Do you ever have that experience with a song where-- the first time you hear it, it leaves you completely unphased-- and the second and third and fourth and fifth time you hear it, you're similarly untouched--- but around the twentieth time, you're struck by the lyrics, and around the thirtieth time you're touched deep down by the melody, and the fiftieth time, it runs through you like marrow in your bones? This song by Glen Phillips, "Trainwreck," is like that for me. I first heard this song on a burned cd that someone gave me back in high-school-- a simple, slow, sad song, and it floated past me as an afterthought. But as I've listened to this song, again and again and again over the last six years... I'm consistently arrested by the combination of the melody and story and the winding imagery of the lyrics. It's accompanied so many of my nostalgic, pensive moments-- I hear it now, and it feels like a part of me, of my stories, of my history. It's in the fabric.
She looked just like a train wreck
That could've been avoided
In a third world country
By a long stretch of farmland
Where the waters had run high
And the topsoil down the river
So that next year there would be no crops. . .
She was as desperate as a salesman
At a company that's folding
But they haven't told the staff yet
That they're bankrupt and backordered
And they're funneling the pensions
To the CEO's back pocket
So in one week they'll have nothing
I miss you girl. I hope you're fine
Good luck, love
Or goodbye
Goodbye
She's the girl from central casting
Always played the sweet young orphan
Or the girl with the heart of gold
But she got her SAG card pulled
And turns tricks now on Cahuenga
She tells herself it's research
For her next greatest role
I miss you girl, I hope you're fine
Good luck, love
Or goodbye
Goodbye
She'll call you up just to hear you say she's fine
Then she's gone away
And you know there's only one more time
You'll hear about her again
Well it's life informing art informing life again
Like every stupid kid
That thinks that they're the first in pain
The first to rip themselves apart
The first to try and live without a heart
I miss you girl, I hope you're fine
Good luck, love
Or goodbye
I want to see your face, even hear your lies
Good luck, girl
Or goodbye
Goodbye
Jan 29, 2009
Jan 27, 2009
The Disentangling
Taught all day today and feel a bit knackered. I'm supposed to be responding to my grad school classmates in an online discussion right now, but I need to hit the refresh button on my brain first.
Therefore:
Blogging.
(When I first wrote 'blogging,' I wrote 'boggling' which would not be an inaccurate description of current self.)
Last week, I snapped at this boy named Dylan. Dylan is one of a few students that I think of as "peeing puppy dogs." They're totally adorable, but totally frustrating-- never getting their work in, making low efforts when they do, and plus, they lie all the time or tell stories to get out of stuff. Think of a little brown-eyed pup grinning up at you with this disarming expression... while pissing all over your new carpet.
"Dylan, what is this?"
"My in-class essay."
"Yeah... but... you wrote a paragraph."
(Shrugs and grins.)
"And you brought it in 10 minutes early. You could have spent 10 more minutes on this. You know that we're looking for like five paragraphs, right?"
"I guess." (Grins.)
"Dylan, this is lame."
(Laughs sheepishly and shrugs.)
"You can do so much better than this. This is seriously lame."
"Sorry..." (Grin.)
I heaved an angry sigh, and threw down his paper on the table. "Go sit down."
And he shuffled off to his desk.
I immediately felt guilty. Why didn't I leave it on an inspirational note? Is he really going to try harder if I just tell him he's lame?
After class I tried again.
"Dylan. I don't want to just leave this by telling you you're lame. I think what you DID on that test is lame, because I know you can do better than that. Viola and I can't help you get better if you don't try. It's like basketball practice. If you show up and just sit on the bench, we're never going to be able to give you helpful pointers to improve your game. You HAVE to try. I really believe you can do better than this, and we can HELP you be a better writer if you GIVE that to us. Okay?"
He grinned shyly. "Okay." Then he paused. "Um... Greta? Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure," I said, smiling. Finally. He gets it. This is one of those great moments.
But he burst my bubble. "How are your FEET so small?" he said, wrinkling his nose, and grinning.
ARGH. Today he wasn't even trying to be cute: he was just contrary and apathetic and rude. I thought to myself, "You're not even the peeing puppy today. You're diarrhea puppy." So I put him outside. When I went out in the hall to talk to him later on, he told me that there was, "a lot of drama going on, and he was just sick of it." I told him that I understood drama could make things frustrating, and that I would try to go easy on him-- but that he needed to meet me halfway. Who even knows if he was telling the truth. I know he doesn't have it easy. But does he have it as hard as he'd like me to think?
When I drove home today, I felt tired. It had just been a long day. I still feel tired.
Two songs came on the radio. First, "Washed by the Water," by Needtobreathe. Second, "Revelation," by Third Day. Both songs that had gone on my "New 2" playlist, which had been created during a very stressful time of life.
I remembered a picture I'd gotten in my head once, during that time. In my head, I pictured myself on a dark beach, sitting on packed sand with my knees clutched to my chest. On the shoreline in front of me, I saw endless piles of garbage. The sky over the ocean was dark grey and stormy-- but beneath that sky, there hovered a large, bluish spirit. She guided the waves in and out, to the rhythm of my breathing. In, and they washed up over the garbage, stopping just short of my toes. Out, and they took some of the garbage with them-- pulling cans and old plastic wrappers away to hide forever in the ocean's secret deep. She continued to guide the waves: in, and out. In and out. And piece by piece, the shoreline began to clear.
Then I pictured someone close to me-- someone that I've been worried about. It was Christmas morning in this picture, but this person wasn't celebrating. She was wrapped in string-- tangled up in so many strings, and each one was a spot of pitch from her past experiences, her burdened living that wouldn't let her go. One was her relationship with her dad-- and there were memory strings and conversation strings and disappointment strings knotted with just that one. One was her negative body image, and knotted there were magazine strings, and media strings, and comment strings, and mirror strings, and cruel self-thought strings. There were strings of financial stress, and strings of worldly expectations, and strings of an unknown fearsome future-- there were so MANY. So many: so so many. And she was so tangled.
But God was in the room-- it was Jesus this morning, but He wasn't His Christmas-baby self. He was a grown up, wearing khaki pants, and a brown sweater vest with a brown tie, and he had his sleeves rolled up. I don't know about His face, but it was a soft expression. And when He focused on the strings, they began to snap-- one, by one, by one. And she slowly gained movement. The strings began to untangle, and she became more and more free.
And then the picture went back to the beach. But this time, the sky was clear and blue. There was no storm; only a soft breeze. I was on my feet, in a white dress, and my head was up, and my shoulders were back. The beach was clear: it was only soft bleached sand for as far as I could see. I began walking along the beach, feeling that breeze whisper around my neck and through my hair, and I felt such a deep peace, and such a pure joy, and such a real freedom. And though I didn't see Him yet, I knew that God was walking towards me.
And I thought, "In the end-- it's just Him. We begin as free souls-- and we end as free souls. We become so burdened in the meantime. But He frees us from the garbage-- He frees us from the tangling. In the end it's all clear-- it's just that long, white beach."
Since then, when feeling overwhelmed or stressed, I picture those waves coming in over that litter-ridden shore, and pulling it out, bit by bit. And I breathe to the rhythm of the waves in my mind. Today, when driving home, I pictured Dylan. And I pictured him all tangled up. And I thought, "They ARE all tangled up-- every one of them. They're so burdened and tangled and confined." I thought of Isaac, and Andre, and K, and all the kids I've mentioned over the last six months, and all the tough things I've discovered that they face every day.
Maybe my mission as a teacher is simply to help them with the disentangling. I know I can't articulate that in words like Jesus, or God-- at least not in public schools-- but I can articulate it through kindness, and encouragement, and belief, and respect-- even in ceaseless beleaguering. I can articulate it with words like Hope, and Freedom, and Peace, and Future. I can try to show them love that looks like a cleansing wave, or a snapped string, or a long white beach.
Therefore:
Blogging.
(When I first wrote 'blogging,' I wrote 'boggling' which would not be an inaccurate description of current self.)
Last week, I snapped at this boy named Dylan. Dylan is one of a few students that I think of as "peeing puppy dogs." They're totally adorable, but totally frustrating-- never getting their work in, making low efforts when they do, and plus, they lie all the time or tell stories to get out of stuff. Think of a little brown-eyed pup grinning up at you with this disarming expression... while pissing all over your new carpet.
"Dylan, what is this?"
"My in-class essay."
"Yeah... but... you wrote a paragraph."
(Shrugs and grins.)
"And you brought it in 10 minutes early. You could have spent 10 more minutes on this. You know that we're looking for like five paragraphs, right?"
"I guess." (Grins.)
"Dylan, this is lame."
(Laughs sheepishly and shrugs.)
"You can do so much better than this. This is seriously lame."
"Sorry..." (Grin.)
I heaved an angry sigh, and threw down his paper on the table. "Go sit down."
And he shuffled off to his desk.
I immediately felt guilty. Why didn't I leave it on an inspirational note? Is he really going to try harder if I just tell him he's lame?
After class I tried again.
"Dylan. I don't want to just leave this by telling you you're lame. I think what you DID on that test is lame, because I know you can do better than that. Viola and I can't help you get better if you don't try. It's like basketball practice. If you show up and just sit on the bench, we're never going to be able to give you helpful pointers to improve your game. You HAVE to try. I really believe you can do better than this, and we can HELP you be a better writer if you GIVE that to us. Okay?"
He grinned shyly. "Okay." Then he paused. "Um... Greta? Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure," I said, smiling. Finally. He gets it. This is one of those great moments.
But he burst my bubble. "How are your FEET so small?" he said, wrinkling his nose, and grinning.
ARGH. Today he wasn't even trying to be cute: he was just contrary and apathetic and rude. I thought to myself, "You're not even the peeing puppy today. You're diarrhea puppy." So I put him outside. When I went out in the hall to talk to him later on, he told me that there was, "a lot of drama going on, and he was just sick of it." I told him that I understood drama could make things frustrating, and that I would try to go easy on him-- but that he needed to meet me halfway. Who even knows if he was telling the truth. I know he doesn't have it easy. But does he have it as hard as he'd like me to think?
When I drove home today, I felt tired. It had just been a long day. I still feel tired.
Two songs came on the radio. First, "Washed by the Water," by Needtobreathe. Second, "Revelation," by Third Day. Both songs that had gone on my "New 2" playlist, which had been created during a very stressful time of life.
I remembered a picture I'd gotten in my head once, during that time. In my head, I pictured myself on a dark beach, sitting on packed sand with my knees clutched to my chest. On the shoreline in front of me, I saw endless piles of garbage. The sky over the ocean was dark grey and stormy-- but beneath that sky, there hovered a large, bluish spirit. She guided the waves in and out, to the rhythm of my breathing. In, and they washed up over the garbage, stopping just short of my toes. Out, and they took some of the garbage with them-- pulling cans and old plastic wrappers away to hide forever in the ocean's secret deep. She continued to guide the waves: in, and out. In and out. And piece by piece, the shoreline began to clear.
Then I pictured someone close to me-- someone that I've been worried about. It was Christmas morning in this picture, but this person wasn't celebrating. She was wrapped in string-- tangled up in so many strings, and each one was a spot of pitch from her past experiences, her burdened living that wouldn't let her go. One was her relationship with her dad-- and there were memory strings and conversation strings and disappointment strings knotted with just that one. One was her negative body image, and knotted there were magazine strings, and media strings, and comment strings, and mirror strings, and cruel self-thought strings. There were strings of financial stress, and strings of worldly expectations, and strings of an unknown fearsome future-- there were so MANY. So many: so so many. And she was so tangled.
But God was in the room-- it was Jesus this morning, but He wasn't His Christmas-baby self. He was a grown up, wearing khaki pants, and a brown sweater vest with a brown tie, and he had his sleeves rolled up. I don't know about His face, but it was a soft expression. And when He focused on the strings, they began to snap-- one, by one, by one. And she slowly gained movement. The strings began to untangle, and she became more and more free.
And then the picture went back to the beach. But this time, the sky was clear and blue. There was no storm; only a soft breeze. I was on my feet, in a white dress, and my head was up, and my shoulders were back. The beach was clear: it was only soft bleached sand for as far as I could see. I began walking along the beach, feeling that breeze whisper around my neck and through my hair, and I felt such a deep peace, and such a pure joy, and such a real freedom. And though I didn't see Him yet, I knew that God was walking towards me.
And I thought, "In the end-- it's just Him. We begin as free souls-- and we end as free souls. We become so burdened in the meantime. But He frees us from the garbage-- He frees us from the tangling. In the end it's all clear-- it's just that long, white beach."
Since then, when feeling overwhelmed or stressed, I picture those waves coming in over that litter-ridden shore, and pulling it out, bit by bit. And I breathe to the rhythm of the waves in my mind. Today, when driving home, I pictured Dylan. And I pictured him all tangled up. And I thought, "They ARE all tangled up-- every one of them. They're so burdened and tangled and confined." I thought of Isaac, and Andre, and K, and all the kids I've mentioned over the last six months, and all the tough things I've discovered that they face every day.
Maybe my mission as a teacher is simply to help them with the disentangling. I know I can't articulate that in words like Jesus, or God-- at least not in public schools-- but I can articulate it through kindness, and encouragement, and belief, and respect-- even in ceaseless beleaguering. I can articulate it with words like Hope, and Freedom, and Peace, and Future. I can try to show them love that looks like a cleansing wave, or a snapped string, or a long white beach.
Jan 24, 2009
Glimpses
True Love as described in an in-class essay by a 14-year-old Freshman girl, who is currently dating an 8th grade boy:
Last but not least, true love. Have you ever had that feeling that you'd love to be with someone everyday all day? That feeling you get when you like someone alot and everytime they're around you get huge butterflies and you can't stop thinking about how much you want to kiss the person? That my dear, is love... (Actually, love cannot be defined, but that's how I felt...) This person is most likely "The One," meaning you'd love to spend the rest of your life with them. The only person that makes you feel a certain happiness... A happiness you get and it just makes you feel so good and so right. It's amazing.
So in conclusion, without love, our world would be completely dull and retarted, because you wouldn't have the happiness you get from all the love.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Another student's thesis, responding to the prompt, "Is television a good thing, or would we be better off without it? Choose a side to argue and use specific examples to support your argument."
Although TV isn't terrific, it also isn't totally terrible. All in all, TV could be considered hardly better than neutral.
We've been working on creating arguable theses...
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
One kid responded to the prompt: "If you could make one change in your life, what would it be? Why would you choose to change that one thing? Use specific examples to explain why that change would be important."
He wrote that, if he could change anything about his life, he would choose to live somewhere else; he said that his neighborhood had between 5 and 7 gangs, and that he couldn't count how many times he's almost been robbed or shot. He described how noisy it got at night, with the sirens and yelling and gun-shots. "In the day its not so bad but at night you wish you didn't have ears."
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
January 8, 2009
Dear Greta,
I would like to thank you for helping me in dance class. You have been a great partner and have been patient when I have made mistakes. It is nice to have a non-judgmental partner in such an environment where one is vulnerable such as when one dances with another.
I would also like to thank you for helping me deal with those that think it is okay to pass me up in the partnering line. That kind of incident makes me feel lower than dirt and you helped me get back on my feet and to come back strong.
I am truly glad to have you as a dance partner and as a teacher. May your future career in academics bring you good fortune and good times.
Sincerely,
B----- W.F. H----- Esq. The XLVIII
Last but not least, true love. Have you ever had that feeling that you'd love to be with someone everyday all day? That feeling you get when you like someone alot and everytime they're around you get huge butterflies and you can't stop thinking about how much you want to kiss the person? That my dear, is love... (Actually, love cannot be defined, but that's how I felt...) This person is most likely "The One," meaning you'd love to spend the rest of your life with them. The only person that makes you feel a certain happiness... A happiness you get and it just makes you feel so good and so right. It's amazing.
So in conclusion, without love, our world would be completely dull and retarted, because you wouldn't have the happiness you get from all the love.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Another student's thesis, responding to the prompt, "Is television a good thing, or would we be better off without it? Choose a side to argue and use specific examples to support your argument."
Although TV isn't terrific, it also isn't totally terrible. All in all, TV could be considered hardly better than neutral.
We've been working on creating arguable theses...
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
One kid responded to the prompt: "If you could make one change in your life, what would it be? Why would you choose to change that one thing? Use specific examples to explain why that change would be important."
He wrote that, if he could change anything about his life, he would choose to live somewhere else; he said that his neighborhood had between 5 and 7 gangs, and that he couldn't count how many times he's almost been robbed or shot. He described how noisy it got at night, with the sirens and yelling and gun-shots. "In the day its not so bad but at night you wish you didn't have ears."
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
January 8, 2009
Dear Greta,
I would like to thank you for helping me in dance class. You have been a great partner and have been patient when I have made mistakes. It is nice to have a non-judgmental partner in such an environment where one is vulnerable such as when one dances with another.
I would also like to thank you for helping me deal with those that think it is okay to pass me up in the partnering line. That kind of incident makes me feel lower than dirt and you helped me get back on my feet and to come back strong.
I am truly glad to have you as a dance partner and as a teacher. May your future career in academics bring you good fortune and good times.
Sincerely,
B----- W.F. H----- Esq. The XLVIII
Jan 20, 2009
Thoughts Directed at the Fly in My Room
I can't believe you haven't died yet. How many days has it been? I've counted at least three. What am I giving you to live on??
Coffee mug. Whoops. Coffee left. Whoops. Can flies drink coffee?
Shouldn't that further DEHYDRATE it? Thereby contributing to an accelerated rate of DEATH?
Buzz. You're so clever right?? Buzzzzzzzz. What kind of message are you trying to send out? What are you even saying? YOUR LIFE HAS NO PURPOSE AT ALL. You just fly in erratic patterns all day long. You just ANNOY ME ALL. DAY. LONG.
My kingdom for a fly-swatter.
How did you even get in here? And why STAY in my room? There is a whole house attached. There is easy access to other exotic locales. This needs to be the focus room. This needs to be the homework room.
The fly totally just flew right over my head as I wrote that. Like, buzzed RIGHT in my ear. The damn fly is mocking me.
I am fed up with you, fly. I want you to leave this place. What is keeping you here? Really? There is no poop in my room. THERE IS NO POOP IN MY ROOM, FLY. THERE IS NOTHING THAT FLIES WOULD FIND DELECTABLE HERE.
Just diiiiiiiiieeeeeee.
What is it, specifically, that makes the fly-buzzing sound so infuriatingly annoying?
I remember having to buzz like a fly when reading children's books. Why would we give these hideous creatures any laudatory attention at all? "Buzzzzz goes the fly."
And once again, it flies RIGHT over my head.
Can you understand that I am so much bigger than you? That I am a human being and have things like a cell phone and a college degree? Can you please appreciate that I could, IF I really wanted to, roll up a newspaper or go out and buy a fly-swatter and END YOU?
Silence.
Yeah. That's right. I could END YOU. You and your miserable buzzing. So be afraid, fly. BE AFRAID.
Buzzing resumes once again.
And I move to the kitchen.
Coffee mug. Whoops. Coffee left. Whoops. Can flies drink coffee?
Shouldn't that further DEHYDRATE it? Thereby contributing to an accelerated rate of DEATH?
Buzz. You're so clever right?? Buzzzzzzzz. What kind of message are you trying to send out? What are you even saying? YOUR LIFE HAS NO PURPOSE AT ALL. You just fly in erratic patterns all day long. You just ANNOY ME ALL. DAY. LONG.
My kingdom for a fly-swatter.
How did you even get in here? And why STAY in my room? There is a whole house attached. There is easy access to other exotic locales. This needs to be the focus room. This needs to be the homework room.
The fly totally just flew right over my head as I wrote that. Like, buzzed RIGHT in my ear. The damn fly is mocking me.
I am fed up with you, fly. I want you to leave this place. What is keeping you here? Really? There is no poop in my room. THERE IS NO POOP IN MY ROOM, FLY. THERE IS NOTHING THAT FLIES WOULD FIND DELECTABLE HERE.
Just diiiiiiiiieeeeeee.
What is it, specifically, that makes the fly-buzzing sound so infuriatingly annoying?
I remember having to buzz like a fly when reading children's books. Why would we give these hideous creatures any laudatory attention at all? "Buzzzzz goes the fly."
And once again, it flies RIGHT over my head.
Can you understand that I am so much bigger than you? That I am a human being and have things like a cell phone and a college degree? Can you please appreciate that I could, IF I really wanted to, roll up a newspaper or go out and buy a fly-swatter and END YOU?
Silence.
Yeah. That's right. I could END YOU. You and your miserable buzzing. So be afraid, fly. BE AFRAID.
Buzzing resumes once again.
And I move to the kitchen.
Jan 17, 2009
Saturday So Far
Waffles, eggs, bacon, and French Press with Gramps. How good to be hungry in the morning.
Spend too much time re-curling rumply hair. Grow impatient; cover with hat.
Go shopping with Gramps for niece's belated birthday present, and for baby Henry's first birthday present. Find Henry a little book titled, "Will you be my friend?" Write card: "Because I so want to be your friend. Love, your future English Teacher."
Go to Baby Henry's One Year Old Birthday Brunch. Feel amused at all the rock-star hipsters. Henry doesn't know what a hip crowd he runs in. Feel delighted with Henry's pretty mama, and love her as usual. Try to convince Pretty Mama and Handsome Dad to let me baby-sit Henry soon. "Free of charge! So long as I get to keep him afterwards." Also convince Pretty and Handsome to name next child Greta. Am pleased to find emphatic, earnest agreement.
Scrutinize Lead Singer Rock Star Man's facial hair. Feel tragic sense of loss that such beautiful looks should be spoiled by frizzy mutton chop sideburns.
Make new friend, Stephanie. Drink mimosa. Have second breakfast. How good to partake of blueberry pancakes.
Drive back to Seattle. See blue sky emerging. Root. Root root root. Sunshine, you can dooooo it.
Coffee shop for homework and paper grading. Look at cyclist person at next table. Young boy? No: woman. Short blond hair, rosy cheeks, and clear blue eyes. Decide she looks like a beautiful Peter Pan. Become friends with her in head.
Grade student essays. Feel amused, annoyed, concerned, delighted, encouraged, and inspired. Love students.
Use men's bathroom after finding women's occupied: Sin. Return toilet seat to its full, upright position: Absolved.
Drive home; delight in gorgeous day.
Stop at favorite spot: halfway-built house at the top of the hill. Discover- what?!- staircase inside has switched directions. Smell sawdust, and cold sunshine winter air. Go to large window on top floor and look out over beautiful quiet houses, glassy lake, serrated mountains in the distance. Congratulate Rainier on basking above a silky blushing fog. Watch sea-plane land in lake without a splash; watch smooth wake form a tail behind it; watch sea-plane take off again. Listen to ambient sounds that could only emerge out of such a quiet, still day: dog's barking, birds' calls, a starting car.
Pray for dear things. Feel content. Consider kissing for a moment: decide it is a missed activity. Ask self: "Does missing kissing disturb contentment?" Pause. Answer self with a swelling-heart, peace-filled sigh, and grin. Blow kiss at view.
Back to Grandpa's. Cheese and crackers and apple. Watch sunset out of porthole window.
Blog.
End blog.
Continue Saturday.
Spend too much time re-curling rumply hair. Grow impatient; cover with hat.
Go shopping with Gramps for niece's belated birthday present, and for baby Henry's first birthday present. Find Henry a little book titled, "Will you be my friend?" Write card: "Because I so want to be your friend. Love, your future English Teacher."
Go to Baby Henry's One Year Old Birthday Brunch. Feel amused at all the rock-star hipsters. Henry doesn't know what a hip crowd he runs in. Feel delighted with Henry's pretty mama, and love her as usual. Try to convince Pretty Mama and Handsome Dad to let me baby-sit Henry soon. "Free of charge! So long as I get to keep him afterwards." Also convince Pretty and Handsome to name next child Greta. Am pleased to find emphatic, earnest agreement.
Scrutinize Lead Singer Rock Star Man's facial hair. Feel tragic sense of loss that such beautiful looks should be spoiled by frizzy mutton chop sideburns.
Make new friend, Stephanie. Drink mimosa. Have second breakfast. How good to partake of blueberry pancakes.
Drive back to Seattle. See blue sky emerging. Root. Root root root. Sunshine, you can dooooo it.
Coffee shop for homework and paper grading. Look at cyclist person at next table. Young boy? No: woman. Short blond hair, rosy cheeks, and clear blue eyes. Decide she looks like a beautiful Peter Pan. Become friends with her in head.
Grade student essays. Feel amused, annoyed, concerned, delighted, encouraged, and inspired. Love students.
Use men's bathroom after finding women's occupied: Sin. Return toilet seat to its full, upright position: Absolved.
Drive home; delight in gorgeous day.
Stop at favorite spot: halfway-built house at the top of the hill. Discover- what?!- staircase inside has switched directions. Smell sawdust, and cold sunshine winter air. Go to large window on top floor and look out over beautiful quiet houses, glassy lake, serrated mountains in the distance. Congratulate Rainier on basking above a silky blushing fog. Watch sea-plane land in lake without a splash; watch smooth wake form a tail behind it; watch sea-plane take off again. Listen to ambient sounds that could only emerge out of such a quiet, still day: dog's barking, birds' calls, a starting car.
Pray for dear things. Feel content. Consider kissing for a moment: decide it is a missed activity. Ask self: "Does missing kissing disturb contentment?" Pause. Answer self with a swelling-heart, peace-filled sigh, and grin. Blow kiss at view.
Back to Grandpa's. Cheese and crackers and apple. Watch sunset out of porthole window.
Blog.
End blog.
Continue Saturday.
Jan 15, 2009
Dragons and Dylan
Since I've confessed teaching fears and insecurities and difficult moments to you on this blog, will you forgive me for telling you about what feels like a smashing success? If at any point the gushing becomes unbearable, just refer back to this. You'll be properly reassured that there have been plenty of pitifully ghastly moments as well.
But not during the last two days.
The last two days have been AWESOME.
Viola tagged along on a theatre field trip to Port Townsend this week, which meant I had all of Wednesday and Thursday to instruct. These are both block days-- 90 minute periods. It was my first time teaching a 90 minute lesson, and only the second time I would be teaching without Viola nearby to crack the whip--which meant that I was knee-knocking nervous. She had asked me to teach them how to write an in-class essay. When I worked out the lesson plan, I kept feeling discouraged and hitting mental blocks. After phoning a friend (actually two: teaching-cohort friend Josh, and edgy-English-teacher friend Mark) for ideas, I'd worked out what I wanted to do.
Wednesday: wore a very grown-up outfit to help things.
We started with the main information: I'd written out the main points to think about when writing an in-class essay and we read over the sheet as a class. The Wednesday crew seemed to drag during this part, so for Thursday, I took out key words and replaced them with blanks. The kids guessed what the key words were supposed to be and "filled in the blanks" as we went along, which kept them engaged.
Then came the fun part. "You all know how much I love metaphors," I told them. "And I think of writing an in-class essay as being similar to heading into BATTLE! You want to nail this thing, conquer the beast! So if we're going into battle, the first thing we have to do is figure out what we're fighting-- we have to pick the prompt we want to take on. So if this is a battle, do we want to fight the evil sorcerer or the dragon?"
The classes all perked up at this part. Sorcerers? Dragons? The dragon beat out poor Voldemort every time.
"Okay-- forgive my artistic abilities guys, I'm not nearly the artist that most of you are." And I drew a BIG dragon on the board. The kids loved that.
"Give it wings! Give it a spiky tail! Wait, it looks too happy. That's better."
I labeled it PROMPT. "Okay. That's what we're taking on. Now what do we need if we're going to fight a DRAGON?"
"A weapon!"
"RIGHT! And the weapon is going to be our thesis statement, because there's no way you can successfully take on a prompt without a thesis. So what should we fight him with?"
We fought the dragon with a fire hose, ninja stars, a magical sword, and a nuclear bomb, for 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th period respectively.
The boots were the essay outline, since you can't move forward without boots. The helmet represented brainstorming. And the armor made up the supporting points. "And if you don't make sure ALL areas of your body are covered, the dragon's going to lop that part right off! And THERE goes an arm! And we might pretend it's not a big deal, but it would definitely be more than a flesh wound. Okay? You want to make sure that you back up your thesis with GOOD armor."
In 4th period, one of our most eccentric kids who has repeatedly failed our class, but who is a BRILLIANT artist scooted up and shooed me away from the white board. "I want to draw the dragon." His creation was hilarious and elaborate, and I was able to teach while he went to dragon town.
Then the kids drew their own. And they came up with the BEST analogies! One girl drew her make-up kit: the directions were the outline, since you needed to have some idea how to put your make-up on. The different pictures of how you could apply it represented brainstorming. The brush was the thesis statement, because you can't put makeup on without it, and the different colors of makeup were the supporting points. One African kid-- who often struggles in our class, because of his language difficulties-- drew a basketball hoop as the prompt, the ball as the thesis statement, his athletic positioning as the supporting points, and his shoes as the outline. It was spot on. When they were done, they went up front and explained their analogy-- and they were seriously GREAT! They totally got the concept, and by teaching it themselves, the different steps were repeatedly reinforced.
The next part of the lesson I had struggled with. I wanted to have them practice writing an essay in class, but on what? We finished our last book before break, and we'd only been looking at haiku in the last week. But how can you write an essay on a haiku? Then I remembered that my Wednesday sub was a guitar player who loved Bob Dylan.
So we busted out Bob Dylan.
After giving them some background on who Bob Dylan was, and the context in which he wrote his famous song, "Blowin' in the Wind," we played it for them, trading off verses, doing harmonies at the end, and Neil even did a sweet guitar solo. The kids loved it! Later in the day, in our mentoring class which normally just acts as a study hall, the kids all made me play more songs, and clamored about which one was their favorite. They liked my songs!!
After playing the Dylan song, I asked, "So what is this song about? What is Dylan saying with all this?" The kids have amazing poetic sensibilities, and they made some beautiful observations. One kid said that "blowin' in the wind" meant that, even though the answer is immediately in front of us, it would take work to CHASE after it-- and it's our laziness that results in all these continued problems. Another kid suggested that the line, "How many times must the white dove sail before she sleeps in the sand?" referenced Noah's ark. "The flood came because of all the chaos in the world, so it's asking when the world will finally be peaceful enough for the waters to go down so the dove can land." Another kid observed that the line, "How many times must a man look up before he sees the sky?" implied that we were so consumed with our own comforts and the "being indoors" that we refused to look at what was real, what was high above us, what was clear.
GREAT stuff, right??
Then we wrote an essay together, examining what the line "The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind" might mean. We brainstormed, and then outlined, and picked a thesis. The kids contributed their ideas for supporting points, and picked lines from the song as evidence. I asked them, "So are you getting this? You're tracking? If you came in to an essay exam, do you feel like you would know how to start now?" They all nodded, nodded, yes, yes we would.
The last ten minutes, they read the haikus they had been assigned to write for homework. And they were beautiful. They were BEAUTIFUL. These are just... magic moments.
And guys, I felt like such a TEACHER! I joked with the students, but was very much the adult in the room, and they were respectful and attentive. The sub I had today told me, "You have an incredible rapport with these kids. They really respect you. I mean they REALLY respect you, you can see it."
"Really??" I asked, delighted. "That mutual respect thing is very important to me-- I don't feel I can ask for their respect unless I demonstrate that I respect them, so that's been something I've been really working towards..."
"Well you HAVE it," he said. "You have a great sense of how to work with them-- you know when to joke with them to get them to do something you need, but you also know when to get more serious-- your tone and the inflection of your voice guides them in just the way it needs to. I've never seen a student teacher who was able to handle the kids like you do."
He told me that!!!
I saw my dragon-artist in the hall later on, who is consistently a contrarian in class-- any point made will be rebutted by this student. But he's delightful. I told him, "Clark, thanks for the white board illustration today, that was fantastic. And I always enjoy hearing what you have to say. I know we sometimes give you a hard time for your quips, but you're very witty."
"Thaaaanks," he said, in his particular way of talking. "I like that you do metaphors, it makes it less boring." This is a kid that doesn't do ANY homework, and rarely does ANY of the in class work. And he thought my lesson was interesting!
Later on, two boys were talking outside of our swing dance class: Andre-- remember Andre? and this sweet African immigrant kid named Rakeesh, who's tall and athletic, and works really hard. Andre said as I approached, "Hey Greta, Rakeesh's talkin' smack about you, you know..."
"Whaaaat?" I said, grinning.
"No I did't! I was not!" Rakeesh said. And then in his halting English he said, "She's a...good singah', an', an', an' a GREAT teacher!"
HE SAID THAT!! My own student said that I'm a great teacher!!!
It was just an awesome two days. There have been so many times this year when I've felt discouraged, when I've felt exhausted, when I've wondered if I really want to have to plan lessons and grade papers for the rest of my life... But days like this remind me why I got into this in the first place. I do feel CALLED to this. And these magical moments... man! Honestly, there's nothing like it, feeling like you got THROUGH somehow-- feeling like YOU learned something from these amazing, angsty, hormone-ridden, stubborn, sensitive, unique, incredible individuals staring back at you from their desks.
I know more hard moments are coming, and that there will be many more points where I feel discouraged. But the last two days were just the best. And this blog will be my way of preserving it-- putting it in a Mason jar and sealing it tight, and keeping it in a place where I can pull it out when I need that extra sustenance.
I loved these days. I just loved them.
But not during the last two days.
The last two days have been AWESOME.
Viola tagged along on a theatre field trip to Port Townsend this week, which meant I had all of Wednesday and Thursday to instruct. These are both block days-- 90 minute periods. It was my first time teaching a 90 minute lesson, and only the second time I would be teaching without Viola nearby to crack the whip--which meant that I was knee-knocking nervous. She had asked me to teach them how to write an in-class essay. When I worked out the lesson plan, I kept feeling discouraged and hitting mental blocks. After phoning a friend (actually two: teaching-cohort friend Josh, and edgy-English-teacher friend Mark) for ideas, I'd worked out what I wanted to do.
Wednesday: wore a very grown-up outfit to help things.
We started with the main information: I'd written out the main points to think about when writing an in-class essay and we read over the sheet as a class. The Wednesday crew seemed to drag during this part, so for Thursday, I took out key words and replaced them with blanks. The kids guessed what the key words were supposed to be and "filled in the blanks" as we went along, which kept them engaged.
Then came the fun part. "You all know how much I love metaphors," I told them. "And I think of writing an in-class essay as being similar to heading into BATTLE! You want to nail this thing, conquer the beast! So if we're going into battle, the first thing we have to do is figure out what we're fighting-- we have to pick the prompt we want to take on. So if this is a battle, do we want to fight the evil sorcerer or the dragon?"
The classes all perked up at this part. Sorcerers? Dragons? The dragon beat out poor Voldemort every time.
"Okay-- forgive my artistic abilities guys, I'm not nearly the artist that most of you are." And I drew a BIG dragon on the board. The kids loved that.
"Give it wings! Give it a spiky tail! Wait, it looks too happy. That's better."
I labeled it PROMPT. "Okay. That's what we're taking on. Now what do we need if we're going to fight a DRAGON?"
"A weapon!"
"RIGHT! And the weapon is going to be our thesis statement, because there's no way you can successfully take on a prompt without a thesis. So what should we fight him with?"
We fought the dragon with a fire hose, ninja stars, a magical sword, and a nuclear bomb, for 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th period respectively.
The boots were the essay outline, since you can't move forward without boots. The helmet represented brainstorming. And the armor made up the supporting points. "And if you don't make sure ALL areas of your body are covered, the dragon's going to lop that part right off! And THERE goes an arm! And we might pretend it's not a big deal, but it would definitely be more than a flesh wound. Okay? You want to make sure that you back up your thesis with GOOD armor."
In 4th period, one of our most eccentric kids who has repeatedly failed our class, but who is a BRILLIANT artist scooted up and shooed me away from the white board. "I want to draw the dragon." His creation was hilarious and elaborate, and I was able to teach while he went to dragon town.
Then the kids drew their own. And they came up with the BEST analogies! One girl drew her make-up kit: the directions were the outline, since you needed to have some idea how to put your make-up on. The different pictures of how you could apply it represented brainstorming. The brush was the thesis statement, because you can't put makeup on without it, and the different colors of makeup were the supporting points. One African kid-- who often struggles in our class, because of his language difficulties-- drew a basketball hoop as the prompt, the ball as the thesis statement, his athletic positioning as the supporting points, and his shoes as the outline. It was spot on. When they were done, they went up front and explained their analogy-- and they were seriously GREAT! They totally got the concept, and by teaching it themselves, the different steps were repeatedly reinforced.
The next part of the lesson I had struggled with. I wanted to have them practice writing an essay in class, but on what? We finished our last book before break, and we'd only been looking at haiku in the last week. But how can you write an essay on a haiku? Then I remembered that my Wednesday sub was a guitar player who loved Bob Dylan.
So we busted out Bob Dylan.
After giving them some background on who Bob Dylan was, and the context in which he wrote his famous song, "Blowin' in the Wind," we played it for them, trading off verses, doing harmonies at the end, and Neil even did a sweet guitar solo. The kids loved it! Later in the day, in our mentoring class which normally just acts as a study hall, the kids all made me play more songs, and clamored about which one was their favorite. They liked my songs!!
After playing the Dylan song, I asked, "So what is this song about? What is Dylan saying with all this?" The kids have amazing poetic sensibilities, and they made some beautiful observations. One kid said that "blowin' in the wind" meant that, even though the answer is immediately in front of us, it would take work to CHASE after it-- and it's our laziness that results in all these continued problems. Another kid suggested that the line, "How many times must the white dove sail before she sleeps in the sand?" referenced Noah's ark. "The flood came because of all the chaos in the world, so it's asking when the world will finally be peaceful enough for the waters to go down so the dove can land." Another kid observed that the line, "How many times must a man look up before he sees the sky?" implied that we were so consumed with our own comforts and the "being indoors" that we refused to look at what was real, what was high above us, what was clear.
GREAT stuff, right??
Then we wrote an essay together, examining what the line "The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind" might mean. We brainstormed, and then outlined, and picked a thesis. The kids contributed their ideas for supporting points, and picked lines from the song as evidence. I asked them, "So are you getting this? You're tracking? If you came in to an essay exam, do you feel like you would know how to start now?" They all nodded, nodded, yes, yes we would.
The last ten minutes, they read the haikus they had been assigned to write for homework. And they were beautiful. They were BEAUTIFUL. These are just... magic moments.
And guys, I felt like such a TEACHER! I joked with the students, but was very much the adult in the room, and they were respectful and attentive. The sub I had today told me, "You have an incredible rapport with these kids. They really respect you. I mean they REALLY respect you, you can see it."
"Really??" I asked, delighted. "That mutual respect thing is very important to me-- I don't feel I can ask for their respect unless I demonstrate that I respect them, so that's been something I've been really working towards..."
"Well you HAVE it," he said. "You have a great sense of how to work with them-- you know when to joke with them to get them to do something you need, but you also know when to get more serious-- your tone and the inflection of your voice guides them in just the way it needs to. I've never seen a student teacher who was able to handle the kids like you do."
He told me that!!!
I saw my dragon-artist in the hall later on, who is consistently a contrarian in class-- any point made will be rebutted by this student. But he's delightful. I told him, "Clark, thanks for the white board illustration today, that was fantastic. And I always enjoy hearing what you have to say. I know we sometimes give you a hard time for your quips, but you're very witty."
"Thaaaanks," he said, in his particular way of talking. "I like that you do metaphors, it makes it less boring." This is a kid that doesn't do ANY homework, and rarely does ANY of the in class work. And he thought my lesson was interesting!
Later on, two boys were talking outside of our swing dance class: Andre-- remember Andre? and this sweet African immigrant kid named Rakeesh, who's tall and athletic, and works really hard. Andre said as I approached, "Hey Greta, Rakeesh's talkin' smack about you, you know..."
"Whaaaat?" I said, grinning.
"No I did't! I was not!" Rakeesh said. And then in his halting English he said, "She's a...good singah', an', an', an' a GREAT teacher!"
HE SAID THAT!! My own student said that I'm a great teacher!!!
It was just an awesome two days. There have been so many times this year when I've felt discouraged, when I've felt exhausted, when I've wondered if I really want to have to plan lessons and grade papers for the rest of my life... But days like this remind me why I got into this in the first place. I do feel CALLED to this. And these magical moments... man! Honestly, there's nothing like it, feeling like you got THROUGH somehow-- feeling like YOU learned something from these amazing, angsty, hormone-ridden, stubborn, sensitive, unique, incredible individuals staring back at you from their desks.
I know more hard moments are coming, and that there will be many more points where I feel discouraged. But the last two days were just the best. And this blog will be my way of preserving it-- putting it in a Mason jar and sealing it tight, and keeping it in a place where I can pull it out when I need that extra sustenance.
I loved these days. I just loved them.
Jan 12, 2009
New Favorite Song
"The Girl," by City and Colour. Can't get it out of my head. Which is a great thing.
Jan 6, 2009
Oh the Awkward.
Back to teaching stories. Cause we're back in school.
So: in some ways, being a young-looking 24-year-old has helped me connect with the students. I'm close enough to their ages that I'm able to draw lesson parallels to cultural examples that I know they'll find relevant. I'm able to translate concepts into vocabulary they'll understand. The students see me as approachable. The girls like my clothes. Etcetera.
However, sometimes the generational proximity is too close for comfort. And I'm beginning to realize that the discomfort occurs more often on THEIR side, than on mine. Examples:
One tall lanky kid is taking our class over again as a Senior (we teach 9th and 10th Language Arts), and I always think of him as the "adult-ish" one. Then one day, I realized that he's essentially the same age as my little brother-- the kid who I call "Paullywog," who I get piggy-backs from, who I joke around with, who I give a hard time to, who is just my favorite little buddy. That made this Senior far less intimidating to me. He's an affable kid, and one day-- trying to make conversation while walking with him and his teeny tiny girlfriend down a loooong empty hallway-- I made the mistake of trying to communicate this realization.
"Dylan! I realized the other day that you're basically the same age as my little brother!"
Bemused look from Tall Lanky and Teeny Tiny.
In an effort to explain myself: "That makes me feel like I can give you a hard time."
Skeptical looks from Tall Lanky and Teeny Tiny.
"You know. HA HA HA!"
Tall Lanky and Teeny Tiny exchange incredulous expressions.
"Ahem...nevermind."
Also, I'll sometimes use casual terms of address without thinking twice. I occasionally call the girls, "Darlin'" or "hon," like I would any of my girlfriends, and I sometimes call the guys, "Dude." Like, "Dude, I saw you do your homework yesterday. Why don't you have it?" To me, this is normal. I say "dude" all the time in real life. "What a nutty dude." "Hiiii dude!" "Dude. Cut it out." But the kids-- I'm realizing-- don't think of me as a real life kind of person. Or at least not one that should use their vernacular. I called one of the boys "Dude" the other afternoon and he replied, "Why you always call me that?" He was grumpy that day. But still. It made me realize that-- as much as I may still be a young adult that goes on dates, that goes to parties, that listens to KEXP, that calls her guy friends "dudes"-- the kids are seeing me as their TEACHER. And teachers don't use words like "dude." At least, not until they're old enough that it's funny again.
Yesterday, I passed a group of boys in the hallway and one of them said, "Whaaaasssssuuuuup!" These are boys in the L.A. class, and we've joked around before. Reflexively, I said, "What's uuuup!" and jokingly flashed a "W" with my fingers. You know, like "Word."
Are you cringing? Because I'm cringing thinking about it.
The boys' mouths dropped open and the one who had whaassuupp'ed me said, "Don't ever do that again!"
Ummm.... Yes.
Right.
WON'T.
The good news is: as young as I look, and as young as I FEEL, and as much as I've worried about that hampering the students' respect for me: all this indicates they see me as their TEACHER. One 9th grader asked me if I would be her reference for a job interview. Since when did I become old enough to be a reference?? But I love that she asked me. And I love that I AM an adult in their lives. I'm learning to cool down the slang terms in "school life," even if I keep them up in "real life" (although-- let's be honest-- I've always sucked at slang anyway), because at school, I'm not 24. I'm not Paullywog's big sister. I'm not some dude's gal pal. I'm the TEACHER. I think maybe I slipped into the trap of trying to be "cool" with these kids, which is just sort of silly. Their determinations of approval aren't coming from whether or not they'd want to hang out with me after school-- nor SHOULD they be. Yikes, that has "awkward" written all OVER it. Their respect has been garnered more after I've taught a solid lesson, or played them a song on guitar, or told them a traveling story. Which are all very ADULT things to do.
I like recognizing those perimeters. I like being the grown-up. I like that they're the teenagers. And that doesn't mean I won't still be intentional about talking to them as equals, but I like that there's an understood separation. I like that I'm the teacher.
It's a good thing to be.
So: in some ways, being a young-looking 24-year-old has helped me connect with the students. I'm close enough to their ages that I'm able to draw lesson parallels to cultural examples that I know they'll find relevant. I'm able to translate concepts into vocabulary they'll understand. The students see me as approachable. The girls like my clothes. Etcetera.
However, sometimes the generational proximity is too close for comfort. And I'm beginning to realize that the discomfort occurs more often on THEIR side, than on mine. Examples:
One tall lanky kid is taking our class over again as a Senior (we teach 9th and 10th Language Arts), and I always think of him as the "adult-ish" one. Then one day, I realized that he's essentially the same age as my little brother-- the kid who I call "Paullywog," who I get piggy-backs from, who I joke around with, who I give a hard time to, who is just my favorite little buddy. That made this Senior far less intimidating to me. He's an affable kid, and one day-- trying to make conversation while walking with him and his teeny tiny girlfriend down a loooong empty hallway-- I made the mistake of trying to communicate this realization.
"Dylan! I realized the other day that you're basically the same age as my little brother!"
Bemused look from Tall Lanky and Teeny Tiny.
In an effort to explain myself: "That makes me feel like I can give you a hard time."
Skeptical looks from Tall Lanky and Teeny Tiny.
"You know. HA HA HA!"
Tall Lanky and Teeny Tiny exchange incredulous expressions.
"Ahem...nevermind."
Also, I'll sometimes use casual terms of address without thinking twice. I occasionally call the girls, "Darlin'" or "hon," like I would any of my girlfriends, and I sometimes call the guys, "Dude." Like, "Dude, I saw you do your homework yesterday. Why don't you have it?" To me, this is normal. I say "dude" all the time in real life. "What a nutty dude." "Hiiii dude!" "Dude. Cut it out." But the kids-- I'm realizing-- don't think of me as a real life kind of person. Or at least not one that should use their vernacular. I called one of the boys "Dude" the other afternoon and he replied, "Why you always call me that?" He was grumpy that day. But still. It made me realize that-- as much as I may still be a young adult that goes on dates, that goes to parties, that listens to KEXP, that calls her guy friends "dudes"-- the kids are seeing me as their TEACHER. And teachers don't use words like "dude." At least, not until they're old enough that it's funny again.
Yesterday, I passed a group of boys in the hallway and one of them said, "Whaaaasssssuuuuup!" These are boys in the L.A. class, and we've joked around before. Reflexively, I said, "What's uuuup!" and jokingly flashed a "W" with my fingers. You know, like "Word."
Are you cringing? Because I'm cringing thinking about it.
The boys' mouths dropped open and the one who had whaassuupp'ed me said, "Don't ever do that again!"
Ummm.... Yes.
Right.
WON'T.
The good news is: as young as I look, and as young as I FEEL, and as much as I've worried about that hampering the students' respect for me: all this indicates they see me as their TEACHER. One 9th grader asked me if I would be her reference for a job interview. Since when did I become old enough to be a reference?? But I love that she asked me. And I love that I AM an adult in their lives. I'm learning to cool down the slang terms in "school life," even if I keep them up in "real life" (although-- let's be honest-- I've always sucked at slang anyway), because at school, I'm not 24. I'm not Paullywog's big sister. I'm not some dude's gal pal. I'm the TEACHER. I think maybe I slipped into the trap of trying to be "cool" with these kids, which is just sort of silly. Their determinations of approval aren't coming from whether or not they'd want to hang out with me after school-- nor SHOULD they be. Yikes, that has "awkward" written all OVER it. Their respect has been garnered more after I've taught a solid lesson, or played them a song on guitar, or told them a traveling story. Which are all very ADULT things to do.
I like recognizing those perimeters. I like being the grown-up. I like that they're the teenagers. And that doesn't mean I won't still be intentional about talking to them as equals, but I like that there's an understood separation. I like that I'm the teacher.
It's a good thing to be.
Jan 3, 2009
Infomercial, Shminformercial
This is my new favorite toy:
It's called "The Great Lengths Cardi," and I found it at Anthropologie. You can get it here. I bought with an Anthro gift card that I got for Christmas. HAPPY DAY.
Look at all the things you can DOOOOO with it!
This is it just open. Normal.
Which, in my mind, looks very artistic. Also TEACHERY.
This is how I wore it on New Year's Eve, over a tunic dress thing. You tie the long lapel things together, and it becomes shrug-a-licious.
OR, I discovered this one tonight: you throw one lapel thing OVER the shoulder, and suddenly things are fabulous and DRAMATIC.
Alternately, you can wrap the lapel thingys around your waist, and tie them behind you...
And look! Wrap-shirt thing!
You can pop the collar if you're in a frat boy kind of mood.
Also, you can throw one lapel across your body and over one shoulder...
And wrap the OTHER lapel across your waist and down at a diagonal...
And see?? That's sort of fancy.
And plus! Since the back is tailored, even when the lapels are open, it still shows your shape.
Okay, well the lapels AREN'T open in that picture. But if they were, you would still be able to see the waist.
So I am just liking it a lot. And I thought I would share the good news with all interested ladies, or all gentlemen interested in getting presents for ladies.
And that is my blog for today.
It's called "The Great Lengths Cardi," and I found it at Anthropologie. You can get it here. I bought with an Anthro gift card that I got for Christmas. HAPPY DAY.
Look at all the things you can DOOOOO with it!
This is it just open. Normal.
Which, in my mind, looks very artistic. Also TEACHERY.
This is how I wore it on New Year's Eve, over a tunic dress thing. You tie the long lapel things together, and it becomes shrug-a-licious.
OR, I discovered this one tonight: you throw one lapel thing OVER the shoulder, and suddenly things are fabulous and DRAMATIC.
Alternately, you can wrap the lapel thingys around your waist, and tie them behind you...
And look! Wrap-shirt thing!
You can pop the collar if you're in a frat boy kind of mood.
Also, you can throw one lapel across your body and over one shoulder...
And wrap the OTHER lapel across your waist and down at a diagonal...
And see?? That's sort of fancy.
And plus! Since the back is tailored, even when the lapels are open, it still shows your shape.
Okay, well the lapels AREN'T open in that picture. But if they were, you would still be able to see the waist.
So I am just liking it a lot. And I thought I would share the good news with all interested ladies, or all gentlemen interested in getting presents for ladies.
And that is my blog for today.
Jan 2, 2009
Faith in Freedom
The sky is gray, I think it will rain soon
But the clouds are polite
And unassuming
The sun has just about gone down
That shady dusk lingers.
I look at that vast gray ocean
From inside my car
I'm parked at the top of a hill
I've got my window down
And my head is out
And it's resting on my folded arms.
Power lines stretch like
Horizontal prison bars
And they're blocking my view of that ocean
They're blocking my flight
To what is all unbound
Blocking my flight
And I am not unbound
Right now, I've got to have faith in freedom
Right now, I've got to have a little bit of faith
In freedom for me
There's got to be some freedom
From myself,
This life.
When I was a girl, I loved to sink
Into deep water
With my eyes closed
Sink into deep water
With my eyes closed
And every muscle relaxed.
When I released and
Surrendered control
When everything just everything had all been let go
I felt safe
I felt peace.
This is the blog where I tell you about what I did on January 1st.
I wrote that poem a couple years ago, the year I lived in California.
The other day, I told my friend that I felt like driftwood in the ocean. "Like... I bob, and I get tossed back and forth and all over the place... But I'm still AFLOAT, you know? I haven't SUNK yet. And I have no control. The funny thing is though, is that I've always associated the ocean with the idea of God, and of peace--"
My friend made a noise like she'd had a THOUGHT, and said, "You've given up being anchored."
And I thought, "Well."
"That is sort of true."
Last New Year's Day was about getting back to "me," getting back to center, getting back to Him. This New Year's was not about that. I have me. I have Him. This New Year's was about letting myself be blown blown blown about and rained rained rained upon and tossed tossed tossed around, and saying, "Okay. I can hope. I can believe. I can trust. I can let go. I will be okay. I can keep going."
But I didn't realize that when I woke up on January 1st.
When I woke up on New Year's, I felt the same as the day before. Maybe not quite the same. Maybe an inch different. But not leaps and bounds different. Not transformed, different. Not a whole new calendar different. And I thought, "What. Lame. This is my big new start. What the heck."
And I looked out at the weather and it was AWFUL. It was dark dark dark, like oppressively dark, and COLD, and rainy, and windy. And I thought, "Ew. I don't want My Big New Year's Walk out in that. That will not be a sparkly walk."
So I took a long time eating breakfast, and I took a long time getting dressed, and I took a long time looking out the window, and I took a long time playing my guitar, and I took a long time getting my plan together.
I'm not sure if I want to tell you the plan yet. I might keep what the plan was a secret.
I took a long time, is my point. And finally it was 12:30pm and I knew that if I wanted to make My Big New Year's Walk happen, I needed to get going. The plan this year was to get to Golden Gardens, which-- I would discover-- is about 11 miles away from Grandpa's house. I had already decided that the walk would probably not be as incredible as last year, because last year's walk was just like a zip-line into the land of rainbows and fairy dust and sparkle lollipops and baby sea otters that wink. I couldn't expect that to just replicate itself. So I made the plan more about what I would DO at the final destination.
That part of the plan is what I haven't told you yet. I still don't know if I want to tell you.
I got my backpack together, and bundled up, and left.
I saw people and waited for last year's twinkling to happen. "Happy New Year!" I called. But they did not become my instantaneous friends. They gave me a bemused smile, or a nod of acknowledgment, or a short, "Hello." "What...??" I wondered. "Why are these not fabulous New Year's interactions...?"
I did not see silly men pulling rick-shaws on bicycles, or the ladies in their matching track suits. I ran into no friends at Starbucks, and I gave up taking pictures just out of my neighborhood. The day was just DRAB. I knew it wouldn't be last year, but it was just ESPECIALLY drab. Annie called at one point to ask how it was going and all I could get out was, "Well... It's just not very magical!" And then I cried.
(I know. Silly.)
But I kept walking. And walking. And my legs started getting sore, because I really don't make a habit of being physically active, but I knew the dark day would get ACTUALLY dark at an earlier time than usual, so I picked up the pace and hurried up hills and down hills and up hills and down hills. And finally, I reached Golden Gardens.
Golden Gardens, for those of you unfamiliar with Seattle, is not really a gardeny place at all. It is a beach. It looks like this:
Kind of like a normal beach.
And I made my way out onto rocks that led to where the water was deeper, and I took a glass mason jar out of my back-pack. And I took one more look at the duct taping job to ensure the jar would be water-tight, and I took one more peek through the glass at the letter inside. I thought about what I'd written.
And then I chucked the jar out into the Pacific.
That is the part of the plan I've only decided to tell you about just now.
Environmentalists: forgive me. The romantic notion overrode more realistic musings until the jar was already bobbing away from me. I know that it may very well end up just down the beach. I know it might hit a rock and break and sink. But the throw and the arc and the release of all those soul scrawlings was such a breath-filled feeling. It was a physical representation of letting myself be unanchored. Off I go, and it felt like flying. I don't know where it will end up, nor do I: me. But after years and years of begging for answers, and grasping for control, and clutching at the future: it was such a good feeling to just LET IT GO.
When I was a girl, I loved to sink
Into deep water
With my eyes closed
Sink into deep water
With my eyes closed
And every muscle relaxed.
When I released and
Surrendered control
When everything just everything had all been let go
I felt safe
I felt peace.
I felt faith.
I felt freedom.
But the clouds are polite
And unassuming
The sun has just about gone down
That shady dusk lingers.
I look at that vast gray ocean
From inside my car
I'm parked at the top of a hill
I've got my window down
And my head is out
And it's resting on my folded arms.
Power lines stretch like
Horizontal prison bars
And they're blocking my view of that ocean
They're blocking my flight
To what is all unbound
Blocking my flight
And I am not unbound
Right now, I've got to have faith in freedom
Right now, I've got to have a little bit of faith
In freedom for me
There's got to be some freedom
From myself,
This life.
When I was a girl, I loved to sink
Into deep water
With my eyes closed
Sink into deep water
With my eyes closed
And every muscle relaxed.
When I released and
Surrendered control
When everything just everything had all been let go
I felt safe
I felt peace.
This is the blog where I tell you about what I did on January 1st.
I wrote that poem a couple years ago, the year I lived in California.
The other day, I told my friend that I felt like driftwood in the ocean. "Like... I bob, and I get tossed back and forth and all over the place... But I'm still AFLOAT, you know? I haven't SUNK yet. And I have no control. The funny thing is though, is that I've always associated the ocean with the idea of God, and of peace--"
My friend made a noise like she'd had a THOUGHT, and said, "You've given up being anchored."
And I thought, "Well."
"That is sort of true."
Last New Year's Day was about getting back to "me," getting back to center, getting back to Him. This New Year's was not about that. I have me. I have Him. This New Year's was about letting myself be blown blown blown about and rained rained rained upon and tossed tossed tossed around, and saying, "Okay. I can hope. I can believe. I can trust. I can let go. I will be okay. I can keep going."
But I didn't realize that when I woke up on January 1st.
When I woke up on New Year's, I felt the same as the day before. Maybe not quite the same. Maybe an inch different. But not leaps and bounds different. Not transformed, different. Not a whole new calendar different. And I thought, "What. Lame. This is my big new start. What the heck."
And I looked out at the weather and it was AWFUL. It was dark dark dark, like oppressively dark, and COLD, and rainy, and windy. And I thought, "Ew. I don't want My Big New Year's Walk out in that. That will not be a sparkly walk."
So I took a long time eating breakfast, and I took a long time getting dressed, and I took a long time looking out the window, and I took a long time playing my guitar, and I took a long time getting my plan together.
I'm not sure if I want to tell you the plan yet. I might keep what the plan was a secret.
I took a long time, is my point. And finally it was 12:30pm and I knew that if I wanted to make My Big New Year's Walk happen, I needed to get going. The plan this year was to get to Golden Gardens, which-- I would discover-- is about 11 miles away from Grandpa's house. I had already decided that the walk would probably not be as incredible as last year, because last year's walk was just like a zip-line into the land of rainbows and fairy dust and sparkle lollipops and baby sea otters that wink. I couldn't expect that to just replicate itself. So I made the plan more about what I would DO at the final destination.
That part of the plan is what I haven't told you yet. I still don't know if I want to tell you.
I got my backpack together, and bundled up, and left.
I saw people and waited for last year's twinkling to happen. "Happy New Year!" I called. But they did not become my instantaneous friends. They gave me a bemused smile, or a nod of acknowledgment, or a short, "Hello." "What...??" I wondered. "Why are these not fabulous New Year's interactions...?"
I did not see silly men pulling rick-shaws on bicycles, or the ladies in their matching track suits. I ran into no friends at Starbucks, and I gave up taking pictures just out of my neighborhood. The day was just DRAB. I knew it wouldn't be last year, but it was just ESPECIALLY drab. Annie called at one point to ask how it was going and all I could get out was, "Well... It's just not very magical!" And then I cried.
(I know. Silly.)
But I kept walking. And walking. And my legs started getting sore, because I really don't make a habit of being physically active, but I knew the dark day would get ACTUALLY dark at an earlier time than usual, so I picked up the pace and hurried up hills and down hills and up hills and down hills. And finally, I reached Golden Gardens.
Golden Gardens, for those of you unfamiliar with Seattle, is not really a gardeny place at all. It is a beach. It looks like this:
Kind of like a normal beach.
And I made my way out onto rocks that led to where the water was deeper, and I took a glass mason jar out of my back-pack. And I took one more look at the duct taping job to ensure the jar would be water-tight, and I took one more peek through the glass at the letter inside. I thought about what I'd written.
And then I chucked the jar out into the Pacific.
That is the part of the plan I've only decided to tell you about just now.
Environmentalists: forgive me. The romantic notion overrode more realistic musings until the jar was already bobbing away from me. I know that it may very well end up just down the beach. I know it might hit a rock and break and sink. But the throw and the arc and the release of all those soul scrawlings was such a breath-filled feeling. It was a physical representation of letting myself be unanchored. Off I go, and it felt like flying. I don't know where it will end up, nor do I: me. But after years and years of begging for answers, and grasping for control, and clutching at the future: it was such a good feeling to just LET IT GO.
When I was a girl, I loved to sink
Into deep water
With my eyes closed
Sink into deep water
With my eyes closed
And every muscle relaxed.
When I released and
Surrendered control
When everything just everything had all been let go
I felt safe
I felt peace.
I felt faith.
I felt freedom.
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