De-Composition

I've moved (back)

2011-07-28T12:53:00.005-05:00

Hey, y'all! case you were wondering, I'm posting over at http://www.go-viaggio.blogspot.com/ now. Just moved to the UK. Just learning how to survive..

I've moved (back)

2011-07-28T12:53:00.003-05:00

Hey, y'all! case you were wondering, I'm posting over at http://www.go-viaggio.blogspot.com/ now. Just moved to the UK. Just learning how to survive..

Rule 20

2011-06-26T08:00:00.000-05:00

Fret not where the road will take you. Instead concentrate on the first step. That's the hardest part and that's what you are responsible for. Once you take that step let everything do what it naturally does and the rest will follow. Do not go with the flow. Be the flow.

Rule 19

2011-06-25T08:00:00.002-05:00

If you want to change the way others treat you, you should first change the way you treat yourself. Unless you learn to love yourself, fully and sincerely, there is no way you can be loved. Once you achieve that stage, however, be thankful for every thorn that others might throw at you. It is a sign that you will soon be showered in roses.

Rule 18

2011-06-24T08:00:00.002-05:00

The whole universe is contained within a single human being - you. Everything that you see around, including the things you might not be ond of, and even the people you despise and abhore, is present within you in varying degrees. Therefore, do not look for saitan outside of yourself either. The devil is not an extraordinary force that attacks from withoIt is an ordinary voice from within. If you get to know yourself fully, facing with honesty and hardness both your dark and bright sides, you will arrive at a supreme form of consciousness. When a person knows himself or herself, he or she knows God.

Rule 17

2011-06-23T08:00:00.002-05:00

Real filth is the one inside. The rest simply washes off. There is only one type of dirt that cannot be cleansed with pure waters, and that is the stain of hatred and bigotry contaminating the soul. You can purify your body through abstinance and fasting, but only love will purify your heart.

Rule 16

2011-06-22T08:00:00.003-05:00

It is easy to love a perfect God, unblemished and infallible tha He is. What is far more difficult is to love fellow human beings with all their imperfections and defects. Remember, one can only know what one is capable of loving. There is no wisdom without love. Unless we learn to love God's creation, we can neither truly love nor truly know God.

Rule 15

2011-06-21T08:00:00.002-05:00

God is busy with the completion of your work, both outwardly and inwardly. He is fully occupied with you. Every human being is a work in progress that is slowly but inexorably moving toward perfection. We are each an unfinished work of art both waiting and striving to be completed. God deals with each of us seperately because humanity is a fine art of skilled penmanship where every single dot is equally important for the entire picture.

Rule 14

2011-06-20T08:00:00.002-05:00

Try not to resist the changes that come your way. Instead let life live through you. And do not worry that your life is turning upside down. How do you know that the side you are used to is better than the one to come?

Rule 13

2011-06-19T08:00:00.002-05:00

There are more fake gurus and false teachers in this world than the number of stars in the visible universe. Don't confuse power-driven, self-centered people with true mentors. A genuine spiritual master will not direct your attention to himself or herself and will not expect absolute obedience or utter admiration from you, but instead will help you to appreciate and admire your inner self. True mentors are as transparent as glass. They let the light of God pass through them.

Rule 12

2011-06-18T08:00:00.002-05:00

The quest for Love changes us. There is no seeker among those who search for Love who has not matured on the way. The moment you start looking for Love, you start to change within and without.

Rule 11

2011-06-17T08:00:00.002-05:00

The midwife knows that when there is no pain, the way for the baby cannot be opened and the mother cannot give birth. Likewise for a new Self to be born, hardship is necessary.

Just as clay needs to go through intense heat to become strong, Love can only be perfected in pain.

Rule 10

2011-06-16T08:00:00.001-05:00

East, west, south, or north makes little difference. No matter what your destination, just be sure to make every journey a journey within. If you travel within, you'll travel the whole eide world and beyond.

Rule 9

2011-06-15T08:00:00.002-05:00

Patience does not mean to passively endure. It means to be farsighted enough to trust the end result of a process. What does patience mean? It means to look at the thorn and see the rose, to look at the night and see the dawn. Impatience means to be so shortsighted as to not be able to see the outcome. The lovers of God never run out of patience, for they know that time is needed for the crescent moon to become full.

Rule 8

2011-06-14T08:00:00.004-05:00

Whatever happens in your life, no matter how troubling things might seem, do not enter the neighborhood of dispair. Even when all doors remain closed, God will open up a new path only for you. Be thankful! It is easy to be thankful when all is well. A Sufi is thankful not only for what he has been given but also for all that has been denied.

Rule 7

2011-06-13T08:00:00.004-05:00

Lonliness and solitude are two different things. When you are lonely, it is easy to delude yourself into believing that you are on the right path. Solitude is better for us, as it means being alone without feeling lonely. But eventually it is best to find a person, the person who will be your mirror. Remember, only in another person's heart can you truly see yourself and the presence of God within you.

Rule 6

2011-06-12T08:00:00.004-05:00

Most of the problems of the world stem from linguistic mistakes and simple misunderstandings. Don't ever take words at face value. When you stp into the zone of love, language as we know it becomes obsolete. That which cannot be put into words can only be grasped through silence.

Rule 5

2011-06-11T08:00:00.000-05:00

Intellect and love are made of different materials. Intellect ties people in knots and risks nothing, but love dissolves all tangles and risks everything. Intellect is always cautious and advises, "Beware too much ecstasy," whereas love says, "Oh never mind! Take the plunge!" Intellect does not easily break down, whereas love can effortlessly reduce itself to rubble. But treasures are hidden among ruins. A broken heart hides treasures.

Rule 4

2011-06-10T08:00:00.002-05:00

You can study God through everything and everyone in the universe, because God is not confined in a mosque, synagogue, or church. But if you are still in need of knowing where exactly His abode is, there is only one place to look for Him: in the heart of a true lover.

Rule 3

2011-06-09T08:00:00.002-05:00

Each and every reader comprehends the holy book on a different level in tandem with the depth of his understanding. There are four levels of insight. The first level is the outer meaning and is the one that the majority of the people are content with (scholars). Next is the Batini - the inner level (mystics). Third there is the inner of the inner (saints). And the fourth level is so deep it cannot be put into words and is therefore bound to remain indescribable (prophets/those closest to God).

Rule 2

2011-06-08T08:00:00.002-05:00

The path to the Truth is a labor of the heart, not of the head. Make your heart your primary guide! Not your mind. Meet, challenge, and ultimately prevail over your nafs (false ego) with your heart. Knowing your self will lead you to the knowledge of God.

Rule 1

2011-06-07T21:07:00.003-05:00

How we see God is a direct reflection of how we see ourselves. If God brings to mind mostly fear and blame, it means there is too much fear and blame welled inside us. If we see God as full of love and compassion, so are we.

Not dead yet.

2011-05-20T17:20:00.005-05:00

I realize this is all vanity but..
Yesterday I went to a Texas bar and grill and while I awaited the arrival of my darling family for the grill part, I had a drink in the bar part.
A man - a complete stranger - bought me a drink.
Yes, my friends. This 35 year old mamma's still got it. :)
And then I introduced Ken (yes, that was his name) to my fantastic husband and beautiful son. All were very gracious.

British v. Texican

2011-05-18T19:38:00.004-05:00

British people say, "I hope you are well."
In Texan we say "How the hell are ya'?"

KT Tunstall - Uummannaq Song

2011-05-13T15:01:00.000-05:00

Listening to this song as I sign my contract! You're my muse of the mo, KT! :)

Letter to my family

2011-05-01T09:35:00.000-05:00

Hi,
A lot of folks asked me if I was going to watch the royal wedding, some with their tongues in their cheeks, others as serious as coronary angioplasty. The answer to that question is yes. Of course I watched it. Not in real time.. I did have to work the next morning. But I TiVo'd it and watched all of it, including the balcony kiss ( correction: kisses! scandalous)!

There was tons of British patriotism bandied about leading up to the glorious day in several communities, including celebrations at my new school. Here is an article from one of London's papers, The Guardian, a more liberal publication. ;) Look for the ACS Cobham section here.

If you want to hear the accompanying song by students from my future school, check it out here. Love you,

g

What to Pack

2011-04-20T18:52:00.005-05:00

What to Pack:
Books.
First and foremost.
Books.
And Winter Clothes, Linens, Photos,
Nostalgia.

What to Sell:
Everything else.
Except for the things I can't imagine leaving.
Most of my stuff.
Furniture?
Fake plants?
The mosquito repellent backyard torches?
Indecision.

What to Store:
Mimi's blankets,
Nana's quilts,
Pictures and albums from yellowed college days when I fell in love and began this adventure.
Who I am, the folks who graciously contributed to who I am,
and the girl I will be.

What to take:
Summer clothes
A warm hoodie (in case)
Music,
Poetry.
Benodryl.
A pot and pan to get me started.
A passport.
Cash.
My best friend on the next flight over.
A sense of adventure,
and the notion that all will be well..

All will be well!

Yes.

2011-04-14T20:36:00.004-05:00

"Right. Yes mam. I see. That is now confirmed. The box is ticked in the affirmative. Here we go. Onward to the next question," UK Michael said.

The original question was simply, "Upon arriving in the UK, will you be purchasing a car?" My very short response was "Yes." Every question was confirmed in this way - a rambling affirmation on his part to my very brief "yes or no" response.

I think this may be something I'll have to get used to when I move to England this summer, the ratio of ten minutes of proper English to one second of my crude American vernacular. So...

OH MY GOD. I'M MOVING TO ENGLAND THIS SUMMER!!!

Thought you might want to know.

Truths

2011-03-26T17:06:00.006-05:00

I remember waking up, a smokey dawn coming through translucent light in the kitchen. My grandmother- Mimi we called her- sitting at the bar, her gin-legged breakfast cocktail near the ashtray that already held three Marlborough butts smoked to the quick,. She sat perched on her bar stool in her flowing morning dressing gown, her nails perfectly sculpted and varnished, her jewelry sparkling in the smokey haze. She wore slippers, one with a lift for her shorter leg, a result of her childhood polio - the disease that didn't keep her from dancing. In complete silence, I ate my cinnamon toast beside her as we watched "our show", thinking it a privilege to have not been shooed out of the house like my irritating cousin who was ironically named Shadrach by my whisky-stained, rattle snake wielding uncle. Mimi was beautiful to my unassuming eyes. I sat with her in silence, drinking skim milk - her kind of milk - not that awful whole milk that the boys liked. I never told her that I liked whole milk better. I wanted her to think I was just like her. She died several years ago, but I think of her often, this memory of a morning kitchen imprinted in my mind. Recently my mother, in a gushing moment of sincerity, said of Mimi, "You made her sweet, Ginger." "Did I?" I wondered. "My unemotional, solid-as-steel Mimi. I made her sweet?" Maybe I did.

Anis Mojgani at The Seattle Grand Slam 2006

2011-01-23T10:28:00.000-06:00

The Dandy Warhols-We Used To Be Friends

2010-11-14T01:13:00.000-06:00

Saw these guys tonight. :)

)

Martin High School Lip Dub

2010-11-12T06:27:00.003-06:00

First of all, this is not my school, but it is a school in my school district. I thought the project was pretty amazing and definitely did it's job of promoting school unity.

Martin High School Lip Dub 2010 from Tricia Regalado on Vimeo.

More than 3,600 students and staff at Martin High School recently participated in Lip Dub 2010, a music video filmed in one take without any breaks or cuts. The project was an effort to increase school unity and school pride. Martin was the first high school in Texas to film a schoolwide lip dub and had the largest on record. Read more about the project in The Warrior Post or watch the video.

Crossroads

2010-11-04T18:59:00.004-05:00

A girl finds herself at the place where three roads meet, and she knows that she must travel down one of them. One leads to academia - the school to be determined according to what can be studied and/or written in three months. This road makes the Dream more possible, but it also deters it for a while. One leads across the ocean to new beginnings and cultural experiences. This road leads to immediate almost-Dream fulfillment, mistake or not. That is, it isn't the Dream exactly, but it might lead to exact-Dream fulfillment. The last road is under construction. A stop sign posted at the end of the third road prevents the girl from truly going anywhere. This one is the road of stagnation built from the status quo, from complacency. It is definitely "the responsible choice" in a capitalistic terrain.

The girl hates the idea of stagnation, but is leery of the other two choices. She wishes someone or something would push her in one direction or another, but she knows that in order to really feel comfortable, she has to carefully consider them all.

Help.

Overheard: Polite dinner conversation at home

2010-11-03T20:12:00.004-05:00

"Did you hear about the 18 month old baby that fell out of a window seven stories high in Paris?"

"Oh my God NO!"

"Oh no.. Sorry. I mean the baby's fine. She fell seven stories, bounced off of the awning over a door, and a man who happened to be walking by at that moment caught her. "

"What? Really?"

"I know. It's like something out of a damn cartoon."

Seriously. Look:

http://news.blogs.cnn.com/2010/11/02/baby-survives-7-story-fall/?hpt=Sbin

Scratch

2010-11-02T16:36:00.004-05:00

Holy shit. I feel the itch.

I'm pretty sure it means I'm crazy. "Well, we already knew that, " I hear you mock in that nasally, sing-song tone. Yes. Let's go ahead and confirm it. This is me - crazy as a flippin' wing-nut bat, entertaining the challenge to participate, once again, in NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month).

So, here's the hilarious bit: I've already lost the contest. The time honored rules of NaBloPoMo state that participants should write everyday during the month of November. Correction. Participants should POST everyday during the month of November. Today is November 2nd, so technically, I've already lost. Phew. That takes the pressure off.

"So why the hell try?" you inquire (again with the nasally bit.. Geez!). Here's why, genius: I have successfully stripped away every part of my life that is mine alone. I've stopped writing. I've stopped reading for pleasure (mostly). I've shortened my time on Facebook by turning on all of the privacy controls, including ones that allow other people to see my posts, thus dissuading me from wasting time on posting. I work, then I come home and work. Following that, I play with my son until he goes to bed, and then I lay out my clothes for the next day, make my coffee and lunch, and then collapse so that I can find some semblance of energy for the next day when I start it all again.

"Why have you done this to yourself?" you ask. (sigh) That's complicated, friend. I'm certain it has something to do with feelings of inadequacy and placed and/or misplaced priorities. Whatever. What I'm saying is that I'm making a pledge to allow for my well being (writing and reading in particular) to be a more important aspect of my life. I want to write. I love writing. I want to practice writing because I love to do it. Yes, that means that I will get griped at for choosing time for myself over time for my job/husband/kid. I'm fully aware of how that may appear to some people who would rather I prioritize my life differently. But hey, those people are going to tell me I suck anyway, so I may as well suck hardcore.

I vow to try to post as much as possible this month. I've already lost the contest, so that means my obligation is to myself only.

I like that idea, bat shit crazy or not..

2010-11-01T21:14:00.001-05:00

Rally to Restore Sanity

2010-10-30T12:24:00.002-05:00

http://www.rallytorestoresanity.com/

Regarding London

2010-10-17T07:15:00.002-05:00

Regarding London:
There is so much hopping around in my brain right now that blogging seems ridiculous. But then maybe that's the point - the idea that I can be relatable, appreciated, and, I admit, loved in a virtual world. Not that I'm not sincere - most of the time - but that the chaos of life (who I am in this life) can be ordered somehow in an 8x4 computer window is outright silly.

And now for the old college try... whatever that means:

1. Shaun of the Dead is real.
Rich and I were in London during several work days, and it looked just exactly like the movie when people were commuting to work in the morning - zombies and regular folk alike - and one would be hard pressed to tell the difference between the dead tired and the truly dead. The tube was full of silent carriages, the only movement an occasional yawn, and even that kept to a minimum because a yawn would be proof of a living being. I tried not to look around ( a dead giveaway that I was a tourist), but I couldn't help but laugh.. thankfully, silently, when I then remembered the slipping on the brains part of the film. To make matters worse, this advert decorated nearly every tube station:

For the record, the zombies in the picture are WAY more enthusiastic than the ones commuting to work. These must be the after 10 zombies.

2. My mother was right.
Cars are weapons and we only get one chance. That was the line she fed me when I was a teenager. At the time, I knew that probably she was right, that I didn't really want to find out, and that hopefully God was on my side, especially since I had gone on practically every youth group mission offered. It turns out, that all she had to do to teach me the validity of this lesson was put me in a car in England with my husband. (sigh)

I'm not saying (ahem) that Rich is a bad driver.. He's just a bad driver in England. In his defense, I practically badgered him into it, reminding him that it was my birthday and that it could be romantic to visit the countryside and picnic near the sheep. It might even be fun, I intimated, to get stung by the nettles and have to look for the leafy cure which, as we all learned years ago in England when I got stung on my backside during an ill-timed bathroom emergency at Hadrian's Wall, is always nearby. We compromised. We took a train out of London and into Oxford where we rented a car and drove through the Cotswolds. It was a gorgeous drive, minus the honking and the curb brushing, and we learned how to utilize round-abouts (kind of), we learned about how to fill a tank with gas (not so different), and we also learned that driving in England is a stress to our marriage and that probably we should stick to train riding. The kind folks in Stow-on-the Wold would agree.

3. I am possibly the most lazy blogger in the world.
Actually, the photo pasting is kind of a nightmare here and my patience is waning. So here's what I'll do: Speed blogging followed by a photo montage, hopefully in slide show format:

* We saw some excellent political/modern art at two fantastic galleries - The Saatchi Gallery in a posh part of London and at the ICA where we viewed a political Russian opera film called Dissent while reclining in beds.

*We took a day trip to Canterbury - made the Pilgrimage, Chaucer style, yo! (minus the donkey/horse riding, the lack of bathing, and the story-telling)- and had a moment of silence for Thomas Becket on the alter where he was murdered. We also witnessed a bell ceremony there in remembrance of all soldiers. I couldn't help but marvel at how American it seemed.. or possibly how British we still are.

* My friends, Mark and Ilham, took me out to lunch at a fantastic open-aired cafe for my birthday and then the next evening took me, a Texan, to a Mexican restaurant called La Mexicana, co-owned by a native Mexican and a Turk, who employed a blond haired, fantastically sarcastic Canadian. All three - the Turk, the Mexican, and the Canadian - wore sombreros and sang Happy Birthday to me in front of a mural depicting a cowboy screaming "Yee Ow!" See, this is why I love Mark and Ilham. They thought to take me to that awesomely surreal place, and it wasn't that weird to them.

*We watched ping pong matches in St. James Park. Had I known ping pong was a free-for-all sport there, I totally would've played. Next time..

* We visited various pubs, including the good-ole standby - the Black Friar- and ate all kinds of horrifically bad for you pub foods, including fried fish sandwiches and a plowman's lunch. Of course there was shepherd's pie (duh), but sadly no bangers and mash.We declined the invitation to "go out back" to the bar-be-cue at the local pub near our hotel where it was perfectly acceptable behavior to roll around in the floor with puppies. I can't begin to explain that - the puppy part - except to say that it happened, and we tried not to stare at the coin slots. Seriously. At the time I was worried about looking all touristy.. but in retrospect, it just grossed me out.

And now for the montage:

4. London is my favorite place on the planet.
We spent a huge amount of time walking around the city and then taking the tube back to our hotel. We ran across several fantastic sites, including the Victoria Rail Station and a car boot sale (where I bought a purse). Mark even took me on a tour of his school - yet another reminder of how same we all are.

Joel Burns tells gay teens "it gets better"

2010-10-16T09:06:00.000-05:00

Overheard - In my Brain

2010-09-29T17:19:00.004-05:00

So I'm going to London next week where they've raised the terror alert level to severe (a step below 'Bah!' but definitely above 'Meh..').

The two - me being in the UK and the terror level - are probably not related. Still, I feel a bit offended.

What's the Opposite of Huzzah?

2010-09-16T17:42:00.009-05:00

I admit it. Sometimes my great ideas are not so great. Sometimes they're downright stupid. I'm not sure if this is the case in this instance, but it certainly will be logged as one of the most interesting moments in my life.. as interesting as an I Love Lucy sketch can be, anyway.

Christine had an ARD* meeting. That's the excuse I used for not making the usual coffee house stop for grading this afternoon, and for choosing instead to go to Houlihans for artichoke goat cheese poppers and a blueberry martini. OK, so it was more about the artichoke goat cheese poppers than anything else, but I rationalized that on a Thursday afternoon there would be a cozy corner in the bar for me to spread out and grade, plus a martini might take the edge off of what usually is a highly stressful process - marking first draft essays. And hey, wouldn't all of that - goat cheese poppers and a blueberry martini - actually benefit the students' grades?

So I went.

I was finished with my martini and was casually snacking on the poppers when the manager of the restaurant - a small, spunky blond woman - interrupted my careful analysis and asked if I'd "like another cocktail." I would be lying if I said I didn't think about it. The martini was especially lovely, and, after all, I was, as I've mentioned, grading first draft essays. Responsibly, though, I said, "No thank you," and added that I was about to leave. She smiled at me and returned to her duty of being chipper and accommodating. I returned to my task, too, decidedly less chipper and accommodating. A minute later she returned to my table and said, "Actually, you'll be getting another cocktail, after all. Someone bought you a drink. "

"Um. What?" I asked, conveying confusion via the apparent question mark tattooed on my expression.

"You don't have to drink it" she said, obviously amused.

"No. I mean, this has never happened to me before. A stranger has never bought me a drink before."

I could have hugged the manager as she, in her most sincere (but forced) imitation tried, "Really? Never?"

"Nope. Never.. Um. Okay. Thank you. I think."

The manager said something about the fact that this was sort of secret or that she couldn't point out who had bought the drink or something of that nature, but I was too focused on what the appropriate protocol was for receiving a drink from a random stranger in a bar.

The waitress placed the drink on my table and my brain went haywire. I immediately recalled all of the scenarios in movies where this sort of thing happens. The montage went like this:

*Girl receives drink.
*Girl looks around the room to see who sent it.
*Very attractive man - probably an Italian - acknowledges, via either a short nod or by raising his own glass, that he is the "guilty" party.
*Girl takes a bashful sip of the new drink and nods appreciatively in his direction.
*And then, depending on the film, the man approaches the girl and they A. Have a bashful flirtation, the beginning of a new romance B. Leave together for hot, eccentric stranger sex C. Have a confrontation ending in embarrassment on all sides, the man being told to back the hell off, the girl stomping out in stilettos and justification, both leaving their beer goggles on the bar.

That's all I had to work with. I knew my ending would, as my husband would like for me to acknowledge, be minus the last bullet. But in all seriousness I had to do something. So, I went for it. I arranged my face into a less panicked, more pleasant (I hope) expression and began scanning the room slowly from right to left. I was pretty sure it wasn't the couple across the room, but I couldn't rule out the two Chinese business men who, though not conversing, weren't looking in my direction. There were three closely shaved contractors sitting to the left of the business men who were grossly engaged in conversations beginning with "Here's what we're gonna do", and then another couple, and then two, as I had previously determined by their familiarity with the bartender, regulars - one man who was apparently enthralled with whatever sport was on the big screen and a black woman who had just ordered nachos "to go".

My eyes crawled across the room and as I neared the end of the sweep, I was both elated and distraught to find that no one nodded back. There was absolutely NO acknowledgement as to who had sent a drink my way.
"OK," I thought, "look again." Once again, no one even pretended to look my way. I scanned the bill for an extra martini, just in case there was a miscommunication between me, the waitress, and the manager. Nothing.

"Shit! What now?" I thought. And then I did the most obvious thing in the world: I called my husband.

I won't bore you with the details here. Suffice it to say that I explained my situation to him - my husband and soul mate; the man I married when we were both still children; the one who has been ever faithful and supportive of me in all of my decisions and experiences; the one I chose to have a family with and common dreams; the one who nonchalantly commented, "Probably someone saw you hunched over, grading papers and thought, ' Hey, I should buy that school marm a drink. She is friendless more-than-likely and destitute. Plus, who else would take care of such a troglodyte? Sad, isn't it? It's my duty as a compassionate member of the universe to attend to sad cases such as these.' And then that person sighed for you -the pathetic being in the corner - and shook his head, feeling a small twinge of pride for being such an angel to such a lost cause. "

"OR" I countered emphatically, "someone might actually think I'm attractive."

And I hung up and dialed Christine.

Christine suggested that I make a grandiose gesture - possibly I could raise one hand into the air and announce, "Thank you!" in a theatrical tone to no one in particular but also to every one. I asked if I should stand on a soap box of some kind as a make-shift stage, or if i should just project my voice from the diaphragm. She then acknowledged that she too was unclear about what to do in my circumstance. Because she's a great friend, she did acknowledge that my husband is a colossal doofus, and then, randomly, she asked what the opposite of "Huzzah" is. I didn't know the answer to that question, so we hung up.^

I was stuck, and it was coming close to the time I needed to leave. In the end I decided, as Ms. Manners would positively suggest, that I should leave a grammatically correct note on the table, a very polite and sincere one that would cover all possible scenarios - troglodyte sympathy to Italian flirtation. It went something like this:

Hi. Thank you to whoever sent the martini over. It certainly helped with essay marking. Plus, it was a nice thing to do. :) Thanks again, -G

And then I edged my way around the bar, my back glued to the wall in an attempt to be invisible, to the exit and, as it appeared to me, to sweet freedom!

*Admission, Review and Dismissal meeting for parents, teachers and administrators, regarding kids who may or may not need or who continue to need special academic or behavioral accommodations in the classroom.
^ Fie is the probable answer Christine later revealed.

2010-09-12T08:05:00.000-05:00

Thanks for the heads up, Tushar!

Half Truth+Half Untruth=Happy "Liars"

2010-08-27T09:00:00.000-05:00

When my love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told:
Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.

William Shakespeare, Sonnet 138

My job is bipolar

2010-08-21T08:29:00.006-05:00

Last year was incredibly wonderful and difficult at the same time. I think that's how it is with being a school teacher. For example I LOVED my students. My LitMag staff was the best I've ever had. My IB kids were incredible. My English IV students.. I really liked some of them. (and this is where in sitcoms you hear the needle getting pulled off of the record)

As much as my LitMaggers and IBers made me excited to do my job, the other classes were so difficult. Some of this difficulty was a result of the usual teaching obstacles: Too many students in one classroom; too much paperwork; too many responsibilities that extended beyond the actual job of, oh let me think - teaching; very little discipline; tons of micromanaging; irrational parents; etc.. But some of it was that I had a tough group of kids.

As often as folks get upset about inconsiderate drivers or rude customers, teachers are likely, if not certain, to deal with the worst of the worst every day. You're thinking that in your job this is true, too. However, teachers are expected to be more forgiving. It's like knowing every single day the same punk kid driver in his car that costs twice as much as yours will inevitably cut you off in traffic, flip you off, and then laugh at you while texting his cleverness to his friends. As a teacher you know this is will happen again, and it shocks you each time, yet you still hope that something you do or say might make the rude driver a little bit more compassionate someday. "Maybe tomorrow when he cuts me off and flips me the bird, he won't laugh as loudly," you think. "Maybe if I call his parents (who taught him to drive), I can get ahead of him or show him that what he's doing is abusive and humiliating."

Every year you are guaranteed to have one mean driver in your class. But some years you have twenty of them. Last year I had forty. (40 out of 120 is too big of a percentage) Contrary to public opinion, there is nothing to do about a student's lack of respect toward a teacher. Unless a kid actually becomes violent against a teacher, all she can do is file paperwork and hope for an understanding counselor or principal. Plus, changing a kid's schedule to get him our of a particular class means that you have burdened another on of your colleagues with another issue that they do not need or deserve.

My personality is not commanding or controlling which some might say is part of the problem. The few times I've tried to "rule by force", it comes back to get me and makes me feel horrible. Combatting the rude drivers by being an even ruder one is sort of ridiculous and leads to accidents. I'm more of a mutual respect kind of teacher. In other words, I hope that if I model integrity, patience, responsibility, good will, and generosity, the kids will mirror it. They do for the most part. We have open dialogue in my class. I am a firm believer in inquiry based learning. Sometimes, though, the students don't mirror me. That's when things get tricky.

Monday is the start of a new school year. I will meet my new classes and get a sense of what kind of drivers they are. I'm trying to be optimistic, but there is a whole car-load of anxiety that comes with the start of the year.

Keith Olbermann Special Comment: There Is No 'Ground Zero Mosque' - 08/1...

2010-08-20T20:18:00.000-05:00

Tears

2010-08-20T09:00:00.003-05:00

I wonder if, along with pivotal, history changing folks like Harriett Beecher Stowe and Fredrick Douglas, my state will also delete the lessons learned from significant people and/or events such as The Trail of Tears in its public school curriculum:

In 1838 and 1839, as part of Andrew Jackson's Indian removal policy, the Cherokee nation was forced to give up its lands east of the Mississippi River and to migrate to an area in present-day Oklahoma. The Cherokee people called this journey the "Trail of Tears," because of its devastating effects. The migrants faced hunger, disease, and exhaustion on the forced march. Over 4,000 out of 15,000 of the Cherokees died. This picture, The Trail of Tears, was painted by Robert Lindneux in 1942. It commemorates the suffering of the Cherokee people under forced removal. If any depictions of the "Trail of Tears" were created at the time of the march, they have not survived. Image Credit: The Granger Collection, New York

Sarcasm aside, the conservative right movement in my state is INEXCUSABLE..

I have to move before we excuse slavery by using Biblical references ... again.

Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing

2010-08-15T20:37:00.002-05:00

by Margaret Atwood

The world is full of women
who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
Get some self-respect
and a day job.
Right. And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of
naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.
Exploited, they'd say. Yes, any way
you cut it, but I've a choice
of how, and I'll take the money.

I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile. Like jokes
or war, it's all in the timing.
I sell men back their worse suspicions:
that everything's for sale,
and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple
are still connected.
Such hatred leaps in them,
my beery worshippers! That, or a bleary
hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads
and upturned eyes, imploring
but ready to snap at my ankles,
I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge
to step on ants. I keep the beat,
and dance for them because
they can't. The music smells like foxes,
crisp as heated metal
searing the nostrils
or humid as August, hazy and languorous
as a looted city the day after,
when all the rape's been done
already, and the killing,
and the survivors wander around
looking for garbage
to eat, and there's only a bleak exhaustion.
Speaking of which, it's the smiling
tires me out the most. This, and the pretence
that I can't hear them.
And I can't, because I'm after all
a foreigner to them.
The speech here is all warty gutturals,
obvious as a slab of ham,
but I come from the province of the gods
where meanings are lilting and oblique.
I don't let on to everyone,
but lean close, and I'll whisper:
My mother was raped by a holy swan.
You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.
That's what we tell all the husbands.
There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.

Not that anyone here
but you would understand.
The rest of them would like to watch me
and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
as in a clock factory or abattoir.
Crush out the mystery.
Wall me up alive
in my own body.
They'd like to see through me,
but nothing is more opaque
than absolute transparency.
Look--my feet don't hit the marble!
Like breath or a balloon, I'm rising,
I hover six inches in the air
in my blazing swan-egg of light.
You think I'm not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you'll burn.

Media

2010-08-13T09:00:00.000-05:00

It's Friday already and time for an LBC post. Unfortunately we've had a difficult week here and were hit with some unexpected curveballs. Until I this morning, I had forgotten about posting entirely and what's worse is today we write about a topic that I suggested! (sigh)

The topic is media. I propsed this topic for a number of reasons. First of all, my friend Mark B. along with several other folks in England has started an entire project regarding the topic. Amazing! is an interactive (a debate follows the performance) theater project associated with the Agon group that was written for and performed by grade school children. In it, the kids ask some very important questions:

1. What is beauty?
2. Should the media weild it's power responsibly, and if so, how?

The Agon project directs attention to the idea that we truly do buy into media's ploys (both figuatively and literally), the outcome of which can be very harmful.

I don't think this is a new concept. Since its infancy, advertising, a small yet defining segment of the media, has been purposefully manipulative. Selling products isn't about people, after all; it is about business. I think most of us understand that this is true about advertising, and still we are swayed. Why?

News channels, internet, connectivity in all forms seems to have adopted the same philosophy as advertising - to manipulate consumers into buying their "products". So much information is thrown at us on a daily basis that sifting through all of it to find truth is almost impossible. Still, I urge my students to ask themselves "How do you know what you know?", along with all of the other questions imbedded in that one: Who is writing/speaking? What is his/her intent? How can you tell? Did you consider all sides?

I don't know how to hold people accountable for what they make public, especially when it comes to opinions that stray from fact. To some extent it seems that I am treading very close to arguing in favor of censorship. Actually, I am arguing for integrity. As a teacher standing in front of shaping minds, I have the responsibility to think and talk in a way that allows my students to draw conclusions using reason and compassion. Isn't that also the media's job?

I apologize for the rant. On a normal, less stressful week I might actually edit/revise/temper my writing.

Larry Allums: America the bold but not so beautiful | News for Dallas, Texas | Dallas Morning News | Opinion: Points

2010-08-08T20:01:00.002-05:00

My friend and mentor, Dr. Larry Allums, published an op ed in today's paper. Please enjoy:

Larry Allums: America the bold but not so beautiful News for Dallas, Texas Dallas Morning News Opinion: Points

For those who, like me, are pro-American and looking for insights into an uncertain future, Joel Kotkin's optimism in The Next Hundred Million: America in 2050 is close to infectious. Amid pronouncements of America's decline or prophecies of its imminent doom, his forecast of our continuing vitality is a welcome respite.

Perhaps the most convincing aspect of Kotkin's claim for our success in the 21st century is that he avoids the sort of triumphalism that has the sound of excess – the hollow vanity Aristotle lists as one of the extremes either side of the golden mean of "greatness of soul." Nor does Kotkin go to the opposite extreme and suggest that America must now discover humility and share its past greatness with other nations. Rather, he really does claim not only a material greatness but a kind of greatness of soul for America, by which he seems to mean a quality not measurable as much by the data he uses so expertly as by a kind of interior, collective character sown into the soil of our founding that continues to nourish new growth, regardless of the massive change our democracy habitually thrives upon.

Describing America's "fundamental strengths," Kotkin ironically but perhaps appropriately employs a non-Anglo word: "These traits provide the United States with what Japanese scholar Fuji Kamiya has described as sokojikara: a reserve power that allows it to overcome both the inadequacies of its leaders and the foibles of its citizens."

This rather mythic designation – mythic in the sense that it attempts to get at the essential character of a people – carries strong overtones of an American destiny, but clearly post-colonial and post-imperial. Kotkin believes that simply in following our internal compass and allowing our character to guide crucial choices, our ascendancy during this century will be, if not assured, certainly much more likely and, if we work at it, virtually guaranteed.

Working at it means striking a balance, Kotkin says, between piety toward our "ancient ideals" and openness to future change –in which case "the United States can emerge as a land of unprecedented opportunity: a youthful, evolving nation amid an advanced industrial world beset by old age, bitter ethnic conflicts and erratically functioning economic institutions."

This hopeful prospect hinges upon a momentous "if," because the two factors needing to be balanced are by nature in tension, if not opposition. Having in a sense begun in impiety – revolt against Mother Country – Americans are habitually ready to embrace change at piety's expense.

Notoriously, we find it easy to turn on a dime away from our past, perhaps because it almost never carries immediate consequences. Whether we can achieve the balance Kotkin so easily calls for will depend on our ability to manage another balancing act: between measurable and non-measurable dimensions of education, or between things that matter in terms of material worth and those that matter in terms of moral and spiritual value.

Our natural openness to change is, according to Kotkin, a primary nutrient in the soil of the American character, and for him being open includes embracing not just new technology but the kind of change we are currently experiencing as social and political crisis: what immigrants bring to the full flowering of the American Dream. Kotkin's assertions are, after all, grounded in a demographic forecast, that our population will grow by 100 million during the first half of the century – "demographics as destiny," as he dramatically puts it. Of Scotch-Irish descent and therefore part of a diminishing subset of Americans, I nevertheless found myself easily agreeing with most every point of his pro-immigrant stance.

Whereas "anti-natalists," slow-growth advocates and racial purists would regard continuing immigration as disastrous, Kotkin sees it as our source of ascendancy over the countries most often cited as our potential vanquishers – mainly India, China and the European Union: "Only successful immigration can provide the markets, the manpower and, perhaps most important, the youthful energy to keep western societies vital and growing," he writes. For me this sorts well, if not eloquently, with the Rev. Martin Luther King's image in his "I Have a Dream" speech of the Founders' "promissory note" to which "every
American was to fall heir."

The questions are, where will the next 100 million Americans live, and what will they do in this future epoch that will at once be an extension of the old and an emergence of the new?

Kotkin's answers are consistently provocative and sometimes troubling – especially to those who envision a future of urban renewal and a commensurate shrinking of America's dogged preference since World War II for suburban life. Not so, says Kotkin: "Rather than be forced to cluster in cities, Americans are likely to increasingly opt for communities that blend the single-family housing patterns of suburbia with basic urban amenities."

As a transplanted city dweller from the Deep South, I devoutly prefer urban life and believe in the city-center concept, but Kotkin's scenario doesn't put me off, because it avoids an either-or conclusion. The next 100 million, he says, will be enough for the vitality of both city and suburb. If he's right, and it appears he is, that "we're moving beyond the industrial model, with economic activity diffusing from great population centers," then perhaps we're entering a period when people of varying circumstances can choose not to live in urban areas and still aspire upward as Americans always have.

Until recently, civilizational advances have typically resulted in forced movements toward urban cores. We seem now to have reached a true turning point – when the movement will go back the other way, to the suburbs and beyond, even to the great American Heartland for which Kotkin foresees a dramatic resurgence.

Kotkin's bright estimate of America's potential has great appeal, but there's something beguiling, almost Pied-Piper like, about the neutrality of his predictions. It seems to me traceable to his use of the word sokojikara to define that deeply imbedded, almost mythic quality of the American character. My reservations have to do with two issues he minimizes or leaves out of his equation: education and beauty.

The first, education, is prominent among our national concerns, yet it is almost always discussed or debated only in terms of work-force skills and measurable knowledge. True, these are vitally connected to our national destiny on a material level. But tunnel-visioned as we are with high-stakes testing, we rarely contemplate the importance of a whole curriculum in ensuring our vital future in a changing, threatening world.

Like Kotkin, we seem to assume that matters of character and ideals – the very things that define sokojikara – will take care of themselves, that they are self-renewing and that as long as we remain politically correct, both our native-born and immigrant youth will somehow acquire the values, the moral habituation, that will keep us strong in heart and soul. At best, this is placing a lot of faith in the permanence of American Identity; at worst, it is risking the continued existence of America itself.

The other issue conspicuous by its absence from Kotkin's account is beauty, which has everything to do with education. Beauty is a forbidden subject today, especially in academe, yet the core of our education ought to focus precisely on beautiful things, which certainly include cities and suburbs.

Beauty matters in innumerable and often unmeasurable ways. According to the ancient Greeks, true education involves learning about what is good – the good thought, the good judgment, the good action – and what is good is necessarily beautiful. The Greeks in fact had one word – kaloskagathos – that coalesced the two into an inseparable meaning. Kotkin implies that there are no real distinctions to be made in terms of beauty – no beautiful cities or suburbs; only those that succeed, that is, those we prefer.

Kotkin's omissions don't invalidate his vision of America in 2050. In fact, there is room in his copious forecast for educating future Americans in what is both good and beautiful. Moreover, I would say that such an education is necessary if we are to be, as he predicts, "a beacon and a model," a new version of the City on the Hill of old – "exceptional in everything from culture and science to agriculture and politics."

Dr. Larry Allums is director of the Dallas Institute for Humanities and Culture. His e-mail address is lallums@dallasinstitute.org.

Books

2010-08-06T09:00:00.002-05:00

I'm a book snob.
There. I said it.
And it's kind of about time.

I've always loved reading. In fact, when I was twelve I decided that I was literary. I picked up Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls and Faulkner's As I Lay Dying and read them cover to cover. I had no idea what they are about. I still don't know. I don't really like either of those authors as a grown-up (except for Hemingway's short stories - they're divine! Oh, and Faulker's.. Nope. I have no love for his writing. I understand why he was so thirsty, those novels stuck in his throat.) The point is I read them. I made definitive decisions about them - "I disliked those particular classics", I said to myself, nose in the air- and I would continue to devour books and judge them as AMAZING pieces of literature or not so amazing ones. All of them continue to be stored on my bookshelves, regardless of my opinions, as sort of trophies. I never had any other kind that I cared about as much.

Caring is the other part. I tend to form relationships with my books. I hug them (in public, even. I'm not ashamed). I lovingly dog-ear them. I underline my favorite parts. I annotate them, personalize them, write in the margins, add poems and pictures to them, and even cry when I finish them because I miss them. I write about them.

When people find out I'm a literature teacher (as opposed to an English teacher, which is my formal, personally renounced title), they often ask me which book is my favorite. That question makes me incredibly uncomfortable because I feel like I'm betraying my good friends by answering it. I can't even narrow it down to a particular genre. All I can do is list some particular books that resonate with me right now.

I'll share a few with you:
The God of Small Things - Arundhati Roy
The Unbearable Lightness of Being - Milan Kundera
The Portable Dorothy Parker
Dress Your Family in Corduroy - David Sedaris
The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo - Stieg Larson
Middlesex - Jeffery Eugenides
The Red Tent - Anita Diamant
Cunt - Inga Musico
Slughterhouse V - Kurt Vonnegut
Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Morning in the Burned House - Margaret Atwood
American Primitive - Mary Oliver
The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
The Awakening - Kate Chopin
The Miracle of Mindfulness - Thich Nhat Han

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Books, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Beans and Potatoes

2010-07-30T09:00:00.002-05:00

I don't really have anything to say about potatoes except for YUMMMMMM. Pretty much any way they come I love 'em.

As for beans, here's my favorite recipe (like the Cowboys like 'em)

Mom's Pinto Beans

Ingredients:

Bag of pintos (rinsed and soaked overnight)
1 onion (chopped)
6-8 strips of bacon (cut into 3rds)
1 jalapeno pepper (end cut off)
salt and pepper to taste

Instructions:
Put soaked beans into a crock pot, throw in bacon, onion, jalapeno, and cover with water. Let cook on medium all day long (6 hours), until beans are brown and soft.

Hints:
Sometimes when I feel particularly zany, I add a little bit of garlic salt.
If you bake some cornbread (for soppin' up the gravy), and slice some sharp cheddar, you've got a hearty, tasty, Cowboy pleasin' meal!!!

P.S. Why, dearest British friends, are beans served with break-y in your country? I've always found that to be one of the most unusual cultural differences between us.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic ( Beans and Potatoes, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Siren Song

2010-07-25T08:46:00.000-05:00

Margaret Atwood

This is the one song everyone
would like to learn: the song
that is irresistible:

the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see beached skulls

the song nobody knows
because anyone who had heard it
is dead, and the others can’t remember.

Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?

I don’t enjoy it here
squatting on this island
looking picturesque and mythical

with these two feathery maniacs,
I don’t enjoy singing
this trio, fatal and valuable.

I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song

is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique

at last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.

Now you know. Don't listen.

Criminal - A Smooth One

2010-07-23T09:00:00.003-05:00

The crazy kids in the LBC (see below) tasked us with the job of writing something brilliant for the topic "Criminal." It turns out that much like I can't hear the word "chaotic" and not think of Brittany Spears, I can't hear the word "criminal" and not think of Michael Jackson, followed by a brief synapse blast to the Alien Ant Farm file in my brain, and then back to the king of pop. It always goes in that order: Jackson, Ant Farm, Jackson. And then if I allow myself more than a second of associations, my mind goes here:

My cousin, Krisiti, was a cheerleader in high school. (Sorry, rough segue I know, but it will all become clear soon). Actually, she was a cheerleader and homecoming queen and competed in various team sports and creative problem solving competitions, and I'm 97% certain she actually hung the moon. Next to her, I was some Virginia Wolf character, all plain and mousy, who was made fun of for committing unpopular crimes such as playing with dolls until I was 13 and caring about Olympic figure skating. I say that in jest, with only a tweak of resentment, knowing now that my personality was simply shy in comparison to hers. The point is, I adored Krisiti in the same way that Robin adored Batman. Kristi was my hero. I wanted to be like her. So when we went to visit her in Small Town, Texas I spent much of my waking moments with her, and she was sweet enough to include me, her younger, reclusive cousin.

In small town, Texas, one spends her free time in one of three ways:
1.Makin' the drag - (driving from one end of town to the other and back (usually a distance of about two miles), stopping for a "town coke" (a soda with ice and a straw) and conversation at the drive-in)
2. Drinkin' (alcohol in copious amounts)*
3. Knockin' boots (also in copious amounts)**

Because, as I've said, I was of a more meek stock than many of my teenage counterparts, Kristi and I spent a lot of time makin' the drag. We'd buy vanilla cokes and ride around town sipping them and talking about Kristi's fabulous life. I seem to remember doing this while listening to "Smooth Criminal", Michael Jackson's version. It was sort of a sound track to that time in my life. I remember those times fondly in sepia tones.

I wish I could flesh out some more detail regarding these memories, but the truth is I'm not sure there is a whole lot more to them. They weren't earth shattering, nor are they particularly mention-worthy.

So that's it.

That's what my brain does when someone says the word, "criminal".

*addendum - shooting guns is also popular, tied in popularity with drinking alcohol
**clarification - for those of you are not familiar with US idioms, this means having sex and is usually followed by someone winking, and saying "Aw yeah."

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Crime or Criminal, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Judgement

2010-07-16T14:13:00.003-05:00

In lieu of posting my personal, "poor me" Consortium piece that I composed for the topic, "judgement," I've decided to share this apt op ed instead:
My Take: Christian politicians should start acting Christian
Editor's Note: Richard T. Hughes is Distinguished Professor of Religion at Messiah College and author of Christian America and the Kingdom of God.
By Richard T. Hughes, Special to CNN

Let me be frank from the outset: A great cultural divide is ripping the heart from this nation and Christians are partly responsible.

I say that because 83% of the American people claim to be Christians. If those Christians lived as they are taught to live by the teacher they claim to follow, the American public square would be a very different kind of place.

If one reads the New Testament—the charter for the Christian religion—one can discover rather quickly what that tradition is all about.

Jesus tells his followers to tell the truth.

Jesus tells his followers to make peace.

Jesus tells his followers to turn the other cheek.

Jesus tells his followers to bless those who persecute them and pray for those who misuse them.

Jesus tells his followers to extend justice, especially to the poor and the dispossessed.

Jesus tells his followers to serve as bridge-builders and agents of reconciliation.

And Jesus tells his followers to love one another, even their enemies.

But based on their words and behavior, we may safely conclude that many of the Christians who dominate America’s public square routinely reject the teachings of Jesus, in spite of their claims to the contrary.

Sharron Angle, for example, wants to be the next U. S. Senator from Nevada. She founded a Christian school but casually announces that “the nation is arming” since “if we don’t win at the ballot box, what will be the next step?” For Angle, that next step is clear: those who oppose the current administration may “have to fight for their liberty in more Second Amendment kinds of ways.” In other words, if the ballot fails, the bullet is the next best hope.

Sarah Palin is open about her allegiance to the Christian faith, but routinely trades in sarcasm, deceptions and lies about her political opposition. During the health care debate, she repeated over and again the falsehood that “the sick, the elderly, and the disabled . . . will have to stand in front of Obama’s ‘death panel’ so his bureaucrats can decide . . . whether they are worthy of health care.”

Newt Gingrich trumpets his allegiance to the Christian religion and writes about the role of the Christian faith in American history. He also knows that Barack Obama is a Christian. Yet he shamelessly denounces Obama as “secular”—a term Gingrich defines as an “outlook [that] does not acknowledge God.”
No wonder that some Tea Partiers claim—as one woman put it—that “we are losing our country; we think the Muslims are moving in and taking over; we do not believe our president is a Christian.”

Glenn Beck warned a national television audience to “look for the words ‘social justice’ or ‘economic justice’ on your church Web site. If you find it, run as fast as you can,” adding that those terms are code words for communism and nazism. Surely Beck knows that there is no theme more central to biblical faith than social and economic justice for the poor, but still he is willing to distort the Christian religion for cheap political gain.

Ann Coulter promotes herself as a representative of the Christian religion. Yet, Coulter claimed after September 11, 2001 that the United States “should invade their countries [Muslim nations], kill their leaders and convert them to Christianity.”

When public figures like these so completely diminish the Christian faith, it is hardly surprising that grassroots believers often engage in similar distortions of the Christian religion.

Some Christians at anti-Obama rallies have displayed signs that proclaim, “Since 1630: Bible hugging! Gun toting! Red Blooded American Against Tyranny.” Or another: “I will keep my freedom, my Bible, my gun, and my money.”

When Christians so widely and publicly embrace such blatant distortions of the Christian religion, they abandon one of the roles they might have played in America’s public square: fostering civility and dialogue and building lasting bridges of reconciliation.

But civility and respect have been all but lost in contemporary American politics. Alan Keyes, for example, has proclaimed that “Obama is a radical communist.” And one of the signs that routinely appears at anti-Obama rallies shows the President wearing a Nazi uniform and doing a Hitler salute. Another sign reads, “Barack Hussein Obama: the New Face of Hitler.” Those kinds of accusations are nothing short of slander.

The issue I am raising has nothing to do with whether one is a Republican, a Democrat, a Tea Partier, or an independent. Neither political conservatives nor political liberals have a monopoly on this kind of behavior, though in recent months conservatives opposed to Barack Obama have been especially guilty.

Yet the issue I am raising ultimately has nothing to do with whether one likes or dislikes Barack Obama. The issue has to do with Christians behaving like Christians and thereby telling the truth, doing justice, and promoting basic respect for other human beings.

After all, since 83% of the American population identifies with the Christian religion, that 83% could make an enormous difference in the tone of American politics if those Christians actually practiced what they profess to believe. They could also make a positive difference in American politics if they held other Christians accountable when they engage in deception and slander in order to score political points.

America’s churches and their pastors therefore have a grave responsibility: to urge their members to serve the public square as peacemakers, as truth-tellers, as people devoted to justice, and as men and women who are actually willing to practice what Jesus taught. If America’s churches refuse to take up this task—which, after all, is a task that is central to the Christian calling—the consequences for our country could be dire, indeed.
(Thanks to my friend (and minister-to-be), Evie for bringing this to my attention.)

Random Thoughts

2010-07-09T21:02:00.009-05:00

1. So, I'm extremely proud that I have several former students protesting Westboro Baptist Church today, tomorrow, and onward. For those of you who haven't heard, WBC is known for interrupting funerals of soldiers to promote their hateful messages that:
a.)"God hates fags"
b.) God is punishing us for allowing gays to exist in our country.
c.) People who have gay children who fight for our country do not deserve the right to mourn the deaths of their children.
What's worse is they use kids in their campaigns - at FUNERALS of dead soldiers - to make these horrific, unjustified, ignorant statements.

I can't begin to express to you how much anger I feel towards people who.. who.. are so SO stupid - who think that it's ok to hate. Period. I don't care who the target is. Compassion in me is hard to find for them. But then, there's Desmond Tutu:

"For this God, our God, everybody is somebody. All life belongs to Him. Because of Him, all life is religious. There are no false dichotomies so greatly loved by those especially who are comfortable in this life. Consequently, if you say you love God, whom you have not seen, and hate your brother, whom you have, the Bible does not use delicate language; it does not say you are guilty of a terminological inexactitude. It says bluntly you are a liar." - Desmund Tutu from God Has a Dream.

So my darlings who are protesting tomorrow - even if only in spirit - I love you for doing the right thing. You make me proud!!
And for the record, I am a staunch supporter of human rights - gay, straight, whatever.

2. I love Lisbeth Salander. Yes. She's a fictional character from Stieg Larson's Girl With the Dragon Tattoo trilogy. I know. Still, what I like is that she's so freaking smart. She's bad ass, too, but vulnerable. She's not a superhero, but she'll fight with everything she has when she needs to, even if she doesn't always win. She's counter culture and stone cold, but she's endearing and lovely.. And kudos to Swedish actress, Noomi Rapace, for doing such a brilliant job with this character.

3. This song:

Anniversaries

2010-07-09T09:00:00.002-05:00

My mother-in law, Donna, is really good at them.

Evidence:
Donna keeps a calendar in her kitchen that lists every one's birthday, anniversary, doctor's appointment, and other events/occasions. This is not a small feat. Donna has four grown children, three of whom are married, and five grandchildren from those unions. On top of that since we are a "blended family", she also considers her husband's children and his grandchildren as part of her brood. So that's additionally two grown children, both married, and three more grand kids. If I'm doing my math right - and believe me, I need help - that makes 19 birthdays to remember (20 including my father-in-law's), six wedding anniversaries (including her own) to celebrate, and other events/occasions - the extended family's birthdays and anniversaries for example.

The crazy thing is, she never misses anything. For every occasion we can count on receiving a card and a phone call. That means that she plans/schedules "sending" dates to make sure everyone is honored on the appropriate days! That takes organization and coordination - both talents that I lack. She's a star!

In contrast, I am horrible at them.

Evidence:
I still have not delivered/completed all of my Christmas presents from December. I can barely remember my own wedding anniversary much less someone else's. I have never in my life sent anyone else an anniversary card. If you get a birthday card from me, it is usually late. This year (and I'm ashamed to admit it), I gave my husband an "interactive" Father's Day card. That means I bought it at the last minute and wrote in it as we were on a date. He had gone to get drinks and returned before I had finished composing the message.. Thus, we both wrote in the card. Interactive. In hindsight it was kind of a cool idea but totally and shamefully impromptu.

The good news is Rich (my husband) is as forgetful about important dates as I am. In fact, this year on our wedding anniversary he jokes that "we'll celebrate by being in two different towns." He has to be away for work. It hadn't occurred to me that on our anniversary he'll be away. I hadn't even remembered that our anniversary is in the summer. (sigh)

But it's ok. Specific dates elude us, but everyday feels important to us. Essentially, everyday we celebrate each other. How could an anniversary of any kind or a birthday or holiday be more important than all of the other days we get to be together?

That's what I'm telling myself, at least, until I remember to buy a damn kitchen calendar.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Anniversaries, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Letters

2010-07-02T09:00:00.003-05:00

I recently saw the film Letters to Juliet (as in Capulet) which was every bit as girly and sappy and swoony as I expected it to be. Of course there was a happy ending - birds chirped and deer ate out of my hand Disney style. But that's not what I thought was interesting.

I'm not sure if it exists or not. I haven't done any formal research. And though I've been to Italy, I've never been to Verona to actually see if Juliet's balcony and the wall leading to the balcony actually exists. Until now, I had never considered that Shakespeare wrote his his play based on anything except pure fantasy. I do know that Romeo and Juliet is not among the group of plays deemed by academics "The Historical Plays" like Macbeth or Richard III. Honestly, I never really cared at all about whether or not there truly were Capulets or Montagues. The story, though interesting, just isn't that good, especially compared with the genius of Lear.

The interesting thing about Letters to Juliet is that the entire story depends on the idea that there is such a thing as Juliet's balcony and that women from all over the world write letters about their love lives or lack thereof and ask for Juliet's advice by placing their letters between the bricks and mortar in the wall that Romeo would've climbed to get to the balcony.

Of course we understand that Juliet can't answer - she very literally guts herself with Romeo's dagger when she awakens from her death-like slumber in the tomb and sees that Romeo is really dead thanks to one of the worst miscommunications in Western history. It's her spirit that is supposed to answer. That and four women who have taken it upon themselves to collect the letters daily and write responses to those who are heartbroken, indecisive, confused, and/or afraid.

That's the part I like.

The Juliet club answers letters in an effort to support these women in the spirit of Juliet, the one who abandoned her entire being to love and who both learned and taught a valuable lesson about the consequences of decisions we make. It's Ann Landers meets romance, but in a much more passionate venue. Ah Italy... (swoon)

It's a terribly romantic idea, I think.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Letters, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

A Ginger Day

2010-06-28T16:00:00.002-05:00

So, today was a Ginger day, meaning that I took Jack to daycare so that I could have some one-on-one time with myself. I spend a lot of time avoiding me as is evidenced by the fact that when I truly have time for meditation and reflection, I have no idea what to do with myself so I work. I spent the morning doing that. I began building my new class website, I updated my interactive summer assignment, sent messages to all the students participating in said assignment, answered the questions that were submitted in response to updating and messaging about the summer assignment, and then noticed that I was tense - that I hadn't done anything that wasn't work related and I was squandering away my free time.

That's when I decided to go see a movie - a good chick flick. There was a 12:55 showing of Sex and the City 2 at the Studio Movie Grill and I thought, "Lunch and a movie! Perfect!" So I went.

Before you poo poo the idea of A.) Seeing a movie by yourself or B.) Seeing this particular movie, you should note that actually it was a very enlightening, pleasant experience. I'm probably outing my hardcore, tattooed exterior by admitting that I am a Sex in the City fan (wink), but I also have to remind everyone that the series and the movies are about more than shopping and sex. Actually, this one in particular was more about the definition of marriage and, more importantly, what it means to be a woman and have a voice. There is no better place to highlight the conflict between being a woman (and all that comes with that, including motherhood or choosing not to be a mom) and having a voice in a male dominated society. It turns out that Abu Dhabi, the place where most of the film is set, is not so different than the US in that the female voice is suppressed. Also, though, it reminded us that no matter what society declares, women of all cultures and ages, are sisters. We hear each other.

It may sound odd to say that I felt empowered by Sex and the City, but I am. I cried actual tears when Miranda and Charlotte talked about being moms and the constraints of that full-time, thankless, wonderful job.

Charlotte: "How do the moms who have no help do it?"

Miranda: "I have no fucking idea."

Charlotte: "My first thought when I heard Samantha say Harry might cheat on me with Erin was, "Oh my god, I can't lose the nanny!"

Substitute "the nanny" for "daycare" and I hear you, sister. I lift my glass to that, and I did because I ordered a glass of wine with my lunch. What boldness! Screw you, patriarchy! I'm having wine with lunch AND I'm picking up the baby later.. by myself! I am woman!

After I left the theater it was raining outside - my favorite!

I came home to a quiet house on a rainy afternoon, and I'm loving my Ginger day!

World Cup: Ghana v. US

2010-06-26T08:52:00.009-05:00

Four years ago Rich and I went on one of the best - if not THE best - tours of our lives. Before there was a Baby Jack, there was travel. Lots of it. We had been in Italy for two weeks with our students and sent them home with a chaperon while we continued our sojourn through Austria and Germany.
The trip happened to coincide with the World Cup in Germany, and our best friends, Christine and Jamie, happened to be in Germany for the World Cup. We met up with them. I could go on about how amazing the time was - how much fun Rich and I had in Nuremberg at the viewing party (That's where you go when you don't have tickets to the game..), how we met new friends, drank too much beer, and cheered on our team. But that's not what this post is about. It's about this:

Four years ago we played Ghana in the World Cup. Four years ago, they beat us, knocking us out of the tournament. It was a sad loss, yet I was elated for the Ghanans. Today we play them again and there is a lot at stake for both of our teams. For one of us this will be our last game in the tournament, so it is sure to be played with lots of heart, the emotional factor being at its highest.

Go USA!

The In(essential) Items that I've Collected

2010-06-25T09:00:00.001-05:00

Dolls, rocks, plush character house shoes, stickers, coins.
Letters, poems, pictures, passport stamps.
Bumper stickers, concert t- shirts, "flair".
Pens, warm fuzzies, bad poetry.
Love notes.
Mismatched drinking glasses and coffee mugs, hand-me-down furniture.
Clothes that used to fit.
Cats.
Beer steins, mascara, stilettos, classics.
Confidence.
Tattoos.
Fridge Magnets.
Blogs.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (The Inessential Items We Collect, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Talk is Cheap

2010-06-19T09:29:00.003-05:00

A year or so ago, I was inspired. I had just come home from the new release of In the Margins and had an incredibly cool art piece that had been showcased at the magazine's release party sitting on my hearth for the week end until I could cart it back to school.

The art was odd, the subject questionable. The medium was collage - a ginormous canvas modge podged with square magazine cut-outs, the abstract face of Woody Allen outlined over the collage in black paint. For some reason, I fell in love with it, probably because it was so freaking weird. Even though I have no real connection to Woody Allen, his movies, nor his choice in spouses/children, I had to admit that it was a perfect conversation piece. I mean, who in her right mind would have a blown up, stylized portrait of Woody Allen in her living room?

"Me! Me!! Please? Let it be meeeeeee!"

The following Monday I reluctantly returned the art to school (damned integrity) and inquired about purchasing the piece. I was told that it was already sold. My heart sank. I shuffled away crestfallen.

That's when I had the idea: Surely I could create my own masterpiece! Surely I could make up for my utterly devastating lack of artistic talent with modern technology - tools such as a school-issued, 1980's manufactured overhead projector and some duct tape! I went to the hobby store, bought a ginormous canvas, some Modge Podge and spray-on glue. I spent the next three hours cutting out interesting squares from Conde-Nast, The New Yorker, and House Beautiful. I began spray-gluing them to the canvas. I would, after having made the collage, go to school, project the face of whomever I chose (not Woody Allen, for that had been done already) and paint.

After about 5 hours of intense (ahem) artistry, I collapsed in the living room floor, distraught. My masterpiece was a ridiculous sham. It looked like an ill-behaved puppy had dug through the trash, the contents of which had landed on my canvass. There would be no conversational mantel piece for me- no unusual weirdness for my living room. That, accompanied by the re-realization that I was not talented at all artistically, stung something fierce.

I quit. Thus the canvass sat in the guest bedroom for over a year. Until yesterday.

Yes, friends. I dug it out. I removed all of the "collage" and vowed to begin anew. Damn-it.

paraNormal

2010-06-16T09:21:00.009-05:00

I used to fervently pray that God wouldn't send me an angel. That's why She must have chuckled to herself on the day She actually sent one and I didn't mind so much. In fact, I was grateful. God has a sense of humor like that.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The study session had gone as well as can be expected. My history final was the next day and for the first time in all of my college history classes, I liked the professor and the class. The class was small - only 30 people or so - as opposed to the huge auditorium classes that seated 250 students, the ones where teaching assistants are assigned to and responsible for students numbers 28385 - 28523 and are supposed to take roll and grade exams while the fat professor stands at his podium and drolls on about American baseball, Roosevelt being the best president, and what a disaster it was when women got the right to vote.

My small class was fun. The professor lectured, yes, but he also welcomed discussion. I was hooked. Oh, and there was a cute boy in the class who sat by me and happened to be my study buddy. In fact the night before the exam, we had been studying together in my dorm room. I noticed my friend was not feeling well. Even though he smiled and flirted, trying his best to come across as "fine", it was clear that he needed to wrap up the study session and go home. We did. I went over my notes one last time, and fell asleep confident that the test would be, at the very least, manageable.
_______________________________________________________

I don't remember much of the next day. I remember sitting in the test room, the walls spinning. My friend was absent. I knew if he felt half of what I was feeling - nauseous, hot, delirious, like my head was a boulder balancing precariously on a flimsy twig - there was no way he should be there. Half-way through the exam I was struck with an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. This was my last exam of the semester. I couldn't make my pen move. I had put my head down on the desk and couldn't seem to pick it up. I may have been crying. I remember closing my eyes and opening them, not knowing how much time had passed.

Somehow, I stood up and handed in my test, most of it blank paper, mostly unfinished. I remember standing in front of the professor,seeing only his glasses and eyes, hearing him mumble a question, something about me being ok. I don't recall if I answered. The next thing I remember was standing outside of the lecture hall. I couldn't remember where I lived. I didn't know in what direction I should walk. It was getting dark outside.

That's when I met an angel.
_________________________________________________________
There are so many interpretations of what angels are. Some believe that angels are glorious beings - warriors and messengers - light shining around them, the boldness of the Spirit coursing through them. They are immaculate, bearers of fanfare and majesty. Some believe that angels are beings that kneel prostrate to Man. They might have been first drafts of humankind, but were not given free will and are, therefore, more like servants. In any case, they can come in any form - cherubim, seraphim, burning bushes, lightning, dreams.

Mine came in the form of a young female voice.
__________________________________________________________
As I stood outside of the lecture hall helpless, a girl my age addressed me. She said, "Hey, I think we live in the same dorm. Coleman Hall, right?" I assume I nodded. She said, "I'll walk with you."

I remember feeling a little less distraught in that moment. I do not recall speaking to her, nor do I remember the path we took to get home. I don't remember her form, other than I recognized that it was similar to mine. I had obviously never met her, but I trusted her. She did not glow or carry armour. I'm not sure she was truly physically there.
___________________________________________________________
My fever was 105 - dangerous. There was talk of going to the hospital. For three days I was confined to my bed. A nasty virus was going around we learned later.

I ended up making a B in the history class; the professor obviously had mercy on me. I have no idea who the girl was that led me home. Whether truly a messenger of God or no, I can say with some certainty that she was heaven sent.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Paranormal, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

You asked for it..

2010-06-16T08:56:00.003-05:00

Before:

After:

Gorgeous work, Lobsta. Seriously. I love it.

Nike Write The Future - World Cup 2010 Commercial

2010-06-13T10:25:00.000-05:00

Watch.

Solitude.

2010-06-11T09:00:00.006-05:00

Solitude is and has always been a bit elusive for me. When I think about the times of solitude in my life they come in the form of journal and pen, the practice of reflection and writing being my form of meditation since I was a little kid. Rarely, however, have I intentionally spent time in solitude.

A few years ago I began reading books by Thich Nhat Hanh, and I would retreat to my back porch with book, journal, and pen to meditate and reflect. These were lovely times, and I applauded my dedication. I felt really good, and these reflective times helped my to change my outlook on my mental state, my physical state, my relationships, and my connection to the world around me.

The second I got pregnant the first time the meditation waned. My attention was elsewhere - mommy books, mommy worries, expectations, redefinitions, finances, etc. There was no time for Ginger because Ginger no longer existed as she had before. My body was different, too. In hosting life to another being, I was transformed, and nothing was about me any more. Thich Nhat Hanh would've been disappointed that his student didn't heed his words of wisdom - that the practice of meditation doesn't have to be in silence or in stillness, it is not contingent upon immutability, and it doesn't have to be devoid of anxieties. Actually, he wouldn't be disappointed. He is patient..

After I miscarried, I stopped my meditations all together.

What I found was that solitude was dangerous, predatory, an invitation to self loathing, and I couldn't possibly subject myself to it. Self preservation.

A month after I lost the baby, I traveled to London by myself. The trip had been planned long before I was pregnant. The plan had been altered slightly because I was pregnant, and then it became a personal mile stone - a mountain to climb to prove that I could do it - a month before I left. The trip became my life's exodus. In London, I was forced into solitude. I had tons of reflection time - on the plane, on the train, on the Underground, at meal times, in the park, everywhere, all the time. Instead of taking time to heal, I distracted myself - happily - making new friends, roaming around the city, visiting new places, pubs, punting.. I wrote about these things. I blogged about them. I had an incredible time being someone else - no more personal stuff - no more Ginger.

I got back home and turned around and went to Alaska a few days later. Same story, different place. I came home and promptly flew to New York for work. I had an incredible time! I was being very successful at distracting myself. I was happy!

And then work started, I got pregnant again and had the baby - Jack . He turns two today!

I haven't stopped running.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Solitude, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Manic Post-Graduation

2010-06-08T08:32:00.004-05:00

So, the kids are all grad-gi-ated and such - And I was elected to read their names! - which means that summer has officially begun. This also means that I am now coming down off my high, the kind where you shiver in a corner, rock back and forth, eyes glazed over, and beg for someone to please, please, for the love of god, please just knock you out.

Summer is a weird transition.

I know it's not the same for all teachers, but to go from working 12 hour days for ten months to having to "find something to do" is a kind of withdrawal, or is at least an excusable life change. My brain which is used to making 100 thousand decisions per second - "Class, here's what were doing today; no, you may not use the restroom, please don't interrupt; I just received a pass for so and so from the office, no you may not go now, or yes you can; If I could just recap..; last class you didn't understand __________. I'll talk about it after the announcements are over; no you can't see your grade right now, I'm trying to teach; Are you crying? Do you need to go to the hall?; As I was saying..; Another pass; So, Shakespeare wrote in iambic pentameter; Wake up, you in the back; Stop talking; No you still may not use the restroom; The play Macbeth is cursed; You're tardy? Nice of you to join us. Where's you pass? Go back to the office; It is a Scottish play which means that you have to pay extra close attention to inflection; Stop throwing things; Another stray announcement; AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!; Yes, I'm fine. Only 89 minutes of class to go. As I was saying..

And so we've been doing some work around the house to cope with the de-tox:

The house is extremely clean and organized.
The fence is mended.
New curtains are purchased and hung.
Flowers are planted.
The dishes are clean.
Pictures have been framed and hung.
New furniture - a bench with cubbies and a shelving unit - for the baby's room is put together.
Baby's toys are all organized on new furniture.
Old furniture has been moved to the garage.
Baby's winter clothes have been boxed and moved to the garage.
Three boxes of books are removed from guest room and sold.
Laundry is clean.
Lawn is mowed.
Wii is played.
Bills are paid.

This all happened in two days and there was still time to watch a little TV!

I'm trying to will my body and mind to be idle for just a few days so that I don't die of exhaustion. Americans are really good at that. At the same time, sitting makes me itchy.. I have to go and do!

Speechless

2010-06-04T09:00:00.000-05:00

So, until people are one or two years old, they are quite literally speechless. Watching a baby learn language is, in my opinion, one of the most fascinating and rewarding parts of parenthood. That is until something like this happens..

And then you're the speechless one.

Sorry Ahh Shit.. I mean.. Aunt Shugs!! We love both you and Uh Oh.. er.. Uncle Dutch!

Voices I (hope to always) Recall

2010-05-28T09:00:00.001-05:00

I'm going to miss my International Baccalaureate class dearly. They are graduating seniors and are off to college next year. This week ends our two year journey together, and I am incredibly humbled by their gratitude and appreciation. I love them. A lot.

As a concluding assignment, I asked my kids to write "This I Believe" essays (in the same form as NPR's 1950's program) - Christine's brilliant (as usual) idea. All of the essays are special - inspirational and personal - because they define what's important to the kids right here, right now. One of my kids, Lauren, wrote a particularly insightful essay about the importance of internationalism, especially regarding education. Her words are poignant and universal. Please enjoy this incredible wisdom from an 18 year old kid:

When I started high school, I was basically a loser. I wanted to get in and out as soon as possible, putting in the minimum effort. I didn't think I had much to learn. I could read and write and I knew what I thought about, well, everything. I knew what was right and what was wrong and what needed to change in the world. I still have a moral code. I know what needs to change. But everything else is different.

I started in International Baccalaureate (IB) flat-out disagreeing with a lot of people in it. With their ideologies, political views, study habits even. I also started out wanting to get my diploma basically to prove that I could. I still thought I knew everything, and after two years of the same ole, I figured I needed to do something challenging before I died of apathy.

And now? I still disagree with a lot of people about a lot of things, but my beliefs - and how I view theirs - have altered drastically.

This I believe - if we are to achieve world peace, we must first seek world education. Universal teaching, not necessarily of the same curriculum, but of the same ideal: that people must learn how to think. They must learn to think for themselves, and they must learn to question those thoughts. Every culture in the world gives their children a different beginning. Every country, every village, every family. Each child begins with a foundation, but to question it, examine it.. And to be willing to change it.. How we know what we know?- Theory of Knowledge (TOK) asks. And that's the most important question anyone will ever be posed.

I don't care if every kid learns Mandarin because that's not really the universal language, is it? There will always be translators of words. The hardest thing is to translate thoughts. Beliefs. How do other people think? Where are they coming from? Where are they standing? A lot of wars have been fought over that kind of translation.

I started out headstrong, and I ended up in love with diversity. I'm pretty much a firm believer in learning through experience. I feel like if every student spent two years in class next to a girl as lovely and compassionate as my friend, Yassmin, there would be fewer idiots in the hallways telling jokes at her expense. I believe that if one in a hundred classes could include the incredible variety of human thought that each and every one of ours does - this is what we do where I'm from; this is what my religion says; this is how we think differently, and the same - there would be a lot fewer hate crimes and stupid remarks and just horrible ignorance in general. There are kids in this country, state, and city who barely even see people of a different ethnicity on a daily basis. How on earth are we supposed to be a global community if we don't even get what our neighbors are saying?

I really didn't care when I began this programme. And then it started to sink in: what IB means, and through that, what education means. And I started to care. I know other apathetic students could, too. I believe that if everyone had to go through this - essentially write a college-level thesis in high school, have discussions in every class, research and study with every resource available like their lives depended on it - they would love learning, or at least take a little pride in their educations. I believe that no one would ever fault their child for wanting a college degree, or two, or four, nor would they confuse academia with elitism.

So, yes, I believe in IB. Me, my classmates, my teachers - we could really change the world because whether we realize it or not, we know what to do. I believe in education and yes, even TOK. I believe in myself, and I believe in all of the future CEO's and presidents, and diplomats I share math class with.

This I believe.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Voices I Recall, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Democracy Village Parliament Square

2010-05-23T09:08:00.000-05:00

In Solidarity

Lost

2010-05-21T09:00:00.000-05:00

"Do you want to stand in the shade, Pale One?" I asked as we waited. I waved Christine out of the sun and motioned towards my sliver of shade.

"Naw, I'm good," she said, looking at her arms. "Probably this is good for me."

The plain white sign on the door read, "Gone for oysters - Be back in an hour," and was signed by someone of importance, I assumed, though the scribble was fairly illegible. In any case, I didn't have the patience to read the scribble on sign that basically assumed I would have the fortitude to endure the humid Texas heat, the sun blaring down its stifling inferno, for an hour. Plus we had gone and come back an hour ago, more or less, and were no longer amused by the idea of oyster eaters at a tattoo parlor.

There were six of us standing there, sizing each other up. By far, Christine and I were the oldest ones there and probably the only ones with steady salaries and retirement plans. "Kids," I thought. "I wonder if they're old enough to be here?" That's when they struck up a brief conversation:

"Are you here to get a tattoo?" a girl began as she squinted up at me. I wasn't sure what she meant by the question which in my head sounded awfully like, "Are you here to get a tattoo? You seem pretty old. Maybe you're here to sell someone a time share in Florida, the land of retirees. The dry cleaners next door has old people in it. Try there." I forced my lips into a smile.

"Um. Well yeah. I mean I'm adding to one I already have.. So.. is this place worth the wait?"

"Yeah," a boy said, "Absolutely."

The girl continued, "I got my first one here, and see? Look at the work they do. It's amazing." I glanced at the tattoo on the girl's arm and nodded. "I got mine done by Ian," she squealed.

"And Crush did mine," the boy said.

"My first one was done by Crush, but I think Bones is the best," said another one. They all nodded in agreement. "Who do you want to do yours?"

As I looked at the faces of the kids in front of me, I wondered what the hell I was doing there.
"I don't know," I sighed.

I reasoned that I was the only one rational enough to know what I wanted - truly - in a respectable, mature sense. I have lived long enough to understand that body art is forever, and that when parts of my body start to sag, the art will sag too. That's why I had chosen to adorn a strategically firm location. I had even remembered to wear a pretty bra knowing that I would have to pull my shirt off, and I had planned some witty repartee regarding my pregnancy stretch marks. That's what mature people do, isn't it? We rationalize, convince ourselves of something, overcompensate for our flaws, and make excuses.. Right?

Who was I kidding?

I had decided that the kids in front of me were the immature ones when they were more comfortable in their skin than I will ever be. They were ok with waiting for how ever long it took because time didn't really matter to them. They weren't treating me like a lost grown-up aimlessly roaming on their turf. I had projected that. They were not looking down their noses at me. I was at them.

I was done waiting at that realization. I turned around and walked to the car, overcompensating for my embarrassment, my excuse being that waiting for wayward oyster eaters was stupid.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Lost, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Modern Myths: The American Dream

2010-05-14T08:00:00.001-05:00

One of my favorite modern myths is the idea that everyone can (and should aim to) attain "The American Dream." Simply defined, the American Dream is the notion that if one works hard enough, no matter his beginnings, he can someday own a suburban home, a white picket fence emphasizing the manicured, weedless lawn. He can wear comfy slippers on Sunday mornings while reading the funnys, smoking a pipe (or vehemently not, depending on the decade), and watching the little ones frolic to and fro. The missus - the love of his life who is 40% homemaker and 60% sexy - is in the kitchen whipping up pancakes and bacon, stopping occasionally to kiss him on the forehead or to remind him about their social commitments - the bunko game at the Smith's or something. Of course there would be work the next morning at a job that would warrant a decent amount of complaining, but only enough to appear confident, productively opinionated, and/or wise so that the next rung on the ladder to a management position might be easily surmounted.

This 1950's, post World War ideal is both antiquated and far fetched. It never really existed in the first place, not to mention the fact that the image was only represented by a single prototype: male and white. Those who have attained what they deem the American Dream tend to snidely look down their noses at people who haven't, yet. They ask brutal questions like, "Why should our tax dollars pay for those who are too lazy to work?" or "Why should we have to take care of immigrants who take our jobs and our land? Tell them to go back to their own countries."

These folks did not take into account variations in pre-American Dream status such as:

Education - This is not only a question of did one go to school and for how long, but in what environment (safe, welcoming, encouraging, intellectual), with what resources (school supplies, lab equipment, healthy lunches), and with what community support (family - mom and dad, especially - and friends)?

Resources - Having money within the existing family initially gives one an automatic leg up. It also allows for more cultural/educational experiences, hobnobbing with important connections, and time (as in you may not have to have an after school job to eat, so you get to spend time having cultural experiences and hobnobbing).

Opportunity - tied to education, culture, friends, and resources

Culture - Is English one's first language? If not, strike one. It certainly makes education more difficult, not to mention finding a job and/or hobnobbing.

Sex - Men still have the advantage.

Luck - plain and simple

These variations, among hundreds of others make the myth that The American Dream is attainable for everyone completely ridiculous. More ludicrous is the idea that some deserve it more than others as a God-given reward for being righteous (of the Christian variety, of course), a very popular belief here in the South. Also, this dream promotes individuality, a trait that, in my opinion, is contrary to human nature.

It is exceedingly rare for folks to break away from the familiar lifestyles and into the upper echelon of the dream. That said, in the same breath I have to also mention that we have it a lot better here than in most places in the world. Our poverty level, though devastating, compared to other countries is minor. Our poor can find food. That, perhaps, is the legitimate American Dream.

Whenever I feel confronted by the elitists who still find ways to demean the downtrodden, I remember Martin Luther King Jr.'s comment (and I'm paraphrasing) that it is completely unfair to ask a man to pull himself up by his bootstraps when he has no boots. King also related that the suburbs are a bane to society, anyway, simply because people can climb into their cars and drive away from the burden of poverty. I think of Lot's wife - the one who has no name and who, therefore, represents any person, who was too caught up in the luxuries of Gomorrah to leave without looking back. She turned into a pillar of salt.

So here we sit - waiting for and working towards attaining some mythical, material American dream. I'm not saying that it's poor form to have money or to want to climb ladders. I am saying that humility is necessary in the ascent, as is helping others without condemnation. Community is essential.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Modern Myths, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Lobsta

2010-05-12T20:26:00.004-05:00

I had an amazing time in Cape Cod with Fougs's family! Here's a home video of how to eat "Lob-sta'.

Thanks for a fantastic time, Mum and Dad B. !!!! (And of course, Christine, my gratitude for the trip and for your friendship is boundless..

(For more Cape Codder adventure pics, click here.)

I just hate it when..

2010-05-07T08:00:00.001-05:00

..my agenda is so full (of good lovely happenings and chores) that I have to reduce my life to bullet points:

*Magazine publishing in the works
*International baccalaureate testers testing
*Senior failure list changes
*Seniors whining about being on the senior failure list
*Seniors begging for redoes on all assignments
*Caving in and allowing them to redo whatever
*Grading redoes
*Magazine release party planning in the works
*Cap and Gown disbursement
*The actual planning and teaching part of my job
*Quick, spontaneous week end vacay (:)) Hooray!
*More grading
*Senior Events: farewell celebrations, projects, exams, prom, graduation practice, graduation (they've voted me to read names.. yay..(sigh))
*Multiple family visits: in-laws, step in-laws, brothers, mothers, and dads, all on different dates (the beauty of being in a blended (butchered?) family)

And then summer where (hopefully) I can work on the writing project I want to do.

But maybe being busy to the point of exhaustion is a good thing?

Independence v. Freedom

2010-04-30T08:00:00.006-05:00

Christine and I had just driven into the big city in bumper to bumper traffic after a quickly devoured dinner and a sloppy 'distract and run' toddler maneuver. We had worked all day during what most educators in Texas formally call "the week we attempted to bring down democracy (against our wills) thanks to fat cat capitalists and a deal they made with the devil," also known as, "the demise of public education in America." (Most people, though, know it as the week of TAKS* testing.) And here we were, tripping our way into an unfamiliar auditorium, preparing ourselves for what we hoped would be a grain of inspiration.

We settled in to listen to Dr. Diane Ravitch, author of The Death and Life of the Great American System when we bumped into friends, Irina and Paula. We know these incredibly intelligent and insightful women from the Friday Night Salon group we sometimes attend. We sat down next to them and after settling in I brought up our consortium topic for this week and hoped for their input as, of course, they would have something brilliant to include. Rather than trying to write my way through sporadic dialogue and note passing during the event, I decided, instead, to show you my scattered notes:

The top half obviously is our thoughts on independence (note that I accidentally wrote independent at first - Freudian slip, as Irina pointed out). Freedom is at the bottom. Oddly, as we were brainstorming I decided that both words have negative connotations to me. Independence often leads to lessons learned in literature. Freedom has become a buzzword for American everything. We throw it around like it's cheap and most of the time use it in instances of blind patriotism. "I've never had an independence fry," Irina pointed out, grinning.

*Texas Assessment of Knowledge and Skills
This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Independence v. Freedom, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

If I could be anything, I would be..

2010-04-23T08:00:00.001-05:00

...an artist. Any kind: writer, musician, painter, or photographer... Here's why:
True artists immerse themselves in their creativity, reposing with their muses for a while, feeling their souls break free from their bodies through extensions of their instruments be they pens, pianos, paints, or pictures. How incredible it must be to linger in that space, even if it is uncomfortable. They are risk takers in several ways both physically and emotionally. They push people to reflect about their own lives and invite souls to connect to theirs making them (and us) completely vulnerable. They open fire doors.

I've been thinking about my job - English teacher - a lot lately. I realize how much of my life is consumed by my job, how much I mercilessly give to that profession, and I pray that it's the right thing to do. I hope that my investment is somehow sacred or at least worthy. Otherwise, what the hell am I doing? I love being a teacher, though bureaucracy and money make my job just shy of impossible to do well. I don't care if my students love literature or even reading for that matter. What I do hope for is that they:

1. Learn to weigh their decisions judiciously with the understanding that every decision they make affects something/someone else.

2. Learn that people are people and that none are better than others, that sometimes circumstance affords people opportunities that others do not have and sometimes circumstances are just absolute shit. No matter what, there are people in worse places and ones in better ones. Life isn't fair and we shouldn't form opinions about people or circumstance without considering the truth of this.

3. Learn to effectively communicate with each other via speaking, writing, art, or any other medium they can come up with. This means understanding and implementing "the basics" of reading and writing at the very least, and at the very most creating poetry*.

4. Spend time in mature, honest reflection and form fair, cogent arguments or representations of their ideas to share with others.

5. Learn to think. Period. Especially in a world that is so eager and easy to manipulate..

I happen to use literature as a medium to get them recognize these things. In presenting my understandings of characters and situations, writings and interpretations, I become vulnerable to them and them to me. In this way, I am an artist.

However, I'm so tired. They take too much.

So, really if I could be anything, I would choose something else. Something that doesn't depend on the success or failure of another human - something with less responsibility.. A house cat maybe, or a tree.

* Poetry in this case means, "an imaginative awareness of experience expressed through meaning, sound, and rhythmic language choices so as to evoke an emotional response. Poetry has been known to employ meter and rhyme, but this is by no means necessary. Poetry is an ancient form that has gone through numerous and drastic reinvention over time. The very nature of poetry as an authentic and individual mode of expression makes it nearly impossible to define."

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (If I could be anything, I would be.., this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Friday Night Salon

2010-04-17T08:47:00.004-05:00

When was the last time you had a genuine conversation--an experience not of mere self-assertion but of speaking and listening as though you had something both to offer and to receive? Our habits of language define us, but the pace of our lives is such that the simple gestures of listening carefully and speaking prudently are amazingly rare. The Friday Night Salon aims at being an alternative to the urban rush that denies the civilizing graces of community.

1. Are there "unalienable entitlements"?
2. What brings us happiness?
3. Is learning a competitive activity? Should it be?

(im)maturity

2010-04-16T08:00:00.000-05:00

Maturity - I have none.

It comes (or probably 'goes is the better term) with the job. I am currently- at this very moment- sitting in a high school writing lab with my literary magazine staff who are lovely, mostly vegan, free spirits. We are on deadline, working furiously late into the afternoon so that we can get the mag to the printer by Monday. We've had coffee and soy milk, peanut free, gluten free, egg-less cookies, and we're just about delirious with our work. Here are brief snippets of random conversations going on around the room:

"The first line of that song makes me feel purple."

"Do you guys want to see a video of me and my friend lip-syncing to a French song?"

(A student is in the middle of a joke until it's hijacked by James)
"Takin' the punchline of my jokes.. (clicking sound) Thanks, James."

"Stop grinding on me like that!"

"Hey, come look at my things!"
"I'll look at your things."
"Your mom has things."

"Goo goo g'joov"
"I am the Walrus."

"Hey guys, do you want to taste some of my delicious margarita candies?"

"That is such bushlee!" (The word the kids use instead of 'bullshit')

"Technology hates me so much right now in this time of my life.."

"Oh how I miss sophomore year in French class!"

"People don't name their children Syphilis!"
"Oh yes they do!"

"Guys, I just had a super awesome idea!!
(Much too enthusiastic high five)
Ow!"

"Ok, I'll shut up now."

"That kiwi looks inviting."

There is no being mature in this job, and I'm ok with that. :) Thanks, my darling Navel Gazers, for your hard work today, even if you have attention spans of gnats!!! (Yarrrr-ly!)

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Maturity, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Art

2010-04-09T09:00:00.001-05:00

All art is quite useless. - Oscar Wilde

I want to be able to say that Wilde got it wrong, that art is not only useful but necessary. I want to be able to say that art communicates in a way that words can't, that it crosses divides and erases lines in the sand. One of my friends once argued that in a declining society, art flourishes. It communicates desolation, heartache, and sometimes the few joys that are sifted out of the ashes. I certainly can imagine that to be true.. Also, though, art can be anything - funny, scandalous, horrific, gorgeous - and as such can only hold the meaning assigned to it by the interpreter. In that way, when the interpreter walks away, the art, as Wilde asserts, is useless.

My students often ask me when studying literature how we can truly know what the author's intent truly is in his/her writing. I often tell them that it's not that we're trying to fully know the author's intent, but that there is a communication between the reader and the text. In that place is where we find true, legitimate meaning. Perhaps the meaning only exists in that invisible correspondence between art and viewer. Meaning is less controlled, not firm. It allows for anyone creating anything to be the artist. It allows for reasonable (and unreasonable) conclusions.

The students then ask if they can answer the question of meaning wrong.

"Yes, absolutely," is the answer.

*Painting by Wassily Kandinsky
This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Art, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Friends and Enemies

2010-04-04T19:13:00.005-05:00

I had trouble writing about this topic, honestly. I really wanted to write about politics - how they've invaded our friendships and families like a virus does, invisibly, violently. Politics have destroyed relationships to the point that we have to pretend that all is well even though our differing opinions sit at the surface of every conversation, unspoken yet understood. So, I'll post a pop video. Pink. She's fun. We all deal with self loathing, so..

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Friends and Enemies, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Oooooh...

2010-03-31T19:03:00.005-05:00

In the twenty minutes I had today between school and picking up Jack, I stopped at my favorite coffee spot for a much needed pick-me-up. One of my favorite barristas, Annie, was working. Here was our conversation:

Annie: Hey! How's it going?

Me: The usual. You?

A: Nothing to report, really.. Well actually, I had an interview for a grown-up person job.

M: Oh really? How'd it go?

A: Not too well, I don't think..

M: What? Why?

A: Well, the interviewer was..um.. different.

M: What do you mean?

A: First of all, she did most of the talking and hardly asked any questions.

M: Not a great interviewing strategy..

A: Yeah. And when she did ask questions, they were weird ones like, 'Have you ever had a fish?' and I was like, 'Uh.. no..' and then she asked, 'Well you know what a fish looks like, right?' and I was all, 'sure', wondering where she was going. Then she took out a piece a paper and started drawing. Can I use your receipt? So on one side of the paper she drew this (drawing a fish-like scribble with teeth - totally abstract), and then asked, 'Do you know what this is?' 'Er, a piranha?' I answered. And she was like, 'Actually it's a Great White Shark.' And then on the other side of the paper she drew this (drawing another fish-like being made mostly of squares) and then she asked, 'Do you know what this is?' 'A clown fish?" I guessed. 'No. It's an angel fish. Here at our company we do NOT want a shark, nor do we want an angel fish! We want this (and she drew another fish scribble in between that looked a lot like the first fish). What do you think this one is, Annie?' And I was all, 'um..it's a,' and I must've paused too long because then she interrupted me and exclaimed, "It's a barracuda!" We want barracudas to work for us, Annie. Are you a barracuda?' And all I could think of was the song.

M: Heart!

A: Yeah. And so I think I nodded. I don't know. But after that she told me that she was looking for someone with more experience for this entry level job. I told her that I was perfect for the position and that I could definitely do a good job, even though I didn't have a lot of experience. She said she'd get back to me, but I don't know.. I wrote her a thank you note -I could really use this job - and I said something like, 'It was great meeting you! I can't wait to be your barracuda."

M: (Laughing really hard)

A: Yep. At least I got a good story out of it.. Maybe I should go to grad school.

Writing Woes

2010-03-30T21:36:00.004-05:00

I used to be a writer. I suppose what I mean is I used to connect with people through my writing. Lately everything has been so forced, so impersonal. I hadn't realized to what extent this was true until today when I began going through old posts, especially ones from my first blog, Viaggio.

Obviously, the biggest change since Viaggio is I had a baby. I don't mean to blame him for my writing neglect, but I do mean to say that writing time - hell, thinking time, being time, reading time - is gone for me. Also, I am working full time at a job that demands more than the hourly parameters of what the pay scale defines. Teaching is not a full time job. It's a life consuming one if done correctly. And again, that isn't to say that it's the job's fault. It's just that I choose to make it a priority - children are our future, education is a gateway, yadda yadda, yadda. On top of that I actively work at my marriage, I try to have friendships (though those too have suffered) and run a household. I no longer exercise - that would be an activity that would require alone time.. So, obviously, the writing I do is sub-par.. at least in comparison to what I know I can do and want to do.

I'm pissappointed at little about it. I knew when I had a baby that I would have to make time for me. I didn't realize that the time I made would come in 10 minute increments or less- like the breaths I take between getting out of my car and taking the baby out of his car seat (15 seconds), or the cup of coffee I allow myself on week end mornings before I get the baby out of his crib (10 minutes), for example. I do enjoy a work day once a week - glorious Thursdays! - when Rich picks up Jack from Nanny's and I get to, er.., work. Sometimes I allow myself that time to work on my consortium posts, but mostly that's grading or studying time, apart from the time I work after the baby goes to sleep. I have vowed on many occasions, fists raised, that I will take back my life! And then the baby wakes up from his nap, and as is perfect and lovely, and I become Momma again, relinquishing the "me" that it would take to spend time here.

Mary Oliver, incredible poet and one of my heroes, said all writers should make appointments with themselves. That way they will be committed to the practice. I've tried. Believe me. I just can't seem to get things to fall into place without interruption, whether that be a demand from the baby or from work, or, God forbid, actually talking to my husband away from the clicking of computer keys or grading utensils.

Some would tell me that obviously writing, then, isn't important. That I should put that aspect of my life on hold for a while. Those folks obviously don't know me well enough to understand what writing truly is to me, or really how much writing is a part of who I am. It is me in a sense.

That said, I need to practice. You can't be good at something unless you work on it. I need to work on it.
Maybe this confession will open some doors for me. Maybe the door is only open until I am overwhelmed by my other roles again. A week? Two? In any case, here is some genuine, heartfelt discourse, a bridge hopefully, to a more relatable subject and voice.

Hell

2010-03-26T09:00:00.003-05:00

Dante and Milton have made egregious miscalculations in their assessments of hell in the form of a very obvious omission. Dante's circles are incomplete as such, as is Milton's burning, sulfurous terrain.
_______________________________________________
Rich and I, in the middle of enduring a very long "staycation" in our house over spring break, looked at each other, exasperated. In that raspy, "I see dead people" voice, the one only used in the face of some supernatural terror, he whispered, hardly audible,"Dear God. We have a toddler.."
"How in the hell did this happen?" I responded in the same hissy tenor.

And then we both started sobbing.

Earlier, I was horrified to find banana smeared all over the keyboard and screen of my laptop. I turned to Rich and began to complain, when I remembered that earlier that day, Toddler Jack had taken a crayon to Rich's. Unfortunately, it was too late. The statement was out. That's when we broke and started remembering all of the mischief that took place that day related to the actions of our almost-two-year-old Jack. The statements came rapid fire and generally began with "And then he...", "And then.." In the interest of brevity, here is that frantic exchange, ordered more cogently than the original and in a bullet point list (because it's alot):

* Computers - one artistically adorned, the medium being crayon, the other glazed in a sticky fruit compote.

* Shoes firmly planted.. in the flower pots...in the house.

* Items put away (somewhere) for the future:
- One half-eaten jelly bean
- One hairbrush (Daddy's)
- Ten pairs of socks (his)

*Items put in the trash (that were thankfully recovered):
- A check in the amount of $13.50
- A lovely necklace and one earring
- One copy of Alice in Wonderland
- One television remote
- One book of Christmas postage stamps
- One pair of glasses

* Bathtub - One toy boat played with in bath, the same boat that needed to be bailed out, as did apparently the bathtub itself.

* Climbing Practice (freestyle):
- On top of the dinning table
- On top of the bar stools
- On top of a dresser, using the back of a couch as a spring board

* Number of fits thrown: 5, not including diaper changing ones

* Number of diaper changes: 5

* Number of time-outs: 1, including fit

*Number of headache pills taken by parents as a result of fits: 4 (2 ea)

* Number of glasses of wine consumed: 4 (2 ea and counting)

* Percentage of patience lost by parents: 99.9% (.1% away from total breakdown)

And we're really good, attentive parents! I can't imagine the catastrophe that must happen in homes where parents aren't as attentive, or in homes where, and I shudder to say it, more than one toddler resides!
_____________________________________________
Dante and Milton clearly never spent very much time with an almost two-year-old kid. Surely, they would've considered them when writing their epics..

(Though all of the items on this list did actually take place in one day, I have to say that I have the best kiddo in the world! He's smart and sweet and wonderful... which is why we can endure the storm and which is why all of our spare change is going to the local vineyards.)

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Hell, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

New word of the day:

2010-03-23T18:37:00.004-05:00

Pissapointed: adjective (though can also be used as a verb or noun (pissapointment): defeated in expectation or hope while feeling, at the same time, angry and/or irritated. eg. He forgot to pick up the kids at school leaving them waiting by themselves for hours. This made her feel severly pissapointed.

(Thanks for this Christine!)

Object(s) of Desire

2010-03-19T09:00:00.002-05:00

Speaking of Anais Nin.. For a while I've been hoping to introduce myself to her writing, knowing that it would be a bit of a scandal. Probably it's not something I should mention in this space, except to say that she is part of my Womanifesto. I can say that I felt some guilt at being offered the teacher discount for her book at the check-out counter. Obviously, the clerk doesn't know about Anais Nin or about the section of the store I snuck to to quickly peruse the authors; he didn't recognize my excitement in the form of a knowing smirk at finding Delta of Venus or my hurry to get to the counter.

Or maybe he did know. Maybe that's why he offered the discount.. Anyway, I'm reading her now. She's wonderful!

"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage. "
-Anais Nin

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Object(s) of Desire, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Kids are the fourth pillar and are, ironically, not a part of this cartoon.

2010-03-17T17:32:00.001-05:00

The Opposite Sex: Wratch

2010-03-12T09:00:00.000-06:00

I am unbelievably lucky that I have the partner that I do. His name, if you didn't know, is Rich. He's pretty much the most lovely person on the planet. I adore him.

Rich and I met in college. Actually, sometime during the first week of my college career, between orientation and my first exam, I saw him across the room. In a millisecond I knew that I would marry him. Seriously. You can stop gagging. It's true. A "voice" we shall call "intuition" whispered it in my ear. Instead of the pronouncement garnering that warm mushy feeling reserved for the beginnings of Nicholas Sparks books (the endings reaping a different emotion), mine was more akin to what it feels like when one's stomach drops at the first intonation of a tornado siren. Panic. I ran home and called Jen (who will confirm my account), and said, "Jen, guess what!? I just saw the person I'm going to marry!"

She, the ever-calm and rational presence, asked, "What's his name? Tell me about him."

"Uh. I don't know. I haven't actually talked to him, yet.."

And that was the beginning. It only took a month for me to collect myself and actually talk to him. Er.. really, it only took me a month to: find the perfect event, a street dance in this case (yes, darlings, it was the 90's), put together the perfect granola/attractive outfit to draw his attention, practice possible conversation openers with my roommate, and steel myself for the first words that would essentially begin what I was sure would be, "the first day of the rest of my life."

Melodramatic? Yes.

A true assessment? Also yes.

Obviously at that time I did not know the sheer impact of that first meeting, the extent to which knowing Rich - growing up with him, traveling the world with him, being a co-parent with him - would truly change my world for the better.

I suppose I could list traits and actions that describe why Rich exemplifies the perfect version of the opposite sex for me. Probably that is too much for a less than sappy blog post. What I will say is that Rich is the most considerate person on the planet. His love is unconditional, his patience infinite, his kindness apparent. He's reason to my manic. He's stability to my chaos. In short, he's both my opposite and my compliment and I am a lucky, lucky girl.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (The Opposite Sex, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Time Travel

2010-03-05T09:00:00.002-06:00

If I could travel back or forward in time, where would I stop and why? It's a great question. I remember answering this question a few times before. When I was an innocent little girl, I said that I would like to meet Jesus. He and I were cool back then, and I imagined sitting among the other little children in his lap and around his feet in all of those cartoon images I studied in Sunday School. Later, as a snarky (but still innocent for the most part) teenager, I gave the same answer: That I would want to go back in time and meet Jesus, but for a different reason. This time it would be to experience him as a real person, and not just an untouchable figure head. I wanted to experience his wisdom and his gentleness.

Now, if I were to answer the same, and I'm not sure I would, I think I'd want to see Jesus to blatantly ask, "What the hell? Seriously. Because if this is what you were meant to represent, then stay out of Gethsemane. People are really going to screw this up and maybe it would be better to not be the human sacrifice." (sigh)

I mean that in the most reverent way possible.

Probably, though, I'd rather not travel so far back. Things happen, and just as we need our own faults to become the people we are, we need history to help define who we are. And anyway, there are too many atrocities to try and prevent to pick just one. Conversely, the future is too scary to navigate. That leaves me here - in this time and in this place. If I hope to move anywhere it is forward to when I'm finished grading the billions of compositions in my inbox. Relief won't truly come until June, a hazard of the job. Until then, I trudge along.. seemingly in slow motion.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Time Travel, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Women International - March 8th

2010-03-04T15:38:00.005-06:00

Dear Friends,

A hundred years ago, a group of women got together and decided we needed a day to celebrate women globally, regardless of our marital status, our ability or inability to have children, regardless of who we are in age, color, or where we come from. In countries like Bosnia and Herzegovina, every man and boy gives a flower to each woman and girl on International Women’s Day.

We all have envisioned a day where women will speak out and speak up, to break their silence and demand peace, justice, and more equality in this world. A hundred years have gone by and women have accomplished a lot in legal protection, political and economic representation, education, and so many other areas. But the road to full equality for women is still long, and our vision of justice and sustainable, full peace in our lives has yet to come.

On behalf of our sisters who are meeting on March 8 in Rwanda and the DR Congo, our sisters who are meeting in Bosnia and Kosovo, our sisters who are meeting in London and Sydney, and our sisters in over 50 cities, I am asking all of you to join me, Women for Women International, and women around the world on a bridge on that day. I ask that we, women from all over, consciously take the time out of the working day and our personal life to celebrate International Women’s Day.

It is a time where we will join the drumming beats of drummers, our own drums, and our own heartbeats. A time where we can march, tie our fabrics together, celebrate who we are and what we have given to our families and societies, and more than that, demand an immediate peace and an end to all the wars that are going on in our lifetime and are destroying many lives.

Women need to stand and speak up because:
* 80% of the women in Bosnia and Herzegovina are unemployed when they enroll in our program
* 75% of war casualties are women and children
* Women produce 50% of the world’s food and only own 1% of the property
* 82% of the women in our Afghanistan program are illiterate
* 70% of the women in our DR Congo program have had their village attacked

These statistics show women are disproportionally marginalized in the world. It is time to change that. It is time to speak out. It is time to break our silence. It is time to demand peace and justice. It is time to join on the bridge.
Please join us. I know I will be at the Brooklyn Bridge at 12:00 pm on March 8th. Bring your drums. Bring your fabric. Bring your dreams.

Let us make that day a day the time to celebrate our womanhood, our voices, our contribution to society.

For more information on all of the bridge meetings around the world, please visit www.womenforwomen.org/bridge.

In sisterhood,

Zainab Salbi

Founder and CEOWomen for Women International

The Wildest Thing

2010-02-26T09:00:00.003-06:00

This morning I woke up fierce. It's always dangerous when this happens. On fierce days I reach for my Ani DiFranco CD, wear black lace, and pretty much tell the world to "piss off." Today I even considered downing the rest of last night's leftover wine that had been sitting out on the counter all night. I thought better of it when I reasoned that I was off to work in a few minutes and would rather be in trouble there for something more satisfying instead of for having had a half glass of stale wine. Plus, though wine and coffee is a pretty rock-n-roll way to start the morning, I have to admit that my 30 something-year-old stomach blanched at the thought of mixing the two. On top of that, there was the bet that the cat may or may not have stuck his head in glass during the night, as he is known to do to various open-mouthed glasses. I was unwilling to lose that bet.

Anyway, fierce days remind me of something that I know is in the core of who I am - that part that can be willed to break free from responsibility (Revolution Now!), the one that asks, "what if I..?" followed by, "Damn the consequence!"

I've never been a wild person, as my outward nature probably indicates. I mean I've done my share of skinny dipping, pyramid climbing, and pith helmet wearing, and my passport could tell the story of many adventuresome days, as could many concert ticket stubs and cigarette butts. But honestly, those things don't seem particularly wild, and at the end of the day I'm still the girl who snuck out of her house once but left a note detailing where I would be in case my mother came in to check on me.

I never fully embrace the fierce. I imagine myself reaching for my combat boots sometimes and daydreaming about a place where poetry meets impurity.. (I can tell you what it looks like and also how it smells)..but I always, in the end, throw on sensible heels and expectation. Part of me really hates that - the suppression - and wants to blur the line, but ..

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (The Wildest Thing I've Done in my Youth, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Overheard: 7th Period

2010-02-22T20:22:00.005-06:00

"Maybe if Big Brother looked more like Gerard Butler, people wouldn't mind so much that he's 'watching'."

-A. Student

15 Minutes of Fame

2010-02-19T09:00:00.002-06:00

"In the future everybody will be world famous for fifteen minutes." - Andy Warhol Stokholm, 1968

"In the future, everyone will be anonymous for 15 minutes." - Banksy (British graffiti artist), sometime recently

Facebook is not my friend. As I type this post, pictures are being uploaded to facebook several of which end up in my inbox. "You have been tagged in a picture!" is the message, as if I'm supposed to be thrilled. This is all part of a reunion project that someone from my college years - from the years when I wore wire rimmed glasses and Birkenstocks with socks and abhorred the thought of wearing make up. "A girl," I reasoned, "should be valued for her brain, not her appearance, and if people think that t-shirts three sizes too big aren't sexy, then they can go (do something very unpleasant to) themselves." It was a time before I learned the value of a push up bra or the power that the smart stilleto stomper could wield.

Also it was a time when I was more free, a tree climbing philosopher, and less of a tax paying, 401K concerned grown-up. Though a necessary time in my life, one that made me who I am today, I can tell you with absolute certainty that the girl in the pictures - the ones that are currently being broadcast to my friends, family, students, colleagues, acquaintances and so forth - in this, my fifteen minutes of Facebook fame, are wholly ridiculous, comically embarrassing.

Please. Please make it stop. ;)

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (15 Minutes of Fame, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Tegan and Sara - Yes.

2010-02-15T20:59:00.001-06:00

At least we got to see a great show in Boston:

Small venue, great seats, incredible show..

Person, Place, or Thing

2010-02-12T09:00:00.000-06:00

I've been eating, breathing, sleeping this event for a year. I'm at an international job fair for international teachers in beautiful Boston. Before now, I spent a lot of time daydreaming about how it would play out: I roamed the house deciding what we would take, what we would leave; I researched like a mad person, documenting each country's appeal, writing pro/con lists, calculating health care and income tax expenses; I made sure Jack would be fully taken care of; and on and on and on! The short of it is I worked really, really hard, and nothing came to fruition.

Rich and I had two days of grueling interviews, our nerves frayed, our emotions swinging from optimism and hope to fear and anxiety and then back again and then again. We have hardly eaten anything and have slept only a few hours a night. We were lucky in that every place wanted us. We were called back for second interviews for each initial one and had some huge decisions to make. We made them, and then found that the biggest one was out of our control. The job we wanted most was given to someone else after four call backs.

Now it's time to be resolved to staying in our current posts for another year. Another interviewer at a place we are unsure of is calling as I type. I'm letting the voicemail get it. As my heart leaps at the prospect of not being quite out of the game, yet, I am exhausted and just want to leave here.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Person, Place or Thing, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Greg Mortenson is my Hero

2010-02-07T09:13:00.001-06:00

I heard him speak yesterday, and he is wonderful!

Visitor

2010-02-05T09:00:00.001-06:00

I had just arrived that morning and had fought my way through the Underground with an especially cantankerous suitcase that weighed more than me, and I hadn't eaten anything since the night before other than some shortbread cookies that came with my morning airplane "snack" . Mark, the friend I was visiting had patiently waited in his garden while I rinsed the travel off my skin and tried to conceal the jet lag that had written itself all over my face.

Anyone who has ever traveled abroad understands that you have to make yourself stay up all day if you ever want to acclimate yourself to the new time zone, and that's why Mark, a former tour guide, intended to take me in all my "resplendent" glory around his North London neighborhood called Southgate.

We meandered our way through and around his neighborhood and got blissfully lost. We found new alleyways that contained "lost relics" - "spastic" Christmas gift labels from before the time when "spastic" was not considered offensive hidden in a hole in a fence, for example, and a soapstone statue of a bird we found on top of a wall.We didn't know what these objects meant so we assigned our own meanings. We visited a church, entering through the back door while the choir was practicing for evensong and found some incredibly beautiful stained glass done by an artist named William Morris . We smelled flowers and had tea at a place we called "Napoleon's" as there was a huge velvet painting of Napoleon over the counter.

We dillied and dallied and chatted and laughed, but the place that stood out the most that day was a tiny shop and its showcased hodgepodge - randomly arranged hats, shoes, scarves, jewels, coats, umbrellas; things that remained un-perused, other than maybe a handful of items around the door. I had the feeling that this was its usual cluttered state. I glanced around, uncomfortably at first, because I knew that I was one among many travelers who had stepped in for something other than shopping, and yet there was a familiarity about the place that made me smile.

That's where I met a woman named Ronnie, the proprietor of the shop. She hugged us as we walked in and set about the task of putting out small folding chairs that took up most of the floorspace in her establishment so that we could sit and visit. She introduced herself as a Jewish Israeli and her vibrancy was amazing, her stories magical. Did you know, for example, that she has a friend in El Paso (my home town) who trains horses to dance? She especially wanted to visit him and loves the warmth of the Texas heat. She herself was a dancer in her younger years, something we had in common, but she found herself in London, somehow, even though she longed to be in more romantic places like Morocco, Spain, or Italy. Yes, there were men in her life (sigh) and they tended to follow her around (as would any man, I mean look at her, Mark noted), but then men are men, and people are people, no matter where one lives, and the world would be a much nicer place, don't you think, if Jesus came back?

As we bounced and floated around various topics as bizarre as dancing horses and as profound as the Israeli/Palestine conflict, Ronnie leaned over the counter and waved hello to passersby and gestured for them to come in. Many of them briefly stepped in to say they would come back for a chat later. I'm convinced that they did go back. Ronnie's charm is magnetizing.

As I search my memory for exactly what made things so marevellous that day, all I can come up with is that everyone we encountered in that community opened their arms to me. I fell in love with them. It is this type of experience and these types of people - ones who are interested in who you are and who immediately take you into their hearts - who blur the divides. Yes, I was a visitor that day, but that night as my head hit the pillow, suitcase stored in the corner, I was a local.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Visitor or Visitors, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

A Perfect Life

2010-01-28T09:00:00.002-06:00

Eve stood on a verdant precipice looking over the immaculate garden, her big toe tracing the edge where spongy grass met solid rock. The breeze wisped past her, raising goosebumps on her exposed flesh, reminding her of an unusual feeling that she couldn't exactly define - vulnerability it would eventually be called in a language she could not imagine. She didn't feel cold, exactly, because cold did not exist yet. Still, she folded her arms across her breast for comfort as she allowed herself to float into reflection.

Her memory of that first awakening went something like this:

"Eve, you're in paradise," he told her, and her eyes brightly scanned the arc of his gesture. She remembered feeling incredibly lucky and humble that she had the opportunity to exist in such beauty. That was when things were good, inspirational actually. The colors alone lifted her into a blissful oblivion, and of course, he - with his gorgeously curious features, his amazement at her graceful movements, the way he looked at her, as if she were the most beautiful, most amazing addition to the garden.. Yes. His being there was certainly a positive. Then.

"And now?" she thought. She still loved him. Absolutely. She loved him even though he was her master. She loved him, even though he had loved another before her. She still loved the garden, and her soul felt warm as she looked across the horizon. "It's not him," she whispered. "It's not the garden. It's not anything except that I want more." She silently numbered her desires on her fingers: ".. to know what God knows, to understand why things are as they are, to truly experience the full range of emotions that my soul knows exists - the ones that come from a place I don't understand.." Paradise was brilliant, but the humanness of her body, its yearnings, made it nearly impossible to enjoy fully.

"I have to leave here," she thought, and then blanched at the audacity of the thought. "I want to leave here," she thought again, more willfully, "even though the consequence will be loss of this place. I want to go and explore, to know and attempt to understand what it means to be human, to find answers, to truly live! Isn't this why God made me this way? Different from the angels?" Eve tried to imagine what the world would be like in that instance. She felt an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach - uncertainty, it would be called.

The sky darkened, and the first drops of rain brought her out of her contemplation. "Not today," she whispered.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (A Perfect Life, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Regret

2010-01-22T09:00:00.001-06:00

We are not old until our regrets outnumber our dreams.. or something like that. It's a Yiddish proverb that I read when I began to research "regret." What I found was pretty much the usual, grandiose statements such as: We shouldn't have regrets, we should live without them! or Regrets hold us down. To truly live, let go of regrets.

I decided I do not like grandiose statements, nor do I like the idea that regrets should be so easily dismissed, as if we can wave the backs of our hands at them the same way we flippantly dismiss a teenager who is feeding us a line of bull.

Regrets do afford us the opportunity for forgiveness and for learning. And I understand that to keep regret too near can eat at a person. However, regrets are also necessary. Maybe if we held onto regrets a little bit longer, we wouldn't be so easy to dismiss our collective irrational, selfish, and/or bad behaviors. Then, perhaps, our collective dreams - eradicating hunger, peace for all nations, human rights for all - could actually reside within within the scope of reality.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Regret, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Faith

2010-01-15T09:00:00.004-06:00

There was a horrible car accident on the street right outside of our school this morning, as the students were arriving for the day. The tell-tale signs were the varying pitches of wailing sirens -the low honking of the punctual fire trucks, the persistent two-toned police car whine, followed by the sing-song savior/bearer of bad news ambulance - and eventually the nosey news helicopters that whirred overhead. For an hour or more I listened to the horror outside.

The kids who were milling about in the halls ambled their ways to class, a little more quiet than usual, feigning nonchalance. After all, high school kids can't appear to be bothered by much, including by whatever obvious apocalypse that may or may not be occurring on their doorsteps. I could see that their eyes were a little wider than usual.

The PA system announced that we were to let our students in our classes without tardy paperwork. There was, "a horrible accident" in front of the school and traffic was stopped in all directions.

I feigned nonchalance for a different reason - the one that dictates that if the leader is calm, the crowd will follow. I silently took inventory of which students I saw in the halls, those who made it to class, those who didn't make it to class (my breath caught), and of those who weren't in class, those who were rumored to be the "bad" drivers (holding my breath). In the halls I took a silent teacher roll call and cautiously sighed in relief when I recognized that my department - the English folks - were present and accounted for. Not that any of that truly mattered. We all know that there is no reasoning when it comes to "horrible accidents." Without knowing any details about the chaos outside, and while being completely aware that for someone, somewhere - probably too close to home for it to ever be ok - the world was crumbling into irreparable pieces, I steeled myself, trembling, and began the routine assigned for the day: roll call, warm-up activity, instruction, assignment.
_______________________________________________
Perhaps this is the definition of faith -the place where the world in shambles meets standard procedure or expectation.

I once had the fortune of hearing Archbishop Desmond Tutu speak at a local university, and though I drive his message into the ground on this blog, it has become sort of a mantra for me on difficult days. "The world," he explained, "is good. How do we know it's good? Because the atrocities are still horrific to us. That's how." The horrific things- the murders, the scandals, the things that leave black scorches on the face of the earth - are newsworthy because we can't believe things like that can happen. The lovely things, in contrast - mothers caring for their babies, people checking in on one another, people praising each other for accomplishments and surviving the shit - that's what is normal. And here is where we find proof (and comfort in knowing) that the world is good.

I suppose in a way this is the concrete faith for which we are desperately searching. It's easy to dismiss people, to say, "You can't trust people to do the right thing or to make the right choices,"or "We're just going to ruin the planet" or the economy or the country or other people or whatever it is we feel like we've got a stake in or control over. For the collective, perhaps these are worthy accusations. But for the individual... Think about the folks around you - friends, family, teachers, grocery store clerks, neighbors, etc. and then weigh your findings.

If you ask me about my specific faith, I land somewhere amid the God inspired, majestic mountains and man-made chasms of the Abrahamic faiths and serene valley of Buddhism. I'm not sure how, exactly, to classify myself. What I do know is that whatever faith people in my school building proclaim (we are a very diverse campus) we were all hoping for, praying for the same things - that our loved ones were accounted for, and that whatever was happening outside would be bearable for whomever it was happening to. Understanding that commonality is a type of faith for me - a faith in people, more specifically, in the good in people.
_________________________________________________
It turns out that a school bus carrying 11 kids (aged 14 and under) hit a motorcycle cop who had just made a routine traffic stop. The gas tank on the bike exploded, killing the officer on contact and creating pandemonium. All of the people on the school bus were physically unharmed. The counselors from my high school rushed to the scene amid all of the wailing sirens, boarded the bus, and ushered the little ones out. They acted as immediate trauma counselors for them at our school, even though the kids were from other schools. Emails were exchanged all day about how our faculty was so thankful for the counselors and for the officer on our campus, that all of the police department was wholly appreciated for the constant vigilance and protection.

Individuals taking care of other individuals.. I, thank God, have faith in that.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Faith, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

2010-01-08T23:05:00.002-06:00

Yo Contra Ellos

Quest

2010-01-08T09:00:00.000-06:00

So you've got your basics:

King Arthur searches for the holy grail. Er. He sends his knights to search for the grail. Galahad the pious finds it, depending on the version you read, and immediately is taken to heaven. Camelot, unfortunately, is already poisioned by the sinful nature of (wo)man and the ideal kingdom is set to fall, depite the victorious (for Galahad, we assume) quest.

Dante goes on a perilous quest through hell (literally!) in search of a new path, one that leads away from the "dark wood of error." Fortunately for Dante, he is able to ascend out of Inferno into Purgatorio, and then he vacations in Paradiso, lucky man.

Tolkien wrote about the overlooked (wink), undervalued hobbit whose quest is to destroy that which will bring ultimate destruction to the earth. He's successful in his quest, but is unable to endure this mortal coil, thus he sails to the Undying Lands in The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King.

I could go on, for there are a billion, trillion (give or take) examples. Suffice it to say that research proves a recurring progression:

Desire --> Quest -->Success for the "worthy" --> immediate ascension into heaven, commonly known to most people as death. Immediate death. Unable to enjoy the success of the quest on this earth because you are dead.. which, on one hand, is good because you're in paradise. I guess. Oh, and there's the perk of minstrels writing songs about your battles, astronomers assigning you a permanent constellation, and poets writing you into legend, etc. But really, you could care less because you are, as I've mentioned before, dead.

So, why the hell are we - the common folk - always questing?

My life has been a series of little "questia minima" in the form of agenda items with tick boxes next to them.

college
husband
career
house
baby

And if life continues as is, the following:
retirement
grandkids
winnebago

Or something like that.

That's not enough for me. I am ready for a "Questius Maximus".

I understand, first of all, that I'm not "worthy" - neither pure, nor strong, nor (very) focused - and that negates the optimal climax and paradisic conclusion for me. There are no Ginger constellations in my future. I'm Ok with that. I also understand that quests can be life changing and can lead to disappointment, as do most earthy desires. But I would like to veer off course, away from the agenda and those little tick boxes that we love to check.

Isn't a journey worth anything?

"The play's the thing..."

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Quest, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.