempest.
I will remember Mike calling me to exult over us both getting our first leads in I Hate Hamlet.
I will remember singing quietly to myself to calm my nerves when waiting to come on stage as "Madge" in Picnic.
I will remember the first time I said, "I love you."
I will remember dancing with Tony in West Side Story and getting thrown so high.
I will remember weeping over my first lost love.
I will remember talking with Fernanda during rush at Gamma Phi.
I will remember a tragic dinner in my short yellow dress.
I will remember playing guitar for the first time in public, and singing with a voice that shook like fear.
I will remember playing guitar in Covent Garden, and singing with a voice that lifted like joy.
I will remember the sunrise I saw when leaving London.
I will remember the campsite in Rome.
I will remember catching the bouquet at Shane's wedding.
I will remember laundry in Malawi, and ants floating in the laundry tub.
I will remember Tikambe falling asleep in my lap.
I will remember Clayton swinging from my back.
I will remember the sand-dollar walk on the beach in Malibu.
I will remember falling for him, and falling for him, and falling for him.
And I will remember the slow extrications.
I will remember emails with Annie.
I will remember the dinner after Heidi's graduation, and the canyon that opened up beneath us.
I will remember frolicking in meadows on "Heidi's Alp" in Switzerland.
I will remember running into the damn sign.
I will remember the words on the screen at the internet cafe in Cinque Terre.
I will remember the angels.
I will remember the monster duck in Chantilly.
I will remember the snowy walk, and the scaffolded house, and the view, and the goodbye.
I will remember the horrible realization that I had somehow forgotten to do four huge grad school assignments that were already past due.
I will remember Grandpa's balcony.
I will remember watching Heidi come down the aisle.
I will remember swimming in the lake with Max at 1am on a stifling summer night.
I will remember the phone call from Stephanie, and hearing that she wanted to hire me to teach at her school.
I will remember meeting him.
I will remember hanging art in my classroom.
I will remember the first time we said, "I love you."
I will remember that horrible day when Natalie said she didn't think the class was adequately preparing her, and I will remember the birthday card from the sophomores, when they all wrote how much they loved me.
I will remember the best.
And I will remember the worst.

And today is neither; and today, I will forget. And I'm thankful for forgetting.

I want room for what matters.

This Week

Sunday was like being inside a shipwreck. All sense of up or down was lost; it was just tumbling through dark, it was blindness through sea, it was being carried by a force much larger than myself. It was drowning, it was being tossed, it was being battered, it was being knocked unconscious and letting my tired body just be carried. It was brutal. It was exhausting.

Monday was waking up on the shore: confused, bruised, tired, but awake. I looked around me and saw pieces everywhere, but they were still. The sand was white. The ocean was calm. I was sitting under quiet sunshine. I gingerly picked myself up and tried to move. I could walk. Not well; but I could walk beside the pieces. I could look out at the ocean.

Tuesday was angry. The island fought against me. The skies quarreled and thundered. The waves were obstinate and proud. I kicked a tree until my foot ached, and then I dug a hole to hide underneath it and cried. I held onto the tree and cried.

Wednesday was the worst. I tried to get up and move around the island; I tried to pick up some of the pieces and make neat piles, but the task was overwhelming. I tried to make friends with the birds and the monkeys, but the biggest damn monkey threw a coconut at me. I raged at this despicable island, and missed my broken ship, and threw coconuts into empty space, and cried, and cried, and cried.

Thursday was a gentle sunrise. Woke up lying on the soft sand. Heard tender words in the lavender waves. I got up, and stood straight, and lifted my chin. I faced the horizon with square shoulders, and breathed deep. The birds were quiet. The monkeys behaved. I moved with sure feet, and I was confident, and I laughed.

Friday is today.

And Saturday is tomorrow.

And Sunday is the day after that.

I will survive this ship-wreck. I will win over this island. I will examine the broken pieces and I will name each one. I will get stronger and I will invent a new song to sing to this quiet, debris-strewn beach. The waves will roll over the sand and this all will become cleaner, and this all will become softer, and this all will be alright.