life according to me

Tag: Gratitude

Sucking it up (and in) for an ocean swim.

My friend called yesterday to see if I’d like to go for a swim at The Cove early this morning. We could do that first, rinse off in the showers, then drive up to visit a friend who has adopted a brand new baby.

“How early?” I asked.

“6:45? It’s not that cold. You get used to it and the water’s calm at that hour. It’s great,” she tells me.

“I know. Sure,” I say, before I’m tempted to start whining about having to put on a bathing suit. Do I even own one? When was the last time I saw it? And when in hell was the last time I got in that water? It wasn’t the cold so much as it was the kelp and long pieces of sea grass that you have to swim through. And you can’t really see the bottom unless you wear goggles. We wouldn’t be snorkeling, we’d be swimming out to a buoy and back for the exercise. How far was that buoy?

“Make sure you bring your fins. You have some, right?”

“Yah, I have some — well, they’re the RT’s but they’ll work. I’ve used them before,” I said, trying to remember when that was, and how little his feet were then.

“Great. See you tomorrow. I’ll come pick you up. We’ll have coffee, too,” she promised before hanging up.

I woke up before the alarm at about 6am — always a good sign. The night before, I had found not one, but two suits I’d used in the past few years, and both seemed to be fine. There was no way I planned to try either on, as the idea of having to look at myself in one has never been one of my favorite things to do. Ever. No matter, I thought as I grabbed one, and threw it on with a pair of cargo shorts and a tee. I stuffed some undies into my purse to change into after we were finished with our swim, and out the door I went, already deciding that even though I was dressed for a swim, I wasn’t ready to participate.

The morning was quite grey, and not especially warm. It was very quiet out as it often is on days with heavy overcast skies. My ride came and we drove to pick up another friend before heading to The Cove. The mood was light as we drove the short distance, and they graciously listened to me as I told them I may not go in. “The water’s great. It’s only cold right when you get in,” I was consoled. “You get used to it really quickly.” One of them had brought her wet suit along, so she wasn’t the one giving me the pep talk.

But I had begun to think that something else was bothering me. Was I afraid? I hadn’t thought about that before. Although I was never what you’d call a beach kid growing up, I’ve always lived near one, and did spend more time than the average person may spend at the beach. I don’t recall being afraid. Or do I? Maybe it’s just that I have a healthy respect for the strength of the ocean. Maybe the combination of the chill of the water, the murkiness…

We were there so quickly, none of it mattered anyway. I dropped my pants and left them in the car before following the others down the long flight of stairs past the large group of people clad in diving gear getting ready to head down as well. Lots of people come to The Cove to scuba dive. As we piled our things on a rock just below the wall of the cliff, I squinted to see which buoy we’d be aiming for. It wasn’t close. My two friends had just done the swim the past two days, and were letting me know that I’d be fine, and that with my fins, I wouldn’t have to use my arms at all. By this time, I had already begun to remember the instructions I must have had many years before — kick with your whole leg from the hip, back and forth…

The small shoreline of The Cove is quite steep, the large grains of sand loose, and the surf harsh from time to time. Large rocks lie in and around the water, and sea grass is visible swaying with the constant motion of the water. The tide was low. I had goggles around my head, but decided I’d most likely not use them. So many others were just beginning or ending their swims. The group of divers had come down the stairs and awkwardly headed toward the water, lumbering, waddling back and forth to the edge — some backwards, as they already had their fins on.

The coldness of the water isn’t horrible as I step into it, but I always have trouble with the flutter of seagrass against my legs. I remind myself the water is refreshing when it’s been hot, and a bit of chill in the beginning is worth it. But once it hits my torso, the breath leaves me gasping a second or two. One of my friends holds my fins as I float in the water, pushing them onto my feet, one by one. The shore is barely two yards away, and already we have to tread water and begin to paddle. There are no waves — just large swells that carry us up and over, gently. I can tell where the kelp is ahead, as the bulbous heads poke their way to the top of the water, the very end of a long and wide rope I can’t see below for more than a few feet. Long strands of grass flow through the water in front of us, but thin as we swim farther from the shore.

The water is very salty, and soft. It takes little effort to hold myself afloat, whether I’m moving my arms or legs. I just want to turn on my back and float there, feeling the gentle lift of an occasional swell. Although I’ve been paddling enough to speed my breathing, it seems I’m not getting anywhere and I have to occasionally look toward the rocks near the cliff to measure that I’m actually getting somewhere. I can hear a seal baying on the rocks, and six feet away, one pushes its head above water before quickly diving back under. A long silver fish jumps up out of the water in front of us. I’m tempted to put on my goggles knowing that although the water seems grey, I would be able to see golden garibaldis swimming not too far below us.

The water is so soothing I could stay all day. I wonder already why it’s so difficult to remind myself that I enjoy it from one time to the next. Why it’s easier to make excuses about bathing suits and very un-tropical water. “We’re almost to the buoy — do you want to go to the next one?” one friend asks of me.

“How far is it?” I respond, thinking I might be too tired by the time I have to turn around to head back.

“The same distance we’ve just come, but it’s your call,” she tells me, knowing I’m concerned about not being able to make it. “We’ll swim back with you, and then go back ourselves. That’s okay,” she tells me, always the gracious person she is.

So we head back, passing many serious swimmers in their brightly colored caps, sporting their competent crawls and gliding effortlessly through the glassy water. They don’t seem to mind the kelp, the grass, or us — paddling at a relaxed pace, talking from time to time about nothing in particular — switching positions from back to front to relieve the tiredness in our muscles. We are quickly back to shore. “Make sure you take your fins off before you walk out,” one of my friends calls to me as they head back out. “You’ll roll over if you don’t.”

I do as she says, and still have trouble getting out of the water, going down on my knees once before finally making my exit. I turn to see where they are in the water, and notice they have already made some distance. I am tempted to get back in and am a bit sorry for not continuing. But I do notice that my legs are a bit shaky, so know it’s okay that I wimped out on the extra distance. I wait and watch those latest to The Cove readying themselves for the water, wrapping my towel about me to dry off. I feel refreshed. I have time to notice that most of the bathing suit clad bodies in and around The Cove are less than svelte. A good number of them are quite a bit older than I, but most likely, routine swimmers. I could just tell.

As the three of us prepared to head for the showers, one of my friends turned to me and whispered, “I guess it takes all different shapes,” to me as we eyed another group passing us on their way down. A young thin woman, a couple of older, heavier females, and a large man were suited to spend their time in the water as we had. How true, I thought, and how nice.

I’m glad I decided to go in, and even more glad I have friends who tolerate my idiosyncrasies with kind patience.

I don’t deserve that sometimes.

July 9, 2007
How Mameve Medwed saved my summer reading life

About that pile of books I’m supposed to be reading…

Some time ago while I was reading through others’ blogs, I spied the cover of a book in a sidebar. If I remember correctly, there was somewhat of a tease in the caption encouraging me to receive the book free if I was willing to review it. You do know that I am completely aware of the promise I made to read all the books I have at home before I purchase another, don’t you? I chide myself each and every time I see something I’d love to read that isn’t in my stack of books. I’ve been so trustworthy. So diligent. Well, perhaps not quite tenacious enough when one considers the amount of time I’ve taken to read through a couple of the first books on my list.

Just a refresher: the whole point of reading everything in my house has been my cost saving measure: a sort of contribution to the family’s coffers since I’m sans income. Besides, I did take the time to choose and purchase these ah… tomes at one point in the past, mulling over the authors, considering the reviews, and projecting the mood each would lull me into as I read.

So when I saw How Elizabeth Barrett Browning Saved my Life in the lamentably forgotten blogger’s sidebar (I am so very sorry!) with “free” nestled beneath the cover shot, I thought that it wouldn’t be cheating if I accepted the offer. Sure, I’ll read a book and write a review. Technically, I wouldn’t be spending money for the book. It would be just fine if I sneaked this one in to relieve myself of the recent horrendous reads I’d suffered through. So I clicked. A free book!

The book was delivered, and read. I read it in two days. Not a month like Mapping the Edge. Not weeks and weeks and weeks, like Dog Days. Two days. Now, that’s more like it. Nothing like being back in the saddle again. Greasing up the ol’ reading machine. I’m back. Besides, it’s summertime, and what can be more perfect than a book that travels easily to the beach and back? A book that’s about antiques, New England, a little romance, an obscure biography by Virginia Woolf called Flush, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s thunder mug. Ahem… Excuse me?

Let me back up a bit before I truly begin.

Quite some time ago, I was in Cambridge, MA, working on a project at the Harvard Graduate School of Ed and happened upon Mail. The cover was an eye-catching yellow, and I was drawn to the author’s name — unusual. The setting was Cambridge — how coincidental; the protagonist a writer — and I wanted so much to be a writer. So it seemed perfect for a summertime read to ease my mind from the less than glamorous work I was involved in: curriculum writing. I no longer have the book, most likely loaned to a friend who neglected to return it, but I remember enjoying the woman in the story and her quirky personality. I remember her mailman, too…It’s been a while since I’ve read something by Mameve Medwed — nearly ten years.

I’m so sorry, Mameve. I know you’ve published other books in that time, so it’s odd that I’ve not come across one while traipsing through bookstores, or surfing Amazon’s cyberstacks. And I know that had I found one of those books, it wouldn’t be hidden in that dusty stack I currently find myself having to read. I would speak to my marketers, if I were you, because I enjoyed your first book quite a bit and would have read the others had I known…

Memories of Medwed’s writing came quickly back as I began this latest of her novels. Abby Randolph is an easy to get to know woman who sells antiques. Her store isn’t one known for grossly ornate 18th century European credenzas, or priceless Baccarat crystal candlesticks. In fact, her “store” is a booth that sits alongside that of others who have a passion for, and know much about old things that just might be worth more than we think they are worth. Like the porcelain chamber pot that sits in Abby’s booth. The one her colleague encourages her to lug to the Antiques Roadshow soon coming to town. The chamber pot once owned by her mother who was recently and tragically killed. Her lovely mother who, after years of chin-up tolerance with her role as one of “the Cambridge ladies” poet E.E. Cummings writes of, runs off to seek a new life: a life with the woman next door. Yes, woman. Her best friend’s mother. The mother of the boy next door she fell in love with so many years ago.

Medwed’s ability to sell Abby and her self-deprecating existence, her seemingly new found promise of wealth, and love, are what make this book. Otherwise, liking Abby could become a challenge. She seems not able to hold herself up or deal with her life. She lets people walk all over her. She just accepts things. But she knows it. And when she acknowledges her shortcomings over and over again, you find that you are on her side, cheering her on, wanting her to step up and push back against the pathetic people she has chosen to tolerate throughout her life: the pseudo best friend who is really only out for herself; her ex-business partner and lover, gone after taking what he could from Abby’s life as a Cambridge professor’s daughter and has moved on to a more profitable lifestyle; or the reporter who surfaces to get the inside story on the chamber pot, now authenticated and valued at a staggering amount of money.

Don’t most people fare well after they’ve received news of a windfall? Shouldn’t everything turn around in their lives, making their dull existence more bright? Can it erase the sadness one feels for the tragic loss of a mother, and a young man always thought of as someone who would be part of her future?

Maybe it can. Abby Randolph has to confront her demons in much the way that you and I would, failing over and over again, before she is able to arrive at what matters. Without Medwed’s clever sarcasm and tight narrative, without her insider knowledge as a Cambridge resident, How Elizabeth Barrett Browning Saved My Life could be just another book in a growing list of what is now referred to as Chick Lit. Without Medwed’s dry humor and ability to capture the odd characteristics humans have, Abby could be just another female whose pathetic lack of self-awareness makes her unnoticeable. Instead, we are left smiling as Abby grows into herself and her life.

http://www.harpercollins.com/services/browseinside/widget.aspx?hc.guid=3ee96b8e-5b18-427e-a36e-6893adfa1856Mameve Medwed has saved me from the depths of yet another completely dreary read. Thank goodness. Now I can go back and read her novels I’ve missed in the past ten years. But not until I finish that stack. Promise. Well, maybe the public library has them. That’s free, too. Right?

I’m left wondering on whose site I originally found the offer to review this novel and will continue to do some investigating. My quest has dropped me into the world of publishing houses and their quest to step up their on-line marketing. It has taken me to Booksquare and a very interesting look at opinions on the publishing industry. It has also taken me to First Look at Harper Collins — a very intriguing opportunity for someone like me, trying to avoid those books I already own, wanting instead to wallow in the possibility of buying more, always more.

Oh, that heaven is a bookstore when I get there…

June 28, 2007
Genetically Meandering and Goal-Free, or Something
Funny how a subtle change in a suffix or hyphenation can significantly change the connotation of something. As in goal-less or goal-free. One clearly implies not only lack — but a negative one at that, and the other, a sort of liberating, non-shackled state of being. Sort of the difference between:
- the sad sack who hits the alarm button in the morning with a mental list of, “get up, take a shower, feed the animals, take the car in, pay the bills, defrost the Thanksgiving leftovers for dinner, label my linen closet…” and
- the ebullient chap who bounds out of bed each day exclaiming, “Yes! The whole day is ahead of me and I can’t wait to find out what amazing things will come my way!”
Okay, well, maybe the contrast is a bit strong, but I came across this site not too long ago, and am probably one of the few who didn’t learn about it on Oprah, because I sort of forget to actually watch Oprah. Yes, I’m home. No, I just don’t think about it. The television doesn’t usually go on until about 7 or 7:30 so we can trash our brains family style watching things like Jeopardy, So You Think You Can Dance, Hell’s Kitchen, and — well, you get the idea. We are sort of in the “goal-free” category of television viewers. We “meander with purpose” to borrow Stephen Shapiro’s phrase.

My mom often tells me she hasn’t had a goal in her life. This admission often comes after we’ve been discussing “stuff.” The stuff can be any number of “things.”

Things like life.

Not so small a thing, or even closely related to stuff. But if I listen carefully, the goal issue usually connects to the idea of planning on, organizing for, going through, and/or getting a career. Not a job or work. A career. Why other things don’t seem to be considered that took her determination and perseverance is beyond me.

I’ve noticed that people have a tendency to lord it over those who haven’t jumped through life’s hoops. Like there are a set of rules somewhere that we have to follow so that we can be recognized at the end of The Road. Kind of like a graduation. You get there, someone reads your name, and then there’s a list of what you’ve “done” with your life. Career seems to be at the top of the list. Especially a career that is connected to education. A formal education. One that was obtained at an easily recognized and even prestigious institution.

But what if you haven’t done those things? What happens if you have a completely different set of rules that you live your life by? What if your life is goal-free instead of goal-less? More importantly, what if your goals have always been things like:
- keep your children clean, fed, and well clothed;
- be relentlessly productive because it is an end in itself;
- teach your children to be practical;
- make sure your children do their homework, and clean their rooms;
- be extremely organized and tidy;
- make sure your children understand that manners are important, and that they are a reflection of the entire family while in public;
- focus on functionality;
- teach your children how to cook, sew, garden, and take care of the house;
- take time to grow, appreciate, and smell flowers;
- pay your children an allowance even though you shouldn’t afford it, and teach them how to save that allowance;
- buy musical instruments and pay for lessons when you know you can’t afford it;
- tolerate inane jobs to earn a paycheck to feed your children;
- make sure your children understand that nothing in life is free, so working very hard is how you get ahead;
- have a day job and a night job;
- make sure your children understand that education is important;
- try different jobs when you no longer have to worry about feeding your children;
- keep reaching because you know there’s something out there for you, just waiting, if you could only see it more clearly, and so many other things didn’t get in the way, distracting you, making you wonder if you should be afraid of reaching.
Yes, what if your life has been filled with those kinds of things?

Are you goal-less, or goal-free? The whole concept fascinates me because it is easy to line up a few people we can all identify as being successful without too much analysis. We default to the “who’s productive and wealthy” criteria that is so often the crux ofÂ our society. But then, after assembling these iconic individuals, we have to examine whether they’ve all jumped through those hoops I mentioned earlier. Often, they have not. What we learn is they had their own set of hoops, and that the hoops were of varying sizes, movable, and sometimes intentionally avoided, or dismissed as being a waste of time.

Hoop-less, or hoop-free? Maybe you think it’s all just Hoop-lah.

What do you want to do? What matters to you? What is important? What will sustain you — and not just your bank account? Because I think that’s the key. If this whole business of making lists and setting goals is never going to be more than crossing off the things on your list, or checking off those boxes, then all you’ll end up with is a list of things you crossed off. Or maybe not.

What if that list says things like:

Travel around the world?
- You have to want to do this, of course…
- You have to at least think about how to begin or where to begin
- You will need to consider how much or little to take with you
Read untranslated works of Gabriel Garcia Marquez?
- You might want to consider learning Spanish…and practicing a lot
Be famous?
- This is relative considering the guy who just got caught for spamming up our emails. Okay, so infamous. But still…
- You can’t just sit and wait around for it to happen.
- You have to at least learn what spam is and how to make everyone else miserable with it.
- Or lose a lot of weight eating Subway Sandwiches instead of home-baked chocolate cookies with macadamia nuts.
People who want to do things just do them. That’s why Nike tells us to “Just Do It.” What they really mean is, “Shut the funk up and get off your arse. Go brush your teeth and quit stinking up the air space with your monotonous jabbering about what you’re going to do or want to do or wish you could do if only you could do it.” Nike knows us. Well, they really just want us to pay a fortune for their products made for a fraction of a penny on the dollar in third world countries, but that’s another topic. So their marketers know us. Or get paid to act like they do. A lot.

The problem is, when your head feels like it’s going to pop off every minute of every day because you’re just trying to make ends meet (whatever ends are pertinent to an individual’s life) heading in a semi-focused direction beyond survival can feel a tad bit overwhelming. Making that list may seem easier than doing something unfamiliar. Articulating those goals make seem like organizing for action. Being industrious and productive can look great on the surface because you’re “getting things done,” but that just takes up time. The rest of it is horribly messy and doesn’t really fit in any kind of a list, so you never really have to do it. Right?

And when you run out of time at the end of the day, you can get into bed and dream about what you’d really like to do, if only you had the chance.

I am a meanderer. I waver toward whatever I am interested in. Detour here, wrong turn there. Learning and taking notes along the way, but rarely with the journey being described as the shortest distance between two points. The plan would be to get there in the shortest amount of time, but there are just too many shiny things I have to wonder about and understand along the way.

So probably more goal-free than goal-less. But always purposeful.

Unflaggingly. Thanks for the genes, Mom.
June 7, 2007
Twenty Years and Blinking

Nice guy that he is, the MoH gently reminded me that I had carpool responsibilities this morning. It’s Tuesday already, and not Monday, so perhaps I was in a Monday frame of mind. The RT and I slunk to the car, I put ‘er in reverse and sat outside The Princess’ house for a few minutes until she graced us with her flowery scented presence. “Good morning,” I began, as usual, attempting to present an image of one who, although wearing pajamas and a rank sweatshirt, was chipper and ready to take the week by the horns. “How was your weekend?”

“Ohmygodyesterdaywasthemostbeautifulday,” she trilled, her eyes wide as I sneaked a look in the rear view mirror. “We went to the beach and everything was just perfect and you know how there are little sand places between the rocks? Well the four of us fit right in there, and well, it’s kind of a coveted location, so when we were ready to leave people were right there ready to take our spot,” she continued, rapt in her recollection of what I remembered was a pleasant day, but not that special. Oh, that’s right. I went outside late in the afternoon to pretend like I was going to finish my book, and ended up lazing in the sun, nodding off occasionally to make up for two late nights in a row. “Only 15 days of school left,” she finished, the non sequitur ending her atypical morning liveliness.

Only fifteen days left. That’s always significant if you are in any way connected to school: you’re a student; your kids are in school; or, if like me, an erstwhile educator who recognized that the countdown to summer posted on the board would get you some points from your students, whether my principal liked it or not — thinking it “negative.” Uhhhh…what rock did she crawl out from under? Doesn’t everyone look forward to summer? Why act like that isn’t the case? Ahhh….summer. The Beach Boys and “No more homework, no more books.

No more teachers’ ‘dirty looks’” or whatever the words of that schoolyard chant are. Vacation. Ten. Whole. Weeks. Of sleeping in. Of lazing around the house. Of re-runs on television and sweet oblivion.

It’s a bit strange now since I am only marginally connected to this annual ritual that has been a part of my life in some way for about 40 years. Yes — I know. Longer than some of you have been alive. Through my childhood and college years, my two older boys’ school years, my re-entry to college, and then finally my career in education. Nearly my entire life has been filled with the peculiar ebb and flow of time related to school years. The RT is of course still connected, and will be for many years even after we pack him up kicking and screaming, and throw him on a train and off to college.

It was 20 years ago that I was beginning my career as a teacher. It’s pretty frightening how quickly 20 years can fly by. In 1987, I was ready to take on my first class of Third Graders, and finally do what I had always longed to do: teach. It was exhilarating after waiting so long. From the time I was in junior high, school counselors had gently tried to talk me out of the profession. Really. I’ve tried to remember the details of those conversations, but it was so long ago, it’s difficult. Besides, do adolescents really listen the way we want and need them to when we are gifting them with our experienced advice? Do pigs fly? Does a chicken have lips? Like I said — difficult. And now I don’t need the details, because I recognize their quiet words as something designed to open different worlds to a young person — one more exotic, more glamorous, and most likely, less practical. Perhaps they were at a point where they imagined something different for themselves, so that yearning influenced their words to me.

Regardless, I heeded their advice, and went off to college declaring my major to be Family Studies and Consumer Sciences in order to become a Therapeutic Dietitian. Why this? I had to choose a different, but still practical something to replace my dream of wanting to become a teacher, and I had read something in Time magazine about careers in the health industry, so that made sense. Why not? Are hospitals and schools all that different? Um…never mind. You don’t even want to know what I think about that one.

I never became a dietitian. In fact, I changed my major to Library Science because I really did want to be involved in education on some level. And there were very few jobs available for teachers then, so why not be a Librarian? I loved books, after all, and if I couldn’t be a teacher, I could hover in their vicinity. But I ended up leaving school.

The part time job I had was paying more than what first year teachers made, so it was easy to leave the books and the routines to get married and have two boys. Easy until I felt my brain begin to rot with inactivity. So I finally found myself back in college to pick up where I left off with two young children in tow, the same part time job, and an ex-husband left somewhere in the dust — an unfortunate casualty of someone who should have stayed the school course to begin with. But my two boys were the silver lining of that detour, and they are worth it.

Completing a degree and a credentialing program with kids in tow was crazy on several levels, but lots of people do it today. What was gruelling was subjecting my kids to the insane rigors of a new teaching assignment in an inner city school, and master’s degree work all at the same time. That’s why I have such a high regard for the MoH. He helped all three of us survive those years.

Twenty years. Don’t blink. You may miss them. Now, I’ll have to live vicariously through the RT’s last few days of school wondering if he’s as ecstatic as I would be if I was still counting down to summer.

I know. I’ll post it on the fridge.

May 29, 2007
Adolescent Milestones and The Geometry Teacher
Ninth grade is one of those really big milestones for me. No, I’m not talking about my completion of ninth grade, but as I think about this, perhaps so. Tenth grade signaled the end of an awkwardness that took up residence around the age of 11 and sowed many seeds of doubt about who I was to become in this life. But it’s the RT I’m talking about at this point, and not me. With just 18 or so days left of school this year, I find myself taking stock of this very soon to be young man — the youngest of my three, and the only one I’ve had the pleasure of “mothering” for the past six months without the distraction of my own career.

So what has brought this on? It’s one of those things that has been on the back burner, simmering, festering, wanting to be put down in written words. Spoken words have all been used throughout the year — and some not so kind. And now it’s just a story. Another story that will sit alongside so many others in the volume we’ve created as parents of the RT. And it’s unique, because neither of my other two boys ever had an experience with a teacher quite like that of the RT and The Geometry Teacher. Yes. Her.

When the RT got in the car after school a couple of days ago, it took little time after he had slung his 80 lb. back pack into the trunk before settling into the passenger seat and exclaiming, “Today was the most efficient day I’ve ever had in school.” Well. If that didn’t stop me in my tracks, then nothing ever would. It was one of those moments that had to be written down, as monumental as it seemed, or become lost in all the others that accumulate over time. One, because they — adolescents — just don’t say things like this often; and two, they aren’t often recognized for routinely sharing their revelations — especially with one of their parents. Whether the relationship with the parents is a comfy one, is a completely different issue.

Don’t get me wrong. The RT is an exceptional human — if you can get over his slovenliness — but that’s really not anything we pull our hair out over. It just makes him more warm and fuzzy to us. I know. Gross. But it’s true. He’s a nice kid. Very. And his outlook on humanity is a model for others to consider. If you ask him about what he thinks the biggest problem the world has to deal with, he will tell you that it’s global warming. He can also tell you why he thinks that, throwing in the scientific theory behind the concern. He will also say that he believes obesity is our country’s biggest concern because it’s creating significant health problems for people who aren’t getting proper care. He genuinely likes people and sees good in everyone. He has absolutely no expectation that many people can be very cruel, and like spiders, ready themselves to dart across carefully crafted misery webs to trap unsuspecting humans and wrap them in darkness. Oh…*ahem*…got a bit carried away there. Still… The Geometry Teacher. The award goes to her for being the first person — not just teacher, but person — to have alerted the RT to another kind of human in this world.

I knew things would be less than great when the MoH called me at school one night very early in the school year while I was still at work. He had attended another Open House without me and when my cell rang, I glanced at the clock and thought it odd, because he had only been at the school for a short while. What could be going on? “The Geometry Teacher’s a freak,” he began, in a very terse voice. I could tell he was walking as he spoke because he had that shaking kind of sound going on with this voice. Either that or he was ready to blow.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Nothing. I just walked out in the middle of her presentation. She’s a complete freak,” he continued, clearly pissed off. And that’s odd, too, because the MoH never gets that worked up over school stuff. Well, except for that first grade teacher. And maybe that one math teacher in middle school. Okay. So I lied. Anyway…it quickly became evident that we’d have quite the discussion when we both got home that evening.

How can I explain the feeling of being between a rock and a hard place with a teacher who:
- Puts a zero on homework because the notebook paper we purchased for the RT was not exactly 8.5″ x 11?” That’s right. The paper was 10.5″ x 8.” Three different stores sold paper this size, so you just don’t think about it because, hell, maybe it’s about conservation — you know? So the RT received many zeros before we realized that we were at fault here and that his paper was a half-inch too small on two sides. Wait. I could give you the difference in area…..
- Won’t respond to emails because of some phobia about having her writing in print like evidence that could be used against her in a court of law;
- Makes her students copy the problem. No, I’m not just saying that she asks them to copy the algorithm — I mean like, “The given vector represents the velocity of…” You get the idea. Some of these scenarios are almost a paragraph long and when there are 20 or more problems to complete, what is the kid spending most of his time doing? Copying the problem or doing the geometry? Right.
- Takes points off if she can’t read the part that was copied, so when the grade comes, it isn’t clear whether the kid is being evaluated on his knowledge of geometry, or copying. And since the RT has dysgraphia, I can guarantee you her routine red-ink evaluations have been on his ability to copy — not do geometry. Oh! But you can photocopy the “problems” and paste them onto the homework paper if you’d like. Uh….I’m supposed to go out and buy a photocopier and do this nightly? Didn’t cutting and pasting happen in Kindergarten? Oh, I forgot. All I ever really needed to know I learned in Kindergarten.
- Allows students to make 3″ x 5″ cheat cards for quizzes and exams, but collects them at the door when students are done with their exams. That means that instead of being able to reuse the cards for future tests — because knowledge is built on what precedes it, right? — they have to create new ones. I created the RT’s cards on the computer just once and it took a very long time. His handwriting is so illegible, he can’t even read it at times, so my eyeballs were popping out of my head, and my drug store glasses not getting the job done with their .5 magnification lenses.
- Won’t attend meetings that the parents request and the school holds to discuss student need. Like, we get it that our kid has a problem, so what can we do together to help him? But the instigator, the one making it worse, can’t even come to the table to work out a solution? This is extremely challenging when I’ve done what she has done — been in her situation — had teachers on my staff in her situation -and never — EVER — have I seen this kind of unprofessional behavior. Ever. In the real world, she would have been fired so long ago.
- Review test answers with students the day after the test by working out problems on the board, but does not allow them to take notes so they can actually LEARN from the experience. And they’re not allowed to have a pencil out when this whole thing is going on. Huh? So this would be an exercise in long term auditory memory — well visual if you count being able to memorize what she had written on the board — and not geometry.
So the RT’s very excellent and efficient day? Well in spite of The Geometry Teacher — or because of The Geometry Teacher, part of the thing we’ve been working on since I’ve been at home is to encourage, support, cajole, reprimand, and force him to be aware of and responsible for his learning. That is huge. It isn’t that we weren’t working on those things before, because those are things that have to be worked on. But it doesn’t mean sitting down with him as he does his school work — although we’ve done that. It doesn’t mean digging through his back pack to find missing assignments he has completed but hasn’t turned in — but we’ve done that, too, finding 4 fermented apples and all. It doesn’t mean that I ever do his work for him, which would mean that I’d have to relearn it myself — although I, too, have at least done the “copying” of the completely ridiculous geometry problems so Her Highness could read his papers. And it absolutely doesn’t mean that I paid a tutor $75 an hour to tutor him. But that was the next thing on my agenda. Of course, I’d have to get a job to afford it, but goodness. I could tutor middle school students in English for $75 an hour and then use the money to pay for the RT’s tutoring. Or barter — you tute my kid and I’ll tute yours.

It means he finally took himself to the library to work with junior volunteers after school — kids who actually like math, and understand math differently than the RT may, and who have survived THE GEOMETRY TEACHER. They survived her — not just her class.

And you know what? The RT got a B+ on his last test — only 2% from an A-. Woo-Hoo! Now are we sure that means he understands the concepts? Who knows? But what it does mean to me — his mom, and erstwhile English Teacher? It means that I suppose you can force your kids to do what you want — what you believe is good for them — like these folks — but ultimately, I think it’s about persistent talk, nudging, suggesting, telling, expecting, and relentless questioning, so they’ll get there themselves. So they feel it was their accomplishment, because it should be theirs. They deserve that very important feeling as they mature into adults.

The Geometry Teacher will always represent this important time in our lives when my youngest, and very accepting son, not only realizes that life is often like a game, and that sometimes, there are people who make it more challenging for us to succeed, unlike others who thrive on supporting success. Ironically, the unsupportive people we happen upon exist to help us learn more about ourselves. It’s not especially pleasant to realize, but sometimes, those who are supposed to help the most, don’t.

Sobering lesson for an almost 15-year-old to learn, but he’s feeling “efficient,” so heartfelt congrats to the boy who was just a baby not so very long ago.
May 25, 2007
Complexity + Change = Simplicity

The following segment of Julius Caesar by Shakespeare used to be posted on a bulletin board above my desk a few years ago:

There is a tide in the affairs of men,

Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;

Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows, and in miseries.

On such a full sea are we now affloat;

And we must take the current when it serves,

Or lose our ventures.

On first glance, it seems to be a bit gloomy, fatalistic. On another — and to me at that point in the extremely difficult work we were engaged in — it meant something very hopeful, promising. It meant that if what we were trying to do was going to work, then it was going to be “now,” and that everyone needed to join in to make it happen. Unfortunately, I also knew that many of those involved did not want to be a part of any change, for any reason. Being involved wasn’t on their agenda. They were mired in their day-to-day existence, and not loving it. Often, that routine — whether enjoyable or not — is something concrete that can be depended upon. The tension around the idea of “letting go” and trying something different, or learning and growing as a common endeavor was too enormous for many, and so, our work failed. That sounds so dismal.

To think about it in a different way, you have to picture a surfer who is waiting for that perfect wave. She gets ready, is up, is going to go for it, begins to coast up that curl toward the seemingly elusive tunnel ahead of her as the wave grows, but somehow the power is just not with her. She misses it and rides over the back of the wave, watching it rush to the shore without her. Of course there are other waves…Other beaches…

During that time, I was recommended a book by Margaret J. Wheatley called Turning to One Another: Simple Conversations to Restore Hope to the Future. It’s a beautiful book I had hoped to glean something from to encourage the work I referenced above. In leafing through it now — several years past — I know now what I suspected then. Ideas of this kind would have been scoffed at by those who were afraid of opening themselves up to change. Ideas of this nature were threatening to them. Ideas about “the courage of conversation…”

Where can we find the courage to start a good conversation? The answer is found in the word itself. ‘Courage’ comes from the Old French word for heart (cuer). We develop courage for those things that speak to our heart. Our courage grows for things that affect us deeply, things that open our hearts. Once our heart is engaged, it is easy to be brave. ( p. 25)

Ideas about “willing to be disturbed…”

We can’t be creative if we refuse to be confused. Change always starts with confusion; cherished interpretations must dissolve to make way for the new. Of course it’s scary to give up what we know, but the abyss is where newness lives. Great ideas and inventions miraculously appear in the space of not knowing. If we can move through the fear and enter the abyss, we are rewarded greatly. We rediscover we’re creative. (p. 37)

Ideas about being “willing to reclaim time to think…”

If we can pause for a moment and see what we’re losing as we speed up, I can’t imagine that we would continue with this bargain. We’re forgetting the very things that make us human. Our road to hell is being paved with hasty intentions. I hope we can notice what we’re losing — in our day-to-day life, in our community, in our world. I hope we’ll be brave enough to slow things down. (p. 96)

So it’s Friday. Time to slow down, time to converse about possibilities, time to reflect, and be creative. For me, that means giving Photoshop some time and learning how to create different images with the photos I’ve taken around here. Here’s a sample of what I’ve done so far. The one below — not above. The RT did that one. Not bad for a mouse potato, huh? Well, actually, a pair of mouse potatoes. Now I just have to figure out how to get mine into the header on my other blog. But not today. That’s a working kind of webmastering thing. I just want to create. Well, I may have to do some housework. Feh!

Have a peaceful weekend…

May 4, 2007
Flower Smelling & Connecting Dream Dots

“A well-rounded life is filled with delights and wonders. Why is that so easy to forget? Instead of getting caught up in another mundane drama, choose intrigue and awe.”

Hmmm…my horror-scope for the day. No, I’m not a daily reader, or even more than someone who comes across things like this occasionally and pauses long enough to think about how it relates to me — if at all. It’s fascinating when a few things come together all at once, though, like it’s someone’s plan — for me. Again, not really what I believe, but interesting to think about.

For example, after I read the words quoted above, I started my day on the web ( I know…) and came across Mr. Besilly whose post today is about “Holding Onto Dreams.” I could wax prolifically about the words of the person he quotes, because I had an inkling of a thought of an idea one upon a time that I won’t call impossible — because I’m not one to call anything that — but was a very bright light in my life for the blink of an eye. Although it never came to be, I remember it with fondness whenever something reminds me of it. It was worth having that seed of a possibility for a while, taking the ho-hum out of my life, giving me the rich taste of what could be.

And then I remembered a post yesterday at I Live on a Farm called “Dream like no one is watching” and thought about the connection between dreaming, delights, and wonders. I suppose if you’re the practical sort, you’ve snorted a few times by now. You have a list, or lists, more likely: one for today, one for the week, one for the month, one for short term and long term things to get done. Maybe you actually accomplish the things on those lists, and fall into bed each night with a sense of “job well done.” That’s simply marvelous, because I would hope that you don’t end each day with a drowning sense of not being ever finished, or being obsessed with being able to count the things you did — like someone is keeping score and will catch you if you didn’t do anything. Do you? Yes, you do. That’s pretty sad. I’m an expert because I used to do that, too.

The Moh and I drove down to the beach for a walk in the the “May Grey” that precedes the “June Gloom” last evening to move our bones a bit and breathe the salty, brisk air. At some point, our talk turned to the idea of wanting, wishing, or hoping for more — whatever more is, and whether wanting more is something you can do aloud. You know, if you say it, you’ll be struck down, or frowned upon, or thought greedy because you should always be thankful for what you have, and there are starving people in this world, and it’s just wrong to want more. More. Lots and lots more. I’m sorry! Okay? Jeez.

Now, picture a man standing with a solid, grounded stance, holding a balloon that resembles a woman reaching for the stars, suspended by a long, long string that he is trying to pull her to back to Earth with. That would be me and the MoH on our walk having this discussion. But at some point towards the end, he told me a story he heard on the radio about the mayonnaise jar and the golf balls. You’ve probably heard it already, but I hadn’t, and a simple Google search of “Story jar, golf balls, pebbles, sand, and coffee” gained me 23,900 hits. I never cease to amaze myself at how long my head has been completely buried in the sand for the last gazillion years. I chose the post called “Cup of Life” at joey moggie if you haven’t heard the story either — and welcome to my world.

First off, the Moh doesn’t tell stories, so the whole thing was pretty wonderful just listening to him. Yah, I really like the MoH. And I torture him with my malarkey all the time, so he gets a star for that. But even more interesting — his story connects with everything else that has been lining up lately. No, I’m not going to go off on some bizarro cosmos rant. But remember what I said about considering myself to be a pathological optimist and constructive pessimist? Well, these pithy words of wisdom have been falling all around me for days now, and I’m just now getting around to noticing their connection to one another. What I need to do is get a big cork for my constructive pessimism that is always yammering at and around me, telling me about all the “what ifs” I have to watch out for or else.

I’m surrounded by practical people everywhere — except the RT who’s drifty like me, and it’s really challenging to not listen to them. I’m thinking they should listen to me. Well, they do, but more. Somebody responded to one of my posts the other day saying that I just had to tolerate something because it was how things are. Just accept it because “we” all do. Society “we.” My maternal grandmother’s response to that would have been, “Who’s we? You and the turd in your pocket?” Now that’s a woman who knew things. She just never got credit for knowing. Of course, she wasn’t very practical, either. I’m thinking practical isn’t all it’s chalked up to be. And I’m tired of being a round peg in a square hole — or something like that. So I’m smelling the flowers just about as fast as I can every day now, making up for lost time. I’m doing so much flower smelling my house is messier that it’s ever been, and it still hasn’t caved in so there must be something to my method.

Now, where was that dream so I can blow the dust off of it and give it a few tweaks here and there. Maybe some mouth to mouth resuscitation. It may not be the stuff of intrigue and awe, but still. Then you’ll see. Just watch. Come on — hold your breath. I dare you.

May 3, 2007