9:30PM: Ate a DELICIOUS gourmet meal cooked by Max, the French chef, who has been staying with me for the last two weeks along with his brother Sylvain the French Art Expert. Were joined by Max's new American friends, Perry and Karen. Drank wine. "Sante."
12:00AM: Finished dinner; said goodbye to friends.
12:05AM: Started cleaning up.
12:15AM: Accidentally spilled wet compost all over Grandpa's persian rug.
12:16AM: Swore, repeatedly.
12:45AM: Finished cleaning up compost, cleaning up the rug, cleaning out the compost bucket, and dealing with compost smell issues.
12:55AM: Considered hot hot hot heat, and sweaty, sweaty, sweaty self.
12:57AM: Suggested to Max that we go for a swim in Lake Washington.
12:58AM: Decided to go for a swim in Lake Washington.
1:05AM: Pulled through mostly-closed gate at quiet dark park.
1:07AM: Stared out at the perfectly still water and marveled at the complete, permeating quiet.
1:08AM: Dove into the water. Floated on back, and looked at the massive, starry sky.
1:10AM: Thought, "He is big enough. He covers everything."
1:14AM: Swam to dock; climbed on. Breathed big deep breaths of summer star-filled night over cool water.
1:16AM: See lights on park road. Heed Max's warning to jump into water. Hide behind dock posts and watch squad cars.
1:18AM: See bright flashlights saunter down to beach and survey the water. Watch lights find our towels on the beach.
1:19AM: Swear repeatedly.
1:20AM: Call out, "Hello...!" and obediently, reluctantly swim back towards beach.
1:22AM: Have chat with policeman. Explain about Max being French, Greta being sweaty, and Compost having spilled.
1:23AM: Get off with a warning.
1:25AM: Leave park.
1:27AM: Drive back.
1:40AM: Go to bed.
Now THAT is what I call a successful evening.
Showing posts with label beach. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beach. Show all posts
Jul 29, 2009
Jan 27, 2009
The Disentangling
Taught all day today and feel a bit knackered. I'm supposed to be responding to my grad school classmates in an online discussion right now, but I need to hit the refresh button on my brain first.
Therefore:
Blogging.
(When I first wrote 'blogging,' I wrote 'boggling' which would not be an inaccurate description of current self.)
Last week, I snapped at this boy named Dylan. Dylan is one of a few students that I think of as "peeing puppy dogs." They're totally adorable, but totally frustrating-- never getting their work in, making low efforts when they do, and plus, they lie all the time or tell stories to get out of stuff. Think of a little brown-eyed pup grinning up at you with this disarming expression... while pissing all over your new carpet.
"Dylan, what is this?"
"My in-class essay."
"Yeah... but... you wrote a paragraph."
(Shrugs and grins.)
"And you brought it in 10 minutes early. You could have spent 10 more minutes on this. You know that we're looking for like five paragraphs, right?"
"I guess." (Grins.)
"Dylan, this is lame."
(Laughs sheepishly and shrugs.)
"You can do so much better than this. This is seriously lame."
"Sorry..." (Grin.)
I heaved an angry sigh, and threw down his paper on the table. "Go sit down."
And he shuffled off to his desk.
I immediately felt guilty. Why didn't I leave it on an inspirational note? Is he really going to try harder if I just tell him he's lame?
After class I tried again.
"Dylan. I don't want to just leave this by telling you you're lame. I think what you DID on that test is lame, because I know you can do better than that. Viola and I can't help you get better if you don't try. It's like basketball practice. If you show up and just sit on the bench, we're never going to be able to give you helpful pointers to improve your game. You HAVE to try. I really believe you can do better than this, and we can HELP you be a better writer if you GIVE that to us. Okay?"
He grinned shyly. "Okay." Then he paused. "Um... Greta? Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure," I said, smiling. Finally. He gets it. This is one of those great moments.
But he burst my bubble. "How are your FEET so small?" he said, wrinkling his nose, and grinning.
ARGH. Today he wasn't even trying to be cute: he was just contrary and apathetic and rude. I thought to myself, "You're not even the peeing puppy today. You're diarrhea puppy." So I put him outside. When I went out in the hall to talk to him later on, he told me that there was, "a lot of drama going on, and he was just sick of it." I told him that I understood drama could make things frustrating, and that I would try to go easy on him-- but that he needed to meet me halfway. Who even knows if he was telling the truth. I know he doesn't have it easy. But does he have it as hard as he'd like me to think?
When I drove home today, I felt tired. It had just been a long day. I still feel tired.
Two songs came on the radio. First, "Washed by the Water," by Needtobreathe. Second, "Revelation," by Third Day. Both songs that had gone on my "New 2" playlist, which had been created during a very stressful time of life.
I remembered a picture I'd gotten in my head once, during that time. In my head, I pictured myself on a dark beach, sitting on packed sand with my knees clutched to my chest. On the shoreline in front of me, I saw endless piles of garbage. The sky over the ocean was dark grey and stormy-- but beneath that sky, there hovered a large, bluish spirit. She guided the waves in and out, to the rhythm of my breathing. In, and they washed up over the garbage, stopping just short of my toes. Out, and they took some of the garbage with them-- pulling cans and old plastic wrappers away to hide forever in the ocean's secret deep. She continued to guide the waves: in, and out. In and out. And piece by piece, the shoreline began to clear.
Then I pictured someone close to me-- someone that I've been worried about. It was Christmas morning in this picture, but this person wasn't celebrating. She was wrapped in string-- tangled up in so many strings, and each one was a spot of pitch from her past experiences, her burdened living that wouldn't let her go. One was her relationship with her dad-- and there were memory strings and conversation strings and disappointment strings knotted with just that one. One was her negative body image, and knotted there were magazine strings, and media strings, and comment strings, and mirror strings, and cruel self-thought strings. There were strings of financial stress, and strings of worldly expectations, and strings of an unknown fearsome future-- there were so MANY. So many: so so many. And she was so tangled.
But God was in the room-- it was Jesus this morning, but He wasn't His Christmas-baby self. He was a grown up, wearing khaki pants, and a brown sweater vest with a brown tie, and he had his sleeves rolled up. I don't know about His face, but it was a soft expression. And when He focused on the strings, they began to snap-- one, by one, by one. And she slowly gained movement. The strings began to untangle, and she became more and more free.
And then the picture went back to the beach. But this time, the sky was clear and blue. There was no storm; only a soft breeze. I was on my feet, in a white dress, and my head was up, and my shoulders were back. The beach was clear: it was only soft bleached sand for as far as I could see. I began walking along the beach, feeling that breeze whisper around my neck and through my hair, and I felt such a deep peace, and such a pure joy, and such a real freedom. And though I didn't see Him yet, I knew that God was walking towards me.
And I thought, "In the end-- it's just Him. We begin as free souls-- and we end as free souls. We become so burdened in the meantime. But He frees us from the garbage-- He frees us from the tangling. In the end it's all clear-- it's just that long, white beach."
Since then, when feeling overwhelmed or stressed, I picture those waves coming in over that litter-ridden shore, and pulling it out, bit by bit. And I breathe to the rhythm of the waves in my mind. Today, when driving home, I pictured Dylan. And I pictured him all tangled up. And I thought, "They ARE all tangled up-- every one of them. They're so burdened and tangled and confined." I thought of Isaac, and Andre, and K, and all the kids I've mentioned over the last six months, and all the tough things I've discovered that they face every day.
Maybe my mission as a teacher is simply to help them with the disentangling. I know I can't articulate that in words like Jesus, or God-- at least not in public schools-- but I can articulate it through kindness, and encouragement, and belief, and respect-- even in ceaseless beleaguering. I can articulate it with words like Hope, and Freedom, and Peace, and Future. I can try to show them love that looks like a cleansing wave, or a snapped string, or a long white beach.
Therefore:
Blogging.
(When I first wrote 'blogging,' I wrote 'boggling' which would not be an inaccurate description of current self.)
Last week, I snapped at this boy named Dylan. Dylan is one of a few students that I think of as "peeing puppy dogs." They're totally adorable, but totally frustrating-- never getting their work in, making low efforts when they do, and plus, they lie all the time or tell stories to get out of stuff. Think of a little brown-eyed pup grinning up at you with this disarming expression... while pissing all over your new carpet.
"Dylan, what is this?"
"My in-class essay."
"Yeah... but... you wrote a paragraph."
(Shrugs and grins.)
"And you brought it in 10 minutes early. You could have spent 10 more minutes on this. You know that we're looking for like five paragraphs, right?"
"I guess." (Grins.)
"Dylan, this is lame."
(Laughs sheepishly and shrugs.)
"You can do so much better than this. This is seriously lame."
"Sorry..." (Grin.)
I heaved an angry sigh, and threw down his paper on the table. "Go sit down."
And he shuffled off to his desk.
I immediately felt guilty. Why didn't I leave it on an inspirational note? Is he really going to try harder if I just tell him he's lame?
After class I tried again.
"Dylan. I don't want to just leave this by telling you you're lame. I think what you DID on that test is lame, because I know you can do better than that. Viola and I can't help you get better if you don't try. It's like basketball practice. If you show up and just sit on the bench, we're never going to be able to give you helpful pointers to improve your game. You HAVE to try. I really believe you can do better than this, and we can HELP you be a better writer if you GIVE that to us. Okay?"
He grinned shyly. "Okay." Then he paused. "Um... Greta? Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure," I said, smiling. Finally. He gets it. This is one of those great moments.
But he burst my bubble. "How are your FEET so small?" he said, wrinkling his nose, and grinning.
ARGH. Today he wasn't even trying to be cute: he was just contrary and apathetic and rude. I thought to myself, "You're not even the peeing puppy today. You're diarrhea puppy." So I put him outside. When I went out in the hall to talk to him later on, he told me that there was, "a lot of drama going on, and he was just sick of it." I told him that I understood drama could make things frustrating, and that I would try to go easy on him-- but that he needed to meet me halfway. Who even knows if he was telling the truth. I know he doesn't have it easy. But does he have it as hard as he'd like me to think?
When I drove home today, I felt tired. It had just been a long day. I still feel tired.
Two songs came on the radio. First, "Washed by the Water," by Needtobreathe. Second, "Revelation," by Third Day. Both songs that had gone on my "New 2" playlist, which had been created during a very stressful time of life.
I remembered a picture I'd gotten in my head once, during that time. In my head, I pictured myself on a dark beach, sitting on packed sand with my knees clutched to my chest. On the shoreline in front of me, I saw endless piles of garbage. The sky over the ocean was dark grey and stormy-- but beneath that sky, there hovered a large, bluish spirit. She guided the waves in and out, to the rhythm of my breathing. In, and they washed up over the garbage, stopping just short of my toes. Out, and they took some of the garbage with them-- pulling cans and old plastic wrappers away to hide forever in the ocean's secret deep. She continued to guide the waves: in, and out. In and out. And piece by piece, the shoreline began to clear.
Then I pictured someone close to me-- someone that I've been worried about. It was Christmas morning in this picture, but this person wasn't celebrating. She was wrapped in string-- tangled up in so many strings, and each one was a spot of pitch from her past experiences, her burdened living that wouldn't let her go. One was her relationship with her dad-- and there were memory strings and conversation strings and disappointment strings knotted with just that one. One was her negative body image, and knotted there were magazine strings, and media strings, and comment strings, and mirror strings, and cruel self-thought strings. There were strings of financial stress, and strings of worldly expectations, and strings of an unknown fearsome future-- there were so MANY. So many: so so many. And she was so tangled.
But God was in the room-- it was Jesus this morning, but He wasn't His Christmas-baby self. He was a grown up, wearing khaki pants, and a brown sweater vest with a brown tie, and he had his sleeves rolled up. I don't know about His face, but it was a soft expression. And when He focused on the strings, they began to snap-- one, by one, by one. And she slowly gained movement. The strings began to untangle, and she became more and more free.
And then the picture went back to the beach. But this time, the sky was clear and blue. There was no storm; only a soft breeze. I was on my feet, in a white dress, and my head was up, and my shoulders were back. The beach was clear: it was only soft bleached sand for as far as I could see. I began walking along the beach, feeling that breeze whisper around my neck and through my hair, and I felt such a deep peace, and such a pure joy, and such a real freedom. And though I didn't see Him yet, I knew that God was walking towards me.
And I thought, "In the end-- it's just Him. We begin as free souls-- and we end as free souls. We become so burdened in the meantime. But He frees us from the garbage-- He frees us from the tangling. In the end it's all clear-- it's just that long, white beach."
Since then, when feeling overwhelmed or stressed, I picture those waves coming in over that litter-ridden shore, and pulling it out, bit by bit. And I breathe to the rhythm of the waves in my mind. Today, when driving home, I pictured Dylan. And I pictured him all tangled up. And I thought, "They ARE all tangled up-- every one of them. They're so burdened and tangled and confined." I thought of Isaac, and Andre, and K, and all the kids I've mentioned over the last six months, and all the tough things I've discovered that they face every day.
Maybe my mission as a teacher is simply to help them with the disentangling. I know I can't articulate that in words like Jesus, or God-- at least not in public schools-- but I can articulate it through kindness, and encouragement, and belief, and respect-- even in ceaseless beleaguering. I can articulate it with words like Hope, and Freedom, and Peace, and Future. I can try to show them love that looks like a cleansing wave, or a snapped string, or a long white beach.
Jun 12, 2008
Mes pieds sont mal
Pronounced: may peed sone maal
Means: My feet hurt
-Woke up at 10am; got ready in the dark as dorm-mates were sleeping, and squabbled in whispers. Met the friendly blue-eyed hostel man, who assured me that he did not hate Americans. 'They are my beez-nees! Eef I 'ate Amereecans...I go out of monee!' Ate a delicious petit-dejeuner (breakfast) at a nearby cafe and went out walking. Oh-- et voila: the previously mentioned sex shop JUST across the street from our hostel. It wasn't open. C'est domage.
-Found the beach. What a nice beach. Get it... NICE... Oh and I didn't even MEAN to do that... Ross, be proud.
-Near the beach, we spotted a series of stone stairs leading high up yonder, so we climbed them. Not only did we see gorgeous panoramic views of the city, but we also found the SWEETEST ACCORDIAN PLAYER MAN THAT WILL HITHERTO BE MY ACCORDIAN MAN FRIEND. He gave us his card, and asked us to send us this picture when we get home:
-At the top of the stairs was this fabulous series of parks, waterfalls, ancient cemetaries, and ruins. So pleased with our accidental find.
-Heidi made me do silly things.
-Went down into the Old Town: classic small alleyways, brightly painted shutters, little markets, clothes hanging from the lines, motorcycles roaring through and scaring small children. Er, tourists.
-Interessant: I'm doing fairly well communicating with people in french, but Heidi's actually better than me at understanding what people are saying. I think I get flustered and am trying so hard to listen for what exactly they're saying...That I miss it altogether. Heidi on the other hand, takes the few key words combined with the gestures... And explains it to me. What. I must improve. Or else listen after one or two glasses of wine.
-Oh, we had WINE LAST NIGHT AND IT WAS FANTASTIC. Annie: I thought of you.
-Both of us feeling self concious about our clothing. There is an H&M here. Might be adding a few more Frenchish things to my already packed pack.
Click on Heidi's blog in the side-bar for her take on the morning, and some pictures.
We're having fun. :)
Means: My feet hurt
-Woke up at 10am; got ready in the dark as dorm-mates were sleeping, and squabbled in whispers. Met the friendly blue-eyed hostel man, who assured me that he did not hate Americans. 'They are my beez-nees! Eef I 'ate Amereecans...I go out of monee!' Ate a delicious petit-dejeuner (breakfast) at a nearby cafe and went out walking. Oh-- et voila: the previously mentioned sex shop JUST across the street from our hostel. It wasn't open. C'est domage.
-Found the beach. What a nice beach. Get it... NICE... Oh and I didn't even MEAN to do that... Ross, be proud.
-Near the beach, we spotted a series of stone stairs leading high up yonder, so we climbed them. Not only did we see gorgeous panoramic views of the city, but we also found the SWEETEST ACCORDIAN PLAYER MAN THAT WILL HITHERTO BE MY ACCORDIAN MAN FRIEND. He gave us his card, and asked us to send us this picture when we get home:
-At the top of the stairs was this fabulous series of parks, waterfalls, ancient cemetaries, and ruins. So pleased with our accidental find.
-Heidi made me do silly things.
-Went down into the Old Town: classic small alleyways, brightly painted shutters, little markets, clothes hanging from the lines, motorcycles roaring through and scaring small children. Er, tourists.
-Interessant: I'm doing fairly well communicating with people in french, but Heidi's actually better than me at understanding what people are saying. I think I get flustered and am trying so hard to listen for what exactly they're saying...That I miss it altogether. Heidi on the other hand, takes the few key words combined with the gestures... And explains it to me. What. I must improve. Or else listen after one or two glasses of wine.
-Oh, we had WINE LAST NIGHT AND IT WAS FANTASTIC. Annie: I thought of you.
-Both of us feeling self concious about our clothing. There is an H&M here. Might be adding a few more Frenchish things to my already packed pack.
Click on Heidi's blog in the side-bar for her take on the morning, and some pictures.
We're having fun. :)
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