I have discovered an ardent love for footy pajamas.
* * *
I am now on Christmas break. Started it off on a raucous note last night by collapsing into bed at 9pm. Hoping to ward off future narcoleptic attacks. At least until after New Year's Eve.
* * *
God must be trying to teach me something along the lines of "put your foot in your mouth and keep it there." I keep offending people.
* * *
Yesterday, the last day before break, I took my 7th period sophomores around the hallways caroling. Got some delighted looks from students; some ornery looks from teachers. (Well-- just Mr. Wa, but that's to be expected.) My rationale: no one's concentrating during the last 15 minutes anyway, so we may as well spread holiday cheer. Right?
* * *
Except I assigned homework over break. I know. I may as well have bombed Bethlehem.
* * *
Like I said, I keep offending people.
* * *
Description of recommended apparel for tonight's Christmas party: "Dress in holiday attire, but no tacky sweaters please. We're keeping it classy." How on earth does one dress "holidayish" if one can't wear a tacky sweater??
* * *
Today, when reading a book to my 4-year-old niece, I received an impromptu lecture on safe reading habits. "But you have to be careful when turning the pages Auntie Greta, because if you go like THIS, the pages will cut you, it will cut on your nail. This is a very sharp book."
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 14, 2010
One Fine Day
When I was in sixth grade, I developed a giant crush on the boy across the street. He was two years older than me-- my older brother's best friend. Therefore: irresistibly forbidden. The crush continued through middle school, through high school-- even into college. In between boyfriends, I would return to my crush on the boy across the street, and in all those days of pining, I would think of this song:
One fine day
You'll look at me
And you will know our love was
Meant to be
One fine day
You're gonna want me for your girl...
ONE day, I thought, that boy is going to decide that I'm the one he wants. Maybe after he goes off to college, I concluded. He'll come home, and WOWZA, I'll be all grown up, and then he'll like me!
And funny enough, that's what happened.
So this boy and I swung from the star-hung pendulum, reaching to one end of the galaxy in passion and sureness, and then swinging to the other where we said firm goodbyes... On one end, exchanging rhapsodic utterances, on the other, watching the star trails burn out with the darkened knowledge that the ride could only ever be temporary. Eventually, we were graced with Disappointment's dreary presence, and we stopped speaking, grew apart, fell out of favor, began forgetting.
And I fell in love with new boys.
And I learned about real heart-break.
Today, on my drive home, I heard on the radio--
One fine day
You'll look at me
And you will know our love was
Meant to be
One fine day
You're gonna want me for your girl...
... And I thought of the boy across the street: now a grown-up man with a fiance, in a city far far away. All I could do was shake my head in amazement at the way time has changed things. The memory of my fervent teenage affection now seems as fuzzy and old as the recording of that song. Yet forgetting, it turns out, brings a "finer day" than the two of us ever had with one another. The consummation of the "one fine day" was not his choosing me, but his forgetting me, and choosing someone else; the deliverance of the "one fine day" was not me receiving him, but forgetting him, and throwing open the doors of my heart to the great wide spaces of promise. Perhaps it isn't forgetting even, but rather remembering in a different way: this fine day's remembrance is colored-- not with longing and regret-- but with innocent nostalgia.
* * * * *
I say all this, because I'm forgetting again.
"I fell in love with new boys. And I learned about real heart-break."
Or rather, remembering in a different way than I have been remembering.
It is such a mercy to forget. Such a mercy to remember in a different way. Such a mercy to hear an old song, and realize that one fine day, I hear it with a different heart.
One fine day
You'll look at me
And you will know our love was
Meant to be
One fine day
You're gonna want me for your girl...
ONE day, I thought, that boy is going to decide that I'm the one he wants. Maybe after he goes off to college, I concluded. He'll come home, and WOWZA, I'll be all grown up, and then he'll like me!
And funny enough, that's what happened.
So this boy and I swung from the star-hung pendulum, reaching to one end of the galaxy in passion and sureness, and then swinging to the other where we said firm goodbyes... On one end, exchanging rhapsodic utterances, on the other, watching the star trails burn out with the darkened knowledge that the ride could only ever be temporary. Eventually, we were graced with Disappointment's dreary presence, and we stopped speaking, grew apart, fell out of favor, began forgetting.
And I fell in love with new boys.
And I learned about real heart-break.
Today, on my drive home, I heard on the radio--
One fine day
You'll look at me
And you will know our love was
Meant to be
One fine day
You're gonna want me for your girl...
... And I thought of the boy across the street: now a grown-up man with a fiance, in a city far far away. All I could do was shake my head in amazement at the way time has changed things. The memory of my fervent teenage affection now seems as fuzzy and old as the recording of that song. Yet forgetting, it turns out, brings a "finer day" than the two of us ever had with one another. The consummation of the "one fine day" was not his choosing me, but his forgetting me, and choosing someone else; the deliverance of the "one fine day" was not me receiving him, but forgetting him, and throwing open the doors of my heart to the great wide spaces of promise. Perhaps it isn't forgetting even, but rather remembering in a different way: this fine day's remembrance is colored-- not with longing and regret-- but with innocent nostalgia.
* * * * *
I say all this, because I'm forgetting again.
"I fell in love with new boys. And I learned about real heart-break."
Or rather, remembering in a different way than I have been remembering.
It is such a mercy to forget. Such a mercy to remember in a different way. Such a mercy to hear an old song, and realize that one fine day, I hear it with a different heart.
Dec 13, 2010
I tried posting this as a status update but it was too long.
By me.
(Forgive the breaches in iambic pentameter.)
To leave or not to leave? That is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the long run to suffer
The long oppression of my classroom,
Or to take off from school,
And sink into the comfort of my couch?
To leave, to part-- no more.
And in parting, to say I end the thousands of messy papers
Stacked on my desk and simply forget them.
'Tis oblivion devoutly to be wished. To leave, to vacate...
To vacate, perchance to VACATION... Ay, there's the rub,
For in Christmas vacation what dreams will come!
Yet before I shuffle off this grading coil,
I first must pause... There's the respect
That makes for such long hours at school.
For who would bear the messy desk, the flourescent lights,
The piles of papers, the students' slacking,
The incessant planning, the papers still to come--
When I might simply leave and go home
To my hot tub? Who would all this bear,
To grunt and sweat for this difficult profession,
But that the dread of grading over Christmas vacation
Makes me rather sweat it out now, and try to get 'er done...
So that come Friday I'm just a little bit more free than I am right now.
Thus, conscience does make drudges of us all...
And thus the native tendency to procrastinate
Weakens and cowers when such Christmasy freedom beckons on the horizon.
Soft you now, the AP timed writes...! Back to work and grading...
p.s. Have I mentioned recently that I really DO like my job...? Most of the time...?
(Forgive the breaches in iambic pentameter.)
To leave or not to leave? That is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the long run to suffer
The long oppression of my classroom,
Or to take off from school,
And sink into the comfort of my couch?
To leave, to part-- no more.
And in parting, to say I end the thousands of messy papers
Stacked on my desk and simply forget them.
'Tis oblivion devoutly to be wished. To leave, to vacate...
To vacate, perchance to VACATION... Ay, there's the rub,
For in Christmas vacation what dreams will come!
Yet before I shuffle off this grading coil,
I first must pause... There's the respect
That makes for such long hours at school.
For who would bear the messy desk, the flourescent lights,
The piles of papers, the students' slacking,
The incessant planning, the papers still to come--
When I might simply leave and go home
To my hot tub? Who would all this bear,
To grunt and sweat for this difficult profession,
But that the dread of grading over Christmas vacation
Makes me rather sweat it out now, and try to get 'er done...
So that come Friday I'm just a little bit more free than I am right now.
Thus, conscience does make drudges of us all...
And thus the native tendency to procrastinate
Weakens and cowers when such Christmasy freedom beckons on the horizon.
Soft you now, the AP timed writes...! Back to work and grading...
p.s. Have I mentioned recently that I really DO like my job...? Most of the time...?
Nov 23, 2010
Thanksgiving Song
When I taught 1st grade Sunday school several years ago, I wrote a Thanksgiving song to teach the little bitties. It went:
I'm thankful for
The things that I eat
The shoes on my feet
I'm thankful Lord!
I'm thankful for
A house and a home
And that I'm not alone
I'm thankful Lord.
And I will sing
A prayer of Thanksgiving
Happy Thanksgiving!
I'm thankful Lord!
I'm thankful Lord,
I'm thankful Lord.
And you know-- even though there are many thoughts clamoring in my head and many mixed feelings about the holidays... I am so thankful, for all those things. I have good food to eat; I have shoes and warm clothes and a cozy home. I am not alone-- not only because I have wonderful friends in my life and a family that loves me, but because I am a daughter of the King and He is with me every moment.
I'm thankful Lord!
I'm thankful for
The things that I eat
The shoes on my feet
I'm thankful Lord!
I'm thankful for
A house and a home
And that I'm not alone
I'm thankful Lord.
And I will sing
A prayer of Thanksgiving
Happy Thanksgiving!
I'm thankful Lord!
I'm thankful Lord,
I'm thankful Lord.
And you know-- even though there are many thoughts clamoring in my head and many mixed feelings about the holidays... I am so thankful, for all those things. I have good food to eat; I have shoes and warm clothes and a cozy home. I am not alone-- not only because I have wonderful friends in my life and a family that loves me, but because I am a daughter of the King and He is with me every moment.
I'm thankful Lord!
Nov 19, 2010
Lions and Teacups
Oh, Pobrecita
Tragic little tea-cup
Did he go and shatter you again?
But the way that you're cryin'
Is more like a lion
Licks her wounds before she seeks revenge.
- Bishop Allen
Listened to this song this morning. I think most women are a mixture of fragile tea-cups, and lionesses. Perhaps that's why we confuse men so much sometimes. They expect lion, and we're tea-cup. They expect tea-cup and we're suddenly lion.
I think that's alright.
Tragic little tea-cup
Did he go and shatter you again?
But the way that you're cryin'
Is more like a lion
Licks her wounds before she seeks revenge.
- Bishop Allen
Listened to this song this morning. I think most women are a mixture of fragile tea-cups, and lionesses. Perhaps that's why we confuse men so much sometimes. They expect lion, and we're tea-cup. They expect tea-cup and we're suddenly lion.
I think that's alright.
Nov 18, 2010
Pandora's Last Hope
One thing that I love about teaching literature is that the stories are constantly teaching me-- even ones that I've already become familiar with. Poems shift in their significance as I get older and stories likewise take on greater depth.
Tonight, Annie and I were talking about hope-- and how, difficult as it may be to maintain at times, we are absolutely called to preserve it. We MUST do whatever we can to blow our fragile breath on hope's dying embers... to coax its wilting bloom back to life.
Our conversation made me think of Pandora. Pandora, as I'm sure you know, was the one that opened the box-- THE box, the one from which all the world's evils escaped. This first woman, created as a punishment for mankind (yes. according to the ancient Greeks, woman was created as a punishment for man), Pandora was sent to her absent-minded husband Epimetheus with a giant, elaborately carved box as a dowry. Inside the box, writhed all the pregnant evils of the world: hate and bitterness and anger and fear and greed and pride and lust and lies and selfishness-- everything devoid of goodness or love. At one point, when left to her own devices, Pandora's curiosity got the best of her, and she opened the box--- thereby releasing all the contagion of the world. Pandora is Greek mythology's version of Eve; her action led to a darkened world. Punishment for mankind, indeed.
At this point, the stories begin to vary. Some versions say that Pandora managed to clap the lid of the box shut before the last inhabitant flew out-- and ended up shutting the lid on "hopelessness." Because Hope was preserved, we are able to withstand the evils that were released. Other versions say that Pandora initially shut the lid on Hope, but that the sweet bird clamored to get out. In that version, Pandora eventually opens the lid once more and Hope is released, ready to offer a balm to the world's wounded souls. Another version says that Hope remained forever imprisoned in the box; but in those versions, it is still somehow understood that Hope is what enables us to survive the rest. Hope is the only thing that keeps us from giving over to utter darkness and despair.
Those variations came to mind as Annie and I talked tonight. It's fitting, I think, that we don't exactly know whether Hope was imprisoned or released; whether it was Hopelessness or Hope that was left. Hope is such a slippery entity at times, isn't it? Sometimes it seems like the meanest thing to hold on to. We cultivate it and feed it bits of our heart, only to sometimes be ultimately disappointed. In other moments, Hope truly is the only life preserver. When all is lost, Hope is our ONLY sustenance. In those moments, the myth of Pandora's box seems especially relevant. In the face of overwhelming evil, we are kept alive by one thing alone: Hope.
Annie posted as her facebook status yesterday: "Hope takes practice, and practice doesn't always make perfect. But it's still worth practicing."
This is why Annie is my best friend. I couldn't agree more.
Tonight, Annie and I were talking about hope-- and how, difficult as it may be to maintain at times, we are absolutely called to preserve it. We MUST do whatever we can to blow our fragile breath on hope's dying embers... to coax its wilting bloom back to life.
Our conversation made me think of Pandora. Pandora, as I'm sure you know, was the one that opened the box-- THE box, the one from which all the world's evils escaped. This first woman, created as a punishment for mankind (yes. according to the ancient Greeks, woman was created as a punishment for man), Pandora was sent to her absent-minded husband Epimetheus with a giant, elaborately carved box as a dowry. Inside the box, writhed all the pregnant evils of the world: hate and bitterness and anger and fear and greed and pride and lust and lies and selfishness-- everything devoid of goodness or love. At one point, when left to her own devices, Pandora's curiosity got the best of her, and she opened the box--- thereby releasing all the contagion of the world. Pandora is Greek mythology's version of Eve; her action led to a darkened world. Punishment for mankind, indeed.
At this point, the stories begin to vary. Some versions say that Pandora managed to clap the lid of the box shut before the last inhabitant flew out-- and ended up shutting the lid on "hopelessness." Because Hope was preserved, we are able to withstand the evils that were released. Other versions say that Pandora initially shut the lid on Hope, but that the sweet bird clamored to get out. In that version, Pandora eventually opens the lid once more and Hope is released, ready to offer a balm to the world's wounded souls. Another version says that Hope remained forever imprisoned in the box; but in those versions, it is still somehow understood that Hope is what enables us to survive the rest. Hope is the only thing that keeps us from giving over to utter darkness and despair.
Those variations came to mind as Annie and I talked tonight. It's fitting, I think, that we don't exactly know whether Hope was imprisoned or released; whether it was Hopelessness or Hope that was left. Hope is such a slippery entity at times, isn't it? Sometimes it seems like the meanest thing to hold on to. We cultivate it and feed it bits of our heart, only to sometimes be ultimately disappointed. In other moments, Hope truly is the only life preserver. When all is lost, Hope is our ONLY sustenance. In those moments, the myth of Pandora's box seems especially relevant. In the face of overwhelming evil, we are kept alive by one thing alone: Hope.
Annie posted as her facebook status yesterday: "Hope takes practice, and practice doesn't always make perfect. But it's still worth practicing."
This is why Annie is my best friend. I couldn't agree more.
Nov 15, 2010
Playing Dress-Up
Lots of costumes lately. This: I love. And furthermore, order my students to participate in.
We started with Beowulf. After being told that they had 20 minutes to create costumes out of found objects around the school, the seniors then reported back to class, and enacted the Battle between Beowulf and the evil swamp monster Grendel:
Grendel, spawn of demons, ostracized, lonely, and bitter, comes to Herot Hall to eat the sleeping Danes where his grief and anger is sated with their blood...
But on this night, Grendel's feast does not proceed without interruption. The great hero Beowulf lies in wait, pretending to sleep and biding his time until the monster is close enough to attack...
And then-- Beowulf leaps up, and STRIKES the monster!
They battle ferociously, ramming into the walls of the great hall, until at last Beowulf subdues his foe--
--And ultimately, rips off the arm of the swamp monster. Grendel, defeated and wounded, limps back to the swamp to die alone, leaving a trail of blood behind him...
For Beowulf's second battle I took a tamer approach, telling the four groups of kids that they needed to paraphrase their assigned sections of text in the style of snooty brits, southern hicks, valley girls, and Napoleon Dynamite/Kip, respectively. That got them practicing paraphrasing the text AND writing to a specific audience/ utilizing a specific style/voice. But the kids wanted to go back to acting it all out in costumes for Beowulf's last battle. So once more, they took 20 minutes to find costumes for Beowulf and the dragon:
King Beowulf, now old and at the end of his life, approaches the dragon in his cave...
They begin to fight. It is a fierce battle, for though Beowulf is now an old man, he is still a fierce warrior... However, it will take everything he has to break through those dragon scale balloons...
At long last, Beowulf is engulfed by the dragon's flames... (Please note my student "S" who represents the embodiment of the dragon's fire.) Beowulf, alas! begins to die.
All is not lost however! A new hero emerges: the young Wiglaf rushes to his king's aid, risking life and limb to defeat the dragon. As he dies, Beowulf passes his proverbial "torch" to the young hero...
And in this interpretation, his beard as well...
Finally, Beowulf dies, and his devoted followers grieve his passing with great solemnity...
Fun, right? WE all were entertained, in any case.
Next it was the sophomores' turn. To end their mythology unit, I had all the sophs sign up to play a character from mythology; they then had to research this character and act the part out during one fabulous mythological lunchtime extravaganza. Incidentally, the end of the unit fell on October 29th-- the Friday before Halloween. Note: my private Christian school kids are not allowed to dress up for Halloween. Some of the older male teachers, I must admit, watched my sophomores parade around in their togas with great suspicion, at one point telling me, "So THIS was your way of getting around the 'no dress up' rule, huh?"
I responded-- in full toga regalia-- "The end of my mythology unit just HAPPENED to fall on this Friday. Halloween has nothing to do with it."
"Suuure," they teased, good-naturedly. "And you probably planned waaaay out in advance to make sure it fell on this day, didn't you?"
"I WISH I could plan that far in advance!" I retorted.
In any case, the sophomores did a great job!
From left to right, we have a Muse (goddess of inspiration), Artemis (goddess of the hunt, hence the leopard skin), Athena (goddess of wisdom and war), and Aphrodite (goddess of love, and mother of Cupid who is represented in baby doll form.)
In another part of the cafeteria, Achilles gets ready to strike Hector, while the god of War, Ares, urges them on...
Meanwhile, Dionysus, god of Wine, proceeds to imbibe in a corner...
Narcissus, of course, is busy gazing at himself in any reflective surface he finds...
While Hercules, fresh off his lion kill, converses with Argus, the hundred-eyed guard...
Cronus, unfortunately, is still trying to prevent being overthrown by eating his children as soon as they're born...
And Daedalus-- master inventor, most well-known for his homemade wings which his son Icarus famously ruined by flying too close to the sun-- is interviewed by one of my seniors who is currently earning extra credit.
Can you spot the teacher??
Don't worry. I make sure I get in on the action too-- about a month ago, the Mentorship class hosted a murder-mystery-themed event and I got asked to play the trophy wife of the clubbed victim. I got to be the one to scream bloody murder-- remember?
That's the exciting stuff. Most days, however, consist of normal clothing and relatively calm-- albeit goofy-- learning activities in class. And finally, most days end with me sitting at my desk, utterly knackered, head spinning after another full day, and trying to reassemble my brain for some grade-entering before I leave.
It's a gift-- I try to remember that every day. I'm so blessed to get to do what I love.
We started with Beowulf. After being told that they had 20 minutes to create costumes out of found objects around the school, the seniors then reported back to class, and enacted the Battle between Beowulf and the evil swamp monster Grendel:
Grendel, spawn of demons, ostracized, lonely, and bitter, comes to Herot Hall to eat the sleeping Danes where his grief and anger is sated with their blood...
But on this night, Grendel's feast does not proceed without interruption. The great hero Beowulf lies in wait, pretending to sleep and biding his time until the monster is close enough to attack...
And then-- Beowulf leaps up, and STRIKES the monster!
They battle ferociously, ramming into the walls of the great hall, until at last Beowulf subdues his foe--
--And ultimately, rips off the arm of the swamp monster. Grendel, defeated and wounded, limps back to the swamp to die alone, leaving a trail of blood behind him...
For Beowulf's second battle I took a tamer approach, telling the four groups of kids that they needed to paraphrase their assigned sections of text in the style of snooty brits, southern hicks, valley girls, and Napoleon Dynamite/Kip, respectively. That got them practicing paraphrasing the text AND writing to a specific audience/ utilizing a specific style/voice. But the kids wanted to go back to acting it all out in costumes for Beowulf's last battle. So once more, they took 20 minutes to find costumes for Beowulf and the dragon:
King Beowulf, now old and at the end of his life, approaches the dragon in his cave...
They begin to fight. It is a fierce battle, for though Beowulf is now an old man, he is still a fierce warrior... However, it will take everything he has to break through those dragon scale balloons...
At long last, Beowulf is engulfed by the dragon's flames... (Please note my student "S" who represents the embodiment of the dragon's fire.) Beowulf, alas! begins to die.
All is not lost however! A new hero emerges: the young Wiglaf rushes to his king's aid, risking life and limb to defeat the dragon. As he dies, Beowulf passes his proverbial "torch" to the young hero...
And in this interpretation, his beard as well...
Finally, Beowulf dies, and his devoted followers grieve his passing with great solemnity...
Fun, right? WE all were entertained, in any case.
Next it was the sophomores' turn. To end their mythology unit, I had all the sophs sign up to play a character from mythology; they then had to research this character and act the part out during one fabulous mythological lunchtime extravaganza. Incidentally, the end of the unit fell on October 29th-- the Friday before Halloween. Note: my private Christian school kids are not allowed to dress up for Halloween. Some of the older male teachers, I must admit, watched my sophomores parade around in their togas with great suspicion, at one point telling me, "So THIS was your way of getting around the 'no dress up' rule, huh?"
I responded-- in full toga regalia-- "The end of my mythology unit just HAPPENED to fall on this Friday. Halloween has nothing to do with it."
"Suuure," they teased, good-naturedly. "And you probably planned waaaay out in advance to make sure it fell on this day, didn't you?"
"I WISH I could plan that far in advance!" I retorted.
In any case, the sophomores did a great job!
From left to right, we have a Muse (goddess of inspiration), Artemis (goddess of the hunt, hence the leopard skin), Athena (goddess of wisdom and war), and Aphrodite (goddess of love, and mother of Cupid who is represented in baby doll form.)
In another part of the cafeteria, Achilles gets ready to strike Hector, while the god of War, Ares, urges them on...
Meanwhile, Dionysus, god of Wine, proceeds to imbibe in a corner...
Narcissus, of course, is busy gazing at himself in any reflective surface he finds...
While Hercules, fresh off his lion kill, converses with Argus, the hundred-eyed guard...
Cronus, unfortunately, is still trying to prevent being overthrown by eating his children as soon as they're born...
And Daedalus-- master inventor, most well-known for his homemade wings which his son Icarus famously ruined by flying too close to the sun-- is interviewed by one of my seniors who is currently earning extra credit.
Can you spot the teacher??
Don't worry. I make sure I get in on the action too-- about a month ago, the Mentorship class hosted a murder-mystery-themed event and I got asked to play the trophy wife of the clubbed victim. I got to be the one to scream bloody murder-- remember?
That's the exciting stuff. Most days, however, consist of normal clothing and relatively calm-- albeit goofy-- learning activities in class. And finally, most days end with me sitting at my desk, utterly knackered, head spinning after another full day, and trying to reassemble my brain for some grade-entering before I leave.
It's a gift-- I try to remember that every day. I'm so blessed to get to do what I love.
Nov 14, 2010
Wanting and Sand-dollars
My friend Shannon does this thing.
She sometimes will ask people point blank, in a very serious tone of voice, "What do you want?" She asks them to respond truthfully, and to be vulnerable. She gets impatient when people respond with answers like, "World peace," because that's too easy. Apparently a guy responded with that once, and Shannon said, "No-- come on. You have to get real. What do YOU want?"
He looked at her and said defensively, "Okay. You really want to know? I want a harem. That's what guys are really thinking when you ask them that."
I sort of hope that's not true for all guys, but in any case: Shannon asks people to get real, and typically succeeds in getting a REAL response. That's just the way it works for a person like Shannon.
She asked me once what I wanted. I said, "Honestly?" And paused. Then, in an apologetic tone, I said, "I want to be a wife and mom. That's what I really want."
I think I feel the need to apologize because I wish I could be one of those women who just doesn't care-- who doesn't think twice about the fact that she's 26 and single. But-- in all honestly-- I really hope I get to be a wife and mom someday. I don't want that because I'm dissatisfied with my life right now; I really love my life right now. I love getting to go on adventures, and I love that my heart is finally starting to feel restful again, and I feel strongly that I'm not married yet for a good reason. God knows what He's doing in that area of my life. He's making a good story with my life.
I really hope that story eventually includes being a wife and mom.
I want that so badly in fact that, whenever people talk about whether or not they'd be ready to die or, "What if the world ended today and we all were up in heaven, wouldn't that be awesome?" I always say, "-- I wouldn't be ready yet. There's too much I still want to do on earth."
When I say that, I'm thinking: ride on an elephant, sky-dive, write a book, live in France for a year. I'm also thinking: I want to experienced being married to a best friend. I want to push my own child on a swing.
I want that.
Frankly-- I don't think that's the right answer. I think you're supposed to want to go to heaven lickety split, no matter what you haven't done on earth yet. My second semester's unit for my AP English class is structured around a line from a Wordsworth poem: "The world is too much with us." All the books for second semester feature characters that are overwhelmed by societal concerns or worldly constraints.
Probably, the world is too much with me.
Shannon and Carly and I were talking about this again-- what we want-- when we were in the hot tub the other night. I'll tell you what folks: conversation is rich in the hot tub. "What did you answer again?" Shannon asked me. I reminded her. I sort of felt miffed that I had to remind her. It made me feel like my answer hadn't been very remarkable, even though I'd felt like it was a major thing to openly confess. So I tried again.
"I guess I could answer, 'I want the sand-dollar moment again,'" I told Shannon. She and Carly both looked at me.
"The sand dollar moment?"
The sand dollar moment is from a beach walk I'd taken when I lived in Malibu. It was this incredible day-- I felt full and happy and my heart felt like it was a giant helium balloon. I got my pants soaked, because I couldn't help skipping in the waves. I climbed a giant rock at one point and let the waves congratulate me, and I did ballet moves on top of the rock, and if I'd fallen I might have died, but I was so happy I didn't think it was possible-- I felt like I would more likely have floated off. And, at the beginning of the walk, I had found sand-dollars. I'd told myself, "These are magical sand-dollars. I can buy anything I want with these." ... But-- I couldn't think of anything I really wanted that I didn't already have. I found mussels that had opened and looked like butterflies. I found starfish. I found sea anemones, and made friends with strangers. I saw happy children. I felt so RICH-- I felt so full and so happy. I ended up throwing the sand-dollars back into the waves because I decided I didn't need them. I had everything.
I told all this to Carly and Shannon. I said, "I think that's what I really want. To not want anything. To be content and FULL with what I already have."
Shannon nodded slowly. "'I want the sand dollar moment.' Yeah."
My cousin turned 17 this week. We celebrated her birthday last night, and I gave her a sand-dollar necklace that I'd found at a vintage store. I wore my own sand-dollar necklace that I'd found years ago at another vintage store. I told my cousin the story of my sand dollar walk, and told her it seemed like a "getting older" gift.
So today, at church, Pastor Richard talked about what it means to live in a place of freedom, in a place that's free of fear, that's free of clutching onto things. It was basically a sermon for those whom "the world is too much with." Richard talked about living with the ending in mind. Those that are free from fear live like they already know the ending to the story. Essentially, they live with heaven in mind. They have every reason to hope. They don't need to feel afraid for one second.
If the world ended today, those fear-free people would be pumped.
I think it's okay that I want to be a wife and mom someday. But I think it's better to seek the sand-dollar moment. I would like to be someone that would be ready for a place like heaven lickety splity-- even though I haven't had a ride on an elephant yet. Even though I'm not yet married.
I think I'm going to try to let go of the first want. It will probably take a little while to get there, but that's the way it goes with getting anywhere. I'm going to try to open my hands and let the clutchy desire to be a wife and mom float away like a full helium balloon, because when it comes down to it: I don't need to buy anything with my magical sand-dollars. I am right where I need to be, and I can be content with exactly what I have. Other gifts may come eventually, and if that happens, then wow: rock on.
But if they don't, I want to be someone that radiates "Enough." I want to radiate, "Content." I want to radiate, "Peaceful."
There I go again. "I want."
I want open hands. I want baby steps. I want the ending in mind.
I want a long slow arc of a magical sand-dollar being tossed back into congratulatory waves.
She sometimes will ask people point blank, in a very serious tone of voice, "What do you want?" She asks them to respond truthfully, and to be vulnerable. She gets impatient when people respond with answers like, "World peace," because that's too easy. Apparently a guy responded with that once, and Shannon said, "No-- come on. You have to get real. What do YOU want?"
He looked at her and said defensively, "Okay. You really want to know? I want a harem. That's what guys are really thinking when you ask them that."
I sort of hope that's not true for all guys, but in any case: Shannon asks people to get real, and typically succeeds in getting a REAL response. That's just the way it works for a person like Shannon.
She asked me once what I wanted. I said, "Honestly?" And paused. Then, in an apologetic tone, I said, "I want to be a wife and mom. That's what I really want."
I think I feel the need to apologize because I wish I could be one of those women who just doesn't care-- who doesn't think twice about the fact that she's 26 and single. But-- in all honestly-- I really hope I get to be a wife and mom someday. I don't want that because I'm dissatisfied with my life right now; I really love my life right now. I love getting to go on adventures, and I love that my heart is finally starting to feel restful again, and I feel strongly that I'm not married yet for a good reason. God knows what He's doing in that area of my life. He's making a good story with my life.
I really hope that story eventually includes being a wife and mom.
I want that so badly in fact that, whenever people talk about whether or not they'd be ready to die or, "What if the world ended today and we all were up in heaven, wouldn't that be awesome?" I always say, "-- I wouldn't be ready yet. There's too much I still want to do on earth."
When I say that, I'm thinking: ride on an elephant, sky-dive, write a book, live in France for a year. I'm also thinking: I want to experienced being married to a best friend. I want to push my own child on a swing.
I want that.
Frankly-- I don't think that's the right answer. I think you're supposed to want to go to heaven lickety split, no matter what you haven't done on earth yet. My second semester's unit for my AP English class is structured around a line from a Wordsworth poem: "The world is too much with us." All the books for second semester feature characters that are overwhelmed by societal concerns or worldly constraints.
Probably, the world is too much with me.
Shannon and Carly and I were talking about this again-- what we want-- when we were in the hot tub the other night. I'll tell you what folks: conversation is rich in the hot tub. "What did you answer again?" Shannon asked me. I reminded her. I sort of felt miffed that I had to remind her. It made me feel like my answer hadn't been very remarkable, even though I'd felt like it was a major thing to openly confess. So I tried again.
"I guess I could answer, 'I want the sand-dollar moment again,'" I told Shannon. She and Carly both looked at me.
"The sand dollar moment?"
The sand dollar moment is from a beach walk I'd taken when I lived in Malibu. It was this incredible day-- I felt full and happy and my heart felt like it was a giant helium balloon. I got my pants soaked, because I couldn't help skipping in the waves. I climbed a giant rock at one point and let the waves congratulate me, and I did ballet moves on top of the rock, and if I'd fallen I might have died, but I was so happy I didn't think it was possible-- I felt like I would more likely have floated off. And, at the beginning of the walk, I had found sand-dollars. I'd told myself, "These are magical sand-dollars. I can buy anything I want with these." ... But-- I couldn't think of anything I really wanted that I didn't already have. I found mussels that had opened and looked like butterflies. I found starfish. I found sea anemones, and made friends with strangers. I saw happy children. I felt so RICH-- I felt so full and so happy. I ended up throwing the sand-dollars back into the waves because I decided I didn't need them. I had everything.
I told all this to Carly and Shannon. I said, "I think that's what I really want. To not want anything. To be content and FULL with what I already have."
Shannon nodded slowly. "'I want the sand dollar moment.' Yeah."
My cousin turned 17 this week. We celebrated her birthday last night, and I gave her a sand-dollar necklace that I'd found at a vintage store. I wore my own sand-dollar necklace that I'd found years ago at another vintage store. I told my cousin the story of my sand dollar walk, and told her it seemed like a "getting older" gift.
So today, at church, Pastor Richard talked about what it means to live in a place of freedom, in a place that's free of fear, that's free of clutching onto things. It was basically a sermon for those whom "the world is too much with." Richard talked about living with the ending in mind. Those that are free from fear live like they already know the ending to the story. Essentially, they live with heaven in mind. They have every reason to hope. They don't need to feel afraid for one second.
If the world ended today, those fear-free people would be pumped.
I think it's okay that I want to be a wife and mom someday. But I think it's better to seek the sand-dollar moment. I would like to be someone that would be ready for a place like heaven lickety splity-- even though I haven't had a ride on an elephant yet. Even though I'm not yet married.
I think I'm going to try to let go of the first want. It will probably take a little while to get there, but that's the way it goes with getting anywhere. I'm going to try to open my hands and let the clutchy desire to be a wife and mom float away like a full helium balloon, because when it comes down to it: I don't need to buy anything with my magical sand-dollars. I am right where I need to be, and I can be content with exactly what I have. Other gifts may come eventually, and if that happens, then wow: rock on.
But if they don't, I want to be someone that radiates "Enough." I want to radiate, "Content." I want to radiate, "Peaceful."
There I go again. "I want."
I want open hands. I want baby steps. I want the ending in mind.
I want a long slow arc of a magical sand-dollar being tossed back into congratulatory waves.
Nov 11, 2010
Circles
I currently have a song running through my head.
The song is one that was written and recorded by one of my AP seniors, who shyly, happily passed along a CD of her songs after I asked for it.
This senior wrote this song partially based off the poem "Litany" by Billy Collins, which she was exposed to on the first day of school.
On the first day of school, I had showed my AP students THIS video of "Litany" being performed by a 3-year-old, and told my students they needed to rewrite the poem as a way to introduce themselves.
I had found that video on THIS friend's blog.
Just yesterday, I posted the link to THIS story , published by NPR, on that friend's facebook about the 3-year-old getting to meet Billy Collins, after little Sam's youtube video collected more than 300,000 hits.
On Monday I plan to show the same story to my AP students. I hope my little songwriter is as delighted by the sequence of events as I've been.
From a poet's head, to a small boy's memorized words, to a viral video, to a blog, to a lesson plan, to an assignment, and then back into a different poet's lyrics, music, and beautiful vocals...
I currently have a song running through my head.
The song is one that was written and recorded by one of my AP seniors, who shyly, happily passed along a CD of her songs after I asked for it.
This senior wrote this song partially based off the poem "Litany" by Billy Collins, which she was exposed to on the first day of school.
On the first day of school, I had showed my AP students THIS video of "Litany" being performed by a 3-year-old, and told my students they needed to rewrite the poem as a way to introduce themselves.
I had found that video on THIS friend's blog.
Just yesterday, I posted the link to THIS story , published by NPR, on that friend's facebook about the 3-year-old getting to meet Billy Collins, after little Sam's youtube video collected more than 300,000 hits.
On Monday I plan to show the same story to my AP students. I hope my little songwriter is as delighted by the sequence of events as I've been.
From a poet's head, to a small boy's memorized words, to a viral video, to a blog, to a lesson plan, to an assignment, and then back into a different poet's lyrics, music, and beautiful vocals...
I currently have a song running through my head.
Nov 2, 2010
Hot-tub Breathing
Our landlord unveiled a hot-tub. It has always been there; only now it works. In the space underneath the raised, second-story deck sits our hot-tub centerpiece, flanked by shelves of tools and cob-webbed patio furniture.
Carly and I broke it in last night. Dark; shivering; bare feet on patio cement; lift off the heavy lid; whispered, "Shhh!"; "Can you see?"; "Here it is"; eyes adjusted to darkness; climb; sink into warmth.
The jets hummed.
We talked about past elations, and heart-heaviness, and wondered out loud at how things might be. Carly listened, and prayed for me, and we stayed until we knew we couldn't stay any longer.
Monday was a stressful day. That time in the hot-tub with my dear friend was just what I needed.
Today was even more stressful. Grades for the quarter are due this next Monday, and I feel absolutely buried-- I feel overwhelmed. At one point today, when staring at my to-do list, I felt like I might start crying. I have no idea how it's all going to get done.
The day's one promised respite was a yoga class I planned to take with Deidra. My frantically beating heart would finally begin to calm, I thought, once I stretched out and worked my body.
We got to the studio and found out the class was already full. Thwarted.
So:
after getting home,
I went out to the hot-tub instead.
I sank into warmth; rested my head against the edge of the tub. Underneath the water, a light shone into the stirring and made a tiny rainbow swim beside me. I looked up at the sky, which was partially visible beyond the corrugated metal patio ceiling.
Cold air.
Quiet.
One tree trembled with brown, dried leaves, and I thought, quivering. I looked at the trees opposing it which had nothing left and I thought, threadbare. A tiny spider twirled from one of the rafters, increasingly silhouetted against the sky in the fading light and I wondered at the way things were.
Cold wind buffeted my face and hair. Dry leaves skittered across the patio. The evaporating water left nibbling, cold, chlorine kisses against my face.
I prayed.
The closest thing I know of surrender, I think, is the feeling that comes when sinking into deep water, when every muscle is finally-- finally-- allowed to relax. In the hot tub then, I let my muscles and my mind drift away from me. The cold air, the warm water, the skittering leaves, and the quiet voice somewhere deep in my heart spun together in a hum of rest.
You are safe. Be at peace.
Carly and I broke it in last night. Dark; shivering; bare feet on patio cement; lift off the heavy lid; whispered, "Shhh!"; "Can you see?"; "Here it is"; eyes adjusted to darkness; climb; sink into warmth.
The jets hummed.
We talked about past elations, and heart-heaviness, and wondered out loud at how things might be. Carly listened, and prayed for me, and we stayed until we knew we couldn't stay any longer.
Monday was a stressful day. That time in the hot-tub with my dear friend was just what I needed.
Today was even more stressful. Grades for the quarter are due this next Monday, and I feel absolutely buried-- I feel overwhelmed. At one point today, when staring at my to-do list, I felt like I might start crying. I have no idea how it's all going to get done.
The day's one promised respite was a yoga class I planned to take with Deidra. My frantically beating heart would finally begin to calm, I thought, once I stretched out and worked my body.
We got to the studio and found out the class was already full. Thwarted.
So:
after getting home,
I went out to the hot-tub instead.
I sank into warmth; rested my head against the edge of the tub. Underneath the water, a light shone into the stirring and made a tiny rainbow swim beside me. I looked up at the sky, which was partially visible beyond the corrugated metal patio ceiling.
Cold air.
Quiet.
One tree trembled with brown, dried leaves, and I thought, quivering. I looked at the trees opposing it which had nothing left and I thought, threadbare. A tiny spider twirled from one of the rafters, increasingly silhouetted against the sky in the fading light and I wondered at the way things were.
Cold wind buffeted my face and hair. Dry leaves skittered across the patio. The evaporating water left nibbling, cold, chlorine kisses against my face.
I prayed.
The closest thing I know of surrender, I think, is the feeling that comes when sinking into deep water, when every muscle is finally-- finally-- allowed to relax. In the hot tub then, I let my muscles and my mind drift away from me. The cold air, the warm water, the skittering leaves, and the quiet voice somewhere deep in my heart spun together in a hum of rest.
You are safe. Be at peace.
Oct 27, 2010
Bow chicka bow bow
When I was in Hawaii this summer, I impulsively bought two little hair-clips with fabric bows on them. I wear them all the time:
(When inspired, Carly and I jig.)
I love my little bow clips so much that I've gotten more. I now wear black bows in my hair, and pink bows in my hair, and gray bows in my hair.
Sometimes I wear long ribbons too. I do not apologize for being this girly.
Well guess what? Today at school, I noticed two girls wearing little bow clips in their hair. As far as I know, bow clippies are not being featured in Vogue. Those girls' exposure to bow clippies is coming soley from English class.
Clearly, I am an inspirational teacher and should probably start winning awards.
(When inspired, Carly and I jig.)
I love my little bow clips so much that I've gotten more. I now wear black bows in my hair, and pink bows in my hair, and gray bows in my hair.
Sometimes I wear long ribbons too. I do not apologize for being this girly.
Well guess what? Today at school, I noticed two girls wearing little bow clips in their hair. As far as I know, bow clippies are not being featured in Vogue. Those girls' exposure to bow clippies is coming soley from English class.
Clearly, I am an inspirational teacher and should probably start winning awards.
Oct 25, 2010
Still, Small Voice
Last night I stayed with my cousin at my aunt and uncle's house, who were both out of town. 16-year-old Maggie and I caught up on my aunt and uncle's bed; then she went off to start her homework at 10pm, and I snuggled under the covers for sleeping.
Normally, in my basement apartment, I don't get to hear the sound of rain on the roof. Last night however, that rhythmic hum was what put me to sleep. This morning, likewise, the pounding of the rain was what pulled me out of dreams (incidentally, a very nice one about a hunky South-American man named Eduardo), and into waking.
It is so hard to get up when it is still dark, and the covers are heavy and warm, and you can hear the sound of driving rain against the windows.
Later that morning I got back under the covers, propped up against pillows, with a mug of hot coffee to pray.
As I ran through thanks and requests, I thought of the time. Was I going to be late? How do I get to school from here? What do I still need to do? What about [this person]? What about [this person]? What about my future, God? How long, God?
And suddenly, there it was--
Some people call this a storm.
I say, I'm preparing good things.
I paused. But Lord, I thought... Is so MUCH rain necessary? It's supposed to rain all week.
Sometimes that's what it takes.
(And then, after feeling anxious--)
Just listen to the sound of the rain.
So I listened to that darkling music; that rhythmic drumming; the rush of the gusting wind; the taps of branches against the window.
I thought to myself: enjoy THIS moment for what it offers.
Rest in me.
Normally, in my basement apartment, I don't get to hear the sound of rain on the roof. Last night however, that rhythmic hum was what put me to sleep. This morning, likewise, the pounding of the rain was what pulled me out of dreams (incidentally, a very nice one about a hunky South-American man named Eduardo), and into waking.
It is so hard to get up when it is still dark, and the covers are heavy and warm, and you can hear the sound of driving rain against the windows.
Later that morning I got back under the covers, propped up against pillows, with a mug of hot coffee to pray.
As I ran through thanks and requests, I thought of the time. Was I going to be late? How do I get to school from here? What do I still need to do? What about [this person]? What about [this person]? What about my future, God? How long, God?
And suddenly, there it was--
Some people call this a storm.
I say, I'm preparing good things.
I paused. But Lord, I thought... Is so MUCH rain necessary? It's supposed to rain all week.
Sometimes that's what it takes.
(And then, after feeling anxious--)
Just listen to the sound of the rain.
So I listened to that darkling music; that rhythmic drumming; the rush of the gusting wind; the taps of branches against the window.
I thought to myself: enjoy THIS moment for what it offers.
Rest in me.
Oct 22, 2010
Currently
I am at my desk at school. It is a Friday night. It is presently the 58th hour I've worked in what will end up being a 60 hour work week by the time I leave tonight.
But I'm actually not writing to complain. Some of those other extra hours were sucky, but these last couple, and the couple to come are sort of delightful.
I'm currently dressed as a trophy wife, decked out in head-to-toe costume jewelry, with my hair piled about four inches above my forehead, and ready to whip out a pretentious British accent to participate in the kids' murder mystery mentorship activity.
You should see what these mentors-- juniors and seniors who agree to mentor incoming freshmen-- have done with the school. They have TRANSFORMED it! Cobwebs are everywhere; they've made the courtyard into a swamp; they've made Mrs. Tripoli's room into a spooky attic; Mrs. Westford's room into a dungeon; the spanish teachers' room into a dilapidated dining room with a fallen chandelier... It's incredible.
And so the mentors will guide the little froshies around, as all of us murder mystery characters will rant and rave and do our thing, and everyone will bond, and it will be marvelous.
So even though my Friday night is spent working... And even though *officially* that's pretty lame...
I am just still loving my job so much.
Especially because, when the murder happens, I get to be the one to scream bloody murder.
I am VERY excited for that part.
But I'm actually not writing to complain. Some of those other extra hours were sucky, but these last couple, and the couple to come are sort of delightful.
I'm currently dressed as a trophy wife, decked out in head-to-toe costume jewelry, with my hair piled about four inches above my forehead, and ready to whip out a pretentious British accent to participate in the kids' murder mystery mentorship activity.
You should see what these mentors-- juniors and seniors who agree to mentor incoming freshmen-- have done with the school. They have TRANSFORMED it! Cobwebs are everywhere; they've made the courtyard into a swamp; they've made Mrs. Tripoli's room into a spooky attic; Mrs. Westford's room into a dungeon; the spanish teachers' room into a dilapidated dining room with a fallen chandelier... It's incredible.
And so the mentors will guide the little froshies around, as all of us murder mystery characters will rant and rave and do our thing, and everyone will bond, and it will be marvelous.
So even though my Friday night is spent working... And even though *officially* that's pretty lame...
I am just still loving my job so much.
Especially because, when the murder happens, I get to be the one to scream bloody murder.
I am VERY excited for that part.
Oct 19, 2010
Update
Last week I talked about how much I hate running.
But! I went with my running group last night, and I ran all the way around the outer loop of Greenlake, and I didn't need to stop ONCE! I ran down to the lake too, and ran home-- I think it was close to 4 or 5 miles in all. I felt stronger, and I'm pretty sure we were going faster.
I bet you anything it's because I was engrossed in conversation.
Engrossed is such an unfortunate word, isn't it? It sounds like the exact opposite of what it means. Words like pungent and diaphanous are delicious because they SOUND just how they MEAN... Not so with engrossed. Engrossed sounds gross.
Anyway: I'm going to keep trying with the running thing. I think I would like to say that, for at least a brief period of my life, I could run a few miles without stopping. I keep telling myself the prime of my life isn't going to last much longer, and I really ought to make the most of it while I'm there.
This is Iris, by the way: Zeus's rainbow messenger, as depicted by Howard David Johnson.
Doesn't she look like she could run fast?
But! I went with my running group last night, and I ran all the way around the outer loop of Greenlake, and I didn't need to stop ONCE! I ran down to the lake too, and ran home-- I think it was close to 4 or 5 miles in all. I felt stronger, and I'm pretty sure we were going faster.
I bet you anything it's because I was engrossed in conversation.
Engrossed is such an unfortunate word, isn't it? It sounds like the exact opposite of what it means. Words like pungent and diaphanous are delicious because they SOUND just how they MEAN... Not so with engrossed. Engrossed sounds gross.
Anyway: I'm going to keep trying with the running thing. I think I would like to say that, for at least a brief period of my life, I could run a few miles without stopping. I keep telling myself the prime of my life isn't going to last much longer, and I really ought to make the most of it while I'm there.
This is Iris, by the way: Zeus's rainbow messenger, as depicted by Howard David Johnson.
Doesn't she look like she could run fast?
Oct 18, 2010
Seasons
Went on a photo walk yesterday. Crisp; clear; sun streaming.
I kept my camera on, wandering into various neighbors' yards, zooming in on leaves and trees and dying blooms. Indeed: most of the "beautiful" things I found were in the process of expiring:
When my roommates looked at my pictures after I got home, they noted that the pictures were depressing-- especially that one of the face-planting dahlia.
But, for me, there's some sort of comfort in seeing these seasons play out, the way they so familiarly do. I remember spring break my Junior year of college-- the year I studied abroad-- traveling around Ireland with some of my girlfriends. It was the first time I'd ever had to use a map to navigate alongside a driver. My bad-ass friend Nicole took the wheel, and I directed us through tiny town after teeny tiny town, along narrow Irish roads, picking the next whimsical name to get us through. I always felt so delighted when, sure enough, just like the map said, Castleblaney would arrive, and then Tandragee, and then Seapatrick.
There's a comfort in knowing what to anticipate, and then finding yourself there.
A friend of mine is going through her first tough break-up, and I sent her a message to try to help her along. I wrote that I guessed she was probably in the "missing-stage" now, and described to her what I had learned are the different seasons in managing a broken heart. For better or for worse, I've had my heart broken-- the big, bad, shattering kind of broken-- three times now. But out of that, has come a recognition of seasons.
In spring you begin.
In summer you exult.
In fall you recognize the expiring.
And then comes a long, broken-hearted winter.
And in that winter comes first disbelief, and then whole-hearted MISSING, and then a hollow, abstract sort of loneliness, and then... as the spring begins again... gradual objectivity, a re-awakening of one's self as an independent heart, and sooner or later, a readiness to try again.
Spring DOES come again.
My broken heart-- this most recent one-- began this last spring... the literal one, not the figurative one. And so spring was snow, and sleet, and rain. Summer was watching buds creep out of their storm battered branches. And now, this fall, I'm once more experiencing the beginning of tentative blooms.
So seeing a dying rose doesn't seem tragic; it seems familiar, and comforting-- it's something I can relate to. The rose will encounter summer once again, and because of that, it's alright that it must head into winter. I think part of the letting go, and letting it all move through me is accepting that there's a winter that comes after fall, and rejoicing that spring inevitably comes after winter.
Loving these words today:
Ecclesiastes 3:
1 There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under heaven:
2 a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
3 a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
4 a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
5 a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain,
6 a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
7 a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
8 a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.
I kept my camera on, wandering into various neighbors' yards, zooming in on leaves and trees and dying blooms. Indeed: most of the "beautiful" things I found were in the process of expiring:
When my roommates looked at my pictures after I got home, they noted that the pictures were depressing-- especially that one of the face-planting dahlia.
But, for me, there's some sort of comfort in seeing these seasons play out, the way they so familiarly do. I remember spring break my Junior year of college-- the year I studied abroad-- traveling around Ireland with some of my girlfriends. It was the first time I'd ever had to use a map to navigate alongside a driver. My bad-ass friend Nicole took the wheel, and I directed us through tiny town after teeny tiny town, along narrow Irish roads, picking the next whimsical name to get us through. I always felt so delighted when, sure enough, just like the map said, Castleblaney would arrive, and then Tandragee, and then Seapatrick.
There's a comfort in knowing what to anticipate, and then finding yourself there.
A friend of mine is going through her first tough break-up, and I sent her a message to try to help her along. I wrote that I guessed she was probably in the "missing-stage" now, and described to her what I had learned are the different seasons in managing a broken heart. For better or for worse, I've had my heart broken-- the big, bad, shattering kind of broken-- three times now. But out of that, has come a recognition of seasons.
In spring you begin.
In summer you exult.
In fall you recognize the expiring.
And then comes a long, broken-hearted winter.
And in that winter comes first disbelief, and then whole-hearted MISSING, and then a hollow, abstract sort of loneliness, and then... as the spring begins again... gradual objectivity, a re-awakening of one's self as an independent heart, and sooner or later, a readiness to try again.
Spring DOES come again.
My broken heart-- this most recent one-- began this last spring... the literal one, not the figurative one. And so spring was snow, and sleet, and rain. Summer was watching buds creep out of their storm battered branches. And now, this fall, I'm once more experiencing the beginning of tentative blooms.
So seeing a dying rose doesn't seem tragic; it seems familiar, and comforting-- it's something I can relate to. The rose will encounter summer once again, and because of that, it's alright that it must head into winter. I think part of the letting go, and letting it all move through me is accepting that there's a winter that comes after fall, and rejoicing that spring inevitably comes after winter.
Loving these words today:
Ecclesiastes 3:
1 There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under heaven:
2 a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
3 a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
4 a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
5 a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain,
6 a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
7 a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
8 a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.
Oct 15, 2010
Commuting
My school is about a half-hour away from my home, and now that the summer's expired, I tend to drive in as the sun rises, and often drive home after dark.
What a pain, right? A long commute. Who wants a long commute?
And yet...
Last night, as the rain began to pour down after days of sunshine, the freeways clogged, and what should have been a 30 minute drive stretched into almost an hour. See this photo banner, at the top of my blog? That's the view from the Alaskan Way viaduct, where I was stuck last night for about twenty minutes.
Something about being STUCK somewhere though, with no way of getting unstuck anytime soon, is almost peaceful.
I sat in my dark car, listened to the rain fall and the rhythmic thump of the windshield wipers, and took in the lights of the Seattle skyline. I put my Ipod on a slow song, and let my mind wander. I thought about some of my students, and wondered how they would fare outside of high-school, and thought about moments from class.
It was so restful.
This morning, I drove in before the sun rose, and let myself be serenaded in the dark by KEXP. John played a Devotchka song, and its violins and gentle, driving rhythm made the concrete curves a wish; made the oncoming lights a hum; made the braking cars a sigh; made my heart gentle.
Often, when driving in, I'm kissed by one of the most incredible views of Mt. Rainier you can get. She looms as I come around a bend-- sometimes austere, sometimes coy, sometimes majestic, sometimes pensive. I always pick an adjective to describe how she seems to be feeling that morning. "Lonely." "Proud." "Quiet." On those clear mornings when she's out, I'll inevitably see the dawn rip through the sky in oranges and reds and purples, and I'll WONDER again, feel awed again.
I miss my road trip sometimes.
I find it again sometimes.
What a pain, right? A long commute. Who wants a long commute?
And yet...
Last night, as the rain began to pour down after days of sunshine, the freeways clogged, and what should have been a 30 minute drive stretched into almost an hour. See this photo banner, at the top of my blog? That's the view from the Alaskan Way viaduct, where I was stuck last night for about twenty minutes.
Something about being STUCK somewhere though, with no way of getting unstuck anytime soon, is almost peaceful.
I sat in my dark car, listened to the rain fall and the rhythmic thump of the windshield wipers, and took in the lights of the Seattle skyline. I put my Ipod on a slow song, and let my mind wander. I thought about some of my students, and wondered how they would fare outside of high-school, and thought about moments from class.
It was so restful.
This morning, I drove in before the sun rose, and let myself be serenaded in the dark by KEXP. John played a Devotchka song, and its violins and gentle, driving rhythm made the concrete curves a wish; made the oncoming lights a hum; made the braking cars a sigh; made my heart gentle.
Often, when driving in, I'm kissed by one of the most incredible views of Mt. Rainier you can get. She looms as I come around a bend-- sometimes austere, sometimes coy, sometimes majestic, sometimes pensive. I always pick an adjective to describe how she seems to be feeling that morning. "Lonely." "Proud." "Quiet." On those clear mornings when she's out, I'll inevitably see the dawn rip through the sky in oranges and reds and purples, and I'll WONDER again, feel awed again.
I miss my road trip sometimes.
I find it again sometimes.
Oct 14, 2010
On Running
I hate running. This is a well known fact. I tell everyone.
I LOVE walks however. I love going on walks with my camera and taking little pictures of things I find which are wonderful, like this:
Or like this:
But I hate running.
HOWEVER: in an effort to be more intentional about being active (because I know, ultimately, my body and my psyche love me more when I am active), AND, in an effort to plug into my church community, I joined a running group through my church. It is called, "Fit and Faithful."
I think that's sort of funny.
I forgot to go to the first Fit and Faithful. My sub-conscious continues to rebel against physical strain. I remembered to go to the second one though and, surprise surprise! I LOVED it!
I ran with this fantastic older woman named Anna. The first thing I found out about her is that she's taking a course to learn how to be a black-jack dealer. The second thing I found out about her was that she rides a "Ninja" motorcycle. The third thing, fourth thing, and fifth thing I found out about her respectively, was that she's a glass artist, married her husband two years ago after just five dates, and that she was in the navy.
She's FASCINATING! Also, so nice.
We ran all the way around the outer loop at Greenlake, and I was so delightfully distracted by my running buddy's life story, I only needed to stop once to walk, and it was just for a tiny, titchy bit.
I was so proud of myself.
SO proud, in fact, that I tried going for a second run yesterday, all by myself. I decided that if I was going to keep up with my group, I needed to get myself into relatively decent running shape.
Also, it was a gorgeous fall day. (I am, admittedly, a fair-weather worker-outer. I am a wussy wussy wimp when weather turns AVERSE.)
Despite the gorgeous weather though, my solo run....
Was abysmal.
I ran the inner loop. The short loop. The easy loop. I stopped many times. I felt sore. I felt tired. I had music on, and I hated my I-pod. Hated the music. Hated the whole ordeal.
Even when I pretended I was Iris, Zeus's rainbow messenger, and imagined a rainbow streaming out behind me, I hated running. (I am teaching mythology to my sophomores right now. I like pretending to be Iris.) I was all by myself, and I was tired, and I haaaaaated running.
Then I thought to myself, "No wonder I've never become a runner-- I've always tried to run on my own. I need a RUNNING BUDDY."
I am an extrovert folks. You want an extrovert to do something, give them people to do it with. On my own, when I have the freedom to quit, I give up. But when I'm with people, I suck it up and keep going until I'm finally at the blissful rubbery legs phase where it stops sucking so bad. (Just ask Annie. She's helped me get to the rubbery legs stage before.)
Finally, after huffing and puffing and giving up, I just started walking.
And-- once again-- I was loving life! I saw an autumn tree all lit up by the late afternoon sun, and it looked like something out of Eden. I saw a sweet little family taking pictures by the tree. I saw baby roses. I saw flirting dogs. I saw giant, radiant spider webs. I NOTICED things.
And of course, I wished for my camera. I hadn't brought it because I was planning to run. Curses on running! Curses!
This is my query then: should I just accept that it is not my fate to be a runner? Should I just continue doing what I love, and go on picture walks? Or should I push through the suckage so that I can be a happy deer-like frolicker with my running group? Should I force myself to join the rest of Seattle in pounding the pavement around Greenlake, rather than ambling along it?
And if you think I should do the second, do you know of someone who can be my running friend?
I LOVE walks however. I love going on walks with my camera and taking little pictures of things I find which are wonderful, like this:
Or like this:
But I hate running.
HOWEVER: in an effort to be more intentional about being active (because I know, ultimately, my body and my psyche love me more when I am active), AND, in an effort to plug into my church community, I joined a running group through my church. It is called, "Fit and Faithful."
I think that's sort of funny.
I forgot to go to the first Fit and Faithful. My sub-conscious continues to rebel against physical strain. I remembered to go to the second one though and, surprise surprise! I LOVED it!
I ran with this fantastic older woman named Anna. The first thing I found out about her is that she's taking a course to learn how to be a black-jack dealer. The second thing I found out about her was that she rides a "Ninja" motorcycle. The third thing, fourth thing, and fifth thing I found out about her respectively, was that she's a glass artist, married her husband two years ago after just five dates, and that she was in the navy.
She's FASCINATING! Also, so nice.
We ran all the way around the outer loop at Greenlake, and I was so delightfully distracted by my running buddy's life story, I only needed to stop once to walk, and it was just for a tiny, titchy bit.
I was so proud of myself.
SO proud, in fact, that I tried going for a second run yesterday, all by myself. I decided that if I was going to keep up with my group, I needed to get myself into relatively decent running shape.
Also, it was a gorgeous fall day. (I am, admittedly, a fair-weather worker-outer. I am a wussy wussy wimp when weather turns AVERSE.)
Despite the gorgeous weather though, my solo run....
Was abysmal.
I ran the inner loop. The short loop. The easy loop. I stopped many times. I felt sore. I felt tired. I had music on, and I hated my I-pod. Hated the music. Hated the whole ordeal.
Even when I pretended I was Iris, Zeus's rainbow messenger, and imagined a rainbow streaming out behind me, I hated running. (I am teaching mythology to my sophomores right now. I like pretending to be Iris.) I was all by myself, and I was tired, and I haaaaaated running.
Then I thought to myself, "No wonder I've never become a runner-- I've always tried to run on my own. I need a RUNNING BUDDY."
I am an extrovert folks. You want an extrovert to do something, give them people to do it with. On my own, when I have the freedom to quit, I give up. But when I'm with people, I suck it up and keep going until I'm finally at the blissful rubbery legs phase where it stops sucking so bad. (Just ask Annie. She's helped me get to the rubbery legs stage before.)
Finally, after huffing and puffing and giving up, I just started walking.
And-- once again-- I was loving life! I saw an autumn tree all lit up by the late afternoon sun, and it looked like something out of Eden. I saw a sweet little family taking pictures by the tree. I saw baby roses. I saw flirting dogs. I saw giant, radiant spider webs. I NOTICED things.
And of course, I wished for my camera. I hadn't brought it because I was planning to run. Curses on running! Curses!
This is my query then: should I just accept that it is not my fate to be a runner? Should I just continue doing what I love, and go on picture walks? Or should I push through the suckage so that I can be a happy deer-like frolicker with my running group? Should I force myself to join the rest of Seattle in pounding the pavement around Greenlake, rather than ambling along it?
And if you think I should do the second, do you know of someone who can be my running friend?
Oct 4, 2010
Paths and Bricks and Signs
Have been doing a unit on Mere Christianity with my seniors. (Remember: private Christian school.) Predestination vs. freewill has become a hot topic of debate. We've been trying real hard to figure out just how IT (i.e. the universe, salvation, living life, etc.) all works. One day, I drew four cartoon-y squiggles on the board, to represent two cartoon-y paths.
"Maybe the way it works, is that when God creates us, He has this BEST story in mind for us. Right? If everything went according to His plan, *this* would be THE best story for our lives. That's this path. BUT: we have the bricks in our hands, and we get to choose where we lay the bricks down. We can choose to seek Him, and pray for guidance, and lay the bricks down on His path... OR: we can lay the bricks down on our OWN path. It's our choice. We've got the bricks. But our own path is never going to measure up to the one He's envisioned. It could just never be as good of a story."
Someone else pointed out that, maybe God wants us to get to certain key landmarks, but that we can determine how we get there. That's a good idea too, I think. I also think, if we're the praying sort and are asking for God to play a part in our lives, then we sometimes allow Him to pull rank on where we lay the bricks down. Sometimes, it seems like we HAVE to lay them down a certain way, even when we'd prefer to lay them down differently. That's probably Him interfering. (We asked Him to.)
In any case, this evening, I am having these thoughts:
1.) We pray for God's will, and sometimes we ask for things.
2.) Sometimes we ask for things that are not on the "best-story" path. It's like, we see a sign pointing down a path that says, "THIS LOOKS GOOD" and-- of course-- we want to go down that one.
3.) Sometimes God doesn't give us those things, because He knows if we got them, we would run after them so fast, we'd lose the good path. In those cases, it's like God doesn't even let us find the THIS LOOKS GOOD sign.
4.) Sometimes God DOES give us those things, because He knows when we get them, we'll realize, "Oh. Hey. This actually isn't the way I want my life to go after all." It's sort of like, He shows us the THIS LOOKS GOOD path, and lets us look down it, because He knows-- this time-- we'll realize that that path isn't the best story. And so, we'll make our way very comfortably back to the good one.
I think I'm experiencing a bit of "4" lately. Which is always surprising.
I'm watching some of my favorite people experience what I suspect is a bit of #3. That's tougher stuff.
So.
These are my thoughts this Monday evening.
"Maybe the way it works, is that when God creates us, He has this BEST story in mind for us. Right? If everything went according to His plan, *this* would be THE best story for our lives. That's this path. BUT: we have the bricks in our hands, and we get to choose where we lay the bricks down. We can choose to seek Him, and pray for guidance, and lay the bricks down on His path... OR: we can lay the bricks down on our OWN path. It's our choice. We've got the bricks. But our own path is never going to measure up to the one He's envisioned. It could just never be as good of a story."
Someone else pointed out that, maybe God wants us to get to certain key landmarks, but that we can determine how we get there. That's a good idea too, I think. I also think, if we're the praying sort and are asking for God to play a part in our lives, then we sometimes allow Him to pull rank on where we lay the bricks down. Sometimes, it seems like we HAVE to lay them down a certain way, even when we'd prefer to lay them down differently. That's probably Him interfering. (We asked Him to.)
In any case, this evening, I am having these thoughts:
1.) We pray for God's will, and sometimes we ask for things.
2.) Sometimes we ask for things that are not on the "best-story" path. It's like, we see a sign pointing down a path that says, "THIS LOOKS GOOD" and-- of course-- we want to go down that one.
3.) Sometimes God doesn't give us those things, because He knows if we got them, we would run after them so fast, we'd lose the good path. In those cases, it's like God doesn't even let us find the THIS LOOKS GOOD sign.
4.) Sometimes God DOES give us those things, because He knows when we get them, we'll realize, "Oh. Hey. This actually isn't the way I want my life to go after all." It's sort of like, He shows us the THIS LOOKS GOOD path, and lets us look down it, because He knows-- this time-- we'll realize that that path isn't the best story. And so, we'll make our way very comfortably back to the good one.
I think I'm experiencing a bit of "4" lately. Which is always surprising.
I'm watching some of my favorite people experience what I suspect is a bit of #3. That's tougher stuff.
So.
These are my thoughts this Monday evening.
Oct 3, 2010
Ebb and Flow
I had a great weekend.
@ Shannon's art opening, currently on display at Cafe Lulu.
@ Stacy and Blake's wedding
But this is sort of how I feel right now.
en route to Grants Pass in southern OR, along the 101.
And that's life, right?
So praise the Lord.
@ Shannon's art opening, currently on display at Cafe Lulu.
@ Stacy and Blake's wedding
But this is sort of how I feel right now.
en route to Grants Pass in southern OR, along the 101.
And that's life, right?
So praise the Lord.
Sep 27, 2010
Scooching
From a journal entry-- 9/25/2010
Just read through the whole first half of this journal... Watched the inside scenery, the emotional terrain shift and slowly melt... like a glacier, making its way down the mountainside. Carefully, gently, surely-- arriving in new places incrementally until the distance has finally grown into miles from where it started.
"You've come a long way, baby."
En route to Montrose, CO
Just read through the whole first half of this journal... Watched the inside scenery, the emotional terrain shift and slowly melt... like a glacier, making its way down the mountainside. Carefully, gently, surely-- arriving in new places incrementally until the distance has finally grown into miles from where it started.
"You've come a long way, baby."
En route to Montrose, CO
Sep 26, 2010
Wishing On
In a field at sunrise, somewhere in Northern Arizona.
Maybe Grace is a bird that takes both of us up to the clouds
And we'll ride on her wings, and we'll soar
And we'll be safe and sound.
She'll fly 'round the earth, keeping pace with the quiet sunrise;
We'll see color and light
And have only awakening eyes.
*
Sep 18, 2010
What the Morning Glory learned from the Rose
Once upon a time, a Morning Glory wound its budding vine through a hydrangea bush, and opened its white cheerful bloom against a background of blue.
"Good morning!" the Morning Glory chirped to the hydrangeas. But the hydrangeas stayed silent. They were too busy being blue to chat.
Suddenly the Morning Glory felt embarrassed. What was she doing in a hydrangea bush? Surely she didn't belong there-- nothing about her white trumpet bloom matched anything around her. "I'm sorry," she stammered out to the hydrangeas. "I wasn't thinking. I'll go."
"What you ought to do," a bloom on her left mused in a very hydrangea-ish voice, "Is change your bloom. No flower ought to be so hideously DIFFERENT as you."
The Morning Glory was eager to be accepted, so she agreed immediately. "Yes-- yes I'll try!"
And she did try. She didn't bloom in the first hours of the morning, as she always used to do. Instead, she tried to be like the hydrangeas, and keep her bloom open in the heat of the day. It was terribly hard-- the sun baked her gentle petals and it was all she could do to keep from curling up her blossom. But she hated being different, so she tried to be like everything around her.
So there was no flower to greet the morning.
Beneath the hydrangea bush was a dandelion, and it watched the Morning Glory struggle for weeks to change herself. Finally, the dandelion, who by now had dried and fluffed, asked the Morning Glory, "Why are you trying to be like the hydrangeas?"
"No flower wants to be so hideously different," the Morning Glory replied, from her exhausted, sun-baked perch. "I just want to be the same. You should try. You're a weed. You should try to be like us flowers."
And the dandelion suddenly felt very embarrassed. He had never thought of himself as a weed before. "What can I do to be more like a flower?" he asked, ashamed.
"You shouldn't let your seeds fly off when you're blown by the wind," she said, grumpily. It was difficult for the Morning Glory to feel anything but grumpy while she was trying so hard to be different. "No one wants more weeds."
So the dandelion made up his mind to hold on tight to his seeds. Even when a little child picked him and happily crowed to her mother that she was going to "blow the flower and make a wish!" the dandelion didn't let his seeds go.
And the child was disappointed because there was nothing to wish on.
But the story of the Morning Glory and the Dandelion spread to the other flowers, and soon, all the flowers were trying to change themselves so that they could be more like something else.
The dahlias tried to flatten their petals, so that they could be more like the daisies.
... And the girls who wanted dahlias in bouquets were disappointed to find them so flattened.
Meanwhile, the daisies felt that they ought to grow in cultivated gardens, like the dahlias. They abandoned their spots in the fields, and in the woods, and next to streams, and determined that they would only grow in greenhouses.
... And there were no wildflowers to welcome those that had walked off the beaten paths.
The desert flowers felt they should try to grow where it rained...
And there was no color in the desert.
The water lilies tried to grow in the heat--
And they dried up and shriveled.
The crocuses were ashamed to be the first flowers to bloom after winter, so they tried to bloom later, like everything else--
And there was nothing to trumpet the arrival of spring.
The clover tried to be bigger and grander--
And its blooms were made ragged by the wind.
The columbine tried to become more simple and round--
And the hikers brushed by it without a moment's notice.
All over the world, the flowers tried to change, but it only made them paler, feebler, weaker, and more ordinary. Even the hydrangeas had given up their blue.
Finally, the only thing left to plant in the window boxes were silk flowers that people made with machines--
But even the silk flowers were a weak memory of what had been. No one could remember what the real flowers had looked like when they had all been happily themselves.
There was only one flower left in the whole world that had not tried to change itself:
Even when the other flowers had told the Rose she should try to rid herself of thorns, or give up her scent, or try to flatten her petals, she grew on just as she always had: thorny, perfumed, and color wonderful.
Finally, the Morning Glory-- who was still feebly trying to be like the hydrangeas-- made up her mind that she'd much rather be like the Rose. There was just something about the Rose. The Morning Glory summoned all her remaining strength and unwound her vine from the hydrangea bush. She presented herself to the Rose and asked, "Rose-- how can I be like you?"
The Rose was joyfully basking in the sun, and took a moment before looking down at the worn out, bedraggled Morning Glory. Every petal on the Rose looked like a smile-- she couldn't help being happy.
"What is it you want to do?" she asked the tired little Morning Glory.
"I just want to be different. I just want to be better. You're the only beautiful one left," the Morning Glory wept. "How can I be like you?"
The Rose sighed a breath of sweet scented air, and looked kindly at the Morning Glory. "You must never be beautiful like me," she said.
"You must only be beautiful like you. You must greet the day, as only you can. You must be white, when all around you is blue. You must cover trellises with your vines and brighten the gardens. You must twist into a bud in the heat of the day to protect your glorious trumpet from fading. Why would you want to be beautiful like me when you are made to be beautiful like you? You must be a spark of difference."
But the Morning Glory cried, "I don't want to be hideously different."
The Rose turned its face back to the sun and said, "To be different is what it means to be beautiful."
"You can say that," the Morning Glory said. "Everyone knows you're the most beautiful flower."
"But I will fade," the Rose said gently. "I will age, and my petals will fall. Even now, I'm growing older. But every petal that falls will carry with it my joy of living. Even when I fade, I will tell a story of a beautiful life. I have loved being me."
"Now go," the Rose said to the Morning Glory. "Go grow in the way only you can. You must be beautiful in your own way." The Rose smiled. "You will love it."
And so the Morning Glory found a place to grow that felt comfortable, and felt right. She bloomed in the morning, greeting the sun as it rose. She wound her vines up garden trellises and through hydrangea bushes and within the junipers, and when she bloomed, she was something different, and something beautiful.
"Good morning!" the Morning Glory chirped to the hydrangeas. But the hydrangeas stayed silent. They were too busy being blue to chat.
Suddenly the Morning Glory felt embarrassed. What was she doing in a hydrangea bush? Surely she didn't belong there-- nothing about her white trumpet bloom matched anything around her. "I'm sorry," she stammered out to the hydrangeas. "I wasn't thinking. I'll go."
"What you ought to do," a bloom on her left mused in a very hydrangea-ish voice, "Is change your bloom. No flower ought to be so hideously DIFFERENT as you."
The Morning Glory was eager to be accepted, so she agreed immediately. "Yes-- yes I'll try!"
And she did try. She didn't bloom in the first hours of the morning, as she always used to do. Instead, she tried to be like the hydrangeas, and keep her bloom open in the heat of the day. It was terribly hard-- the sun baked her gentle petals and it was all she could do to keep from curling up her blossom. But she hated being different, so she tried to be like everything around her.
So there was no flower to greet the morning.
Beneath the hydrangea bush was a dandelion, and it watched the Morning Glory struggle for weeks to change herself. Finally, the dandelion, who by now had dried and fluffed, asked the Morning Glory, "Why are you trying to be like the hydrangeas?"
"No flower wants to be so hideously different," the Morning Glory replied, from her exhausted, sun-baked perch. "I just want to be the same. You should try. You're a weed. You should try to be like us flowers."
And the dandelion suddenly felt very embarrassed. He had never thought of himself as a weed before. "What can I do to be more like a flower?" he asked, ashamed.
"You shouldn't let your seeds fly off when you're blown by the wind," she said, grumpily. It was difficult for the Morning Glory to feel anything but grumpy while she was trying so hard to be different. "No one wants more weeds."
So the dandelion made up his mind to hold on tight to his seeds. Even when a little child picked him and happily crowed to her mother that she was going to "blow the flower and make a wish!" the dandelion didn't let his seeds go.
And the child was disappointed because there was nothing to wish on.
But the story of the Morning Glory and the Dandelion spread to the other flowers, and soon, all the flowers were trying to change themselves so that they could be more like something else.
The dahlias tried to flatten their petals, so that they could be more like the daisies.
... And the girls who wanted dahlias in bouquets were disappointed to find them so flattened.
Meanwhile, the daisies felt that they ought to grow in cultivated gardens, like the dahlias. They abandoned their spots in the fields, and in the woods, and next to streams, and determined that they would only grow in greenhouses.
... And there were no wildflowers to welcome those that had walked off the beaten paths.
The desert flowers felt they should try to grow where it rained...
And there was no color in the desert.
The water lilies tried to grow in the heat--
And they dried up and shriveled.
The crocuses were ashamed to be the first flowers to bloom after winter, so they tried to bloom later, like everything else--
And there was nothing to trumpet the arrival of spring.
The clover tried to be bigger and grander--
And its blooms were made ragged by the wind.
The columbine tried to become more simple and round--
And the hikers brushed by it without a moment's notice.
All over the world, the flowers tried to change, but it only made them paler, feebler, weaker, and more ordinary. Even the hydrangeas had given up their blue.
Finally, the only thing left to plant in the window boxes were silk flowers that people made with machines--
But even the silk flowers were a weak memory of what had been. No one could remember what the real flowers had looked like when they had all been happily themselves.
There was only one flower left in the whole world that had not tried to change itself:
Even when the other flowers had told the Rose she should try to rid herself of thorns, or give up her scent, or try to flatten her petals, she grew on just as she always had: thorny, perfumed, and color wonderful.
Finally, the Morning Glory-- who was still feebly trying to be like the hydrangeas-- made up her mind that she'd much rather be like the Rose. There was just something about the Rose. The Morning Glory summoned all her remaining strength and unwound her vine from the hydrangea bush. She presented herself to the Rose and asked, "Rose-- how can I be like you?"
The Rose was joyfully basking in the sun, and took a moment before looking down at the worn out, bedraggled Morning Glory. Every petal on the Rose looked like a smile-- she couldn't help being happy.
"What is it you want to do?" she asked the tired little Morning Glory.
"I just want to be different. I just want to be better. You're the only beautiful one left," the Morning Glory wept. "How can I be like you?"
The Rose sighed a breath of sweet scented air, and looked kindly at the Morning Glory. "You must never be beautiful like me," she said.
"You must only be beautiful like you. You must greet the day, as only you can. You must be white, when all around you is blue. You must cover trellises with your vines and brighten the gardens. You must twist into a bud in the heat of the day to protect your glorious trumpet from fading. Why would you want to be beautiful like me when you are made to be beautiful like you? You must be a spark of difference."
But the Morning Glory cried, "I don't want to be hideously different."
The Rose turned its face back to the sun and said, "To be different is what it means to be beautiful."
"You can say that," the Morning Glory said. "Everyone knows you're the most beautiful flower."
"But I will fade," the Rose said gently. "I will age, and my petals will fall. Even now, I'm growing older. But every petal that falls will carry with it my joy of living. Even when I fade, I will tell a story of a beautiful life. I have loved being me."
"Now go," the Rose said to the Morning Glory. "Go grow in the way only you can. You must be beautiful in your own way." The Rose smiled. "You will love it."
And so the Morning Glory found a place to grow that felt comfortable, and felt right. She bloomed in the morning, greeting the sun as it rose. She wound her vines up garden trellises and through hydrangea bushes and within the junipers, and when she bloomed, she was something different, and something beautiful.
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