Me Next

Essentially, our attic is getting a liposuction job. Yesterday afternoon I patiently tried to read as the droning vacuum truck sucked the vermiculite out of our attic for three arduous hours. The rest of the day and, indeed, the previous morning, I had dutifully followed around the electrician who was replacing old outlets, answering questions and moving furniture. Thankfully, a call to substitute today broke the monotony and left Don and Mom to withstand the roar in my place. Next week, what’s left of our home’s old wiring will be stripped and replaced with fresh electrical veins, which will leave it in better shape than its owners. I could use a little “lipo and rewiring” myself.

Night Sky

I burst outside through the front door like a pent up cat. Even at eleven p.m. the air was still warm but stirring gently like cool fingers against my face and bare arms and legs. Don had just reminded me that it was the last night of the meteor showers and I also wanted to see if I could find Mars, which was supposed to be closer to Earth and easier to see than it had been in something like 600 years.

Normally, I either forget opportunities like this or procrastinate breaking my normal, lazy routine until it is too late, but this time I didn’t hesitate. I have felt a little like a hibernating slug lately, letting most of life pass me by, so not stopping to rationalize as the words came out of Don’s mouth, my reaction was similar to pouring vinegar into a box of baking soda.

Although I was rewarded with both Mars and the long streak of a meteor crashing through the atmosphere, it was something much more mundane that took my breath away and made me wonder why I had waited so long to come out of my cave. My headlong rush into the summer night instantly enveloped me in a stillness that made me feel alone, but not lonely. The dark sky was huge and clear and lured me into the street for a better look. Wrapped in the inky silence, I strolled around with my head cocked back, one hand raised to block out the glare of the only nearby streetlight, noticing how much more three-dimensional the sky looked at night. Constellations and the Milky Way greeted me like old friends wondering where I had been. The vastness, which was freeing, was filled with stars and I wondered, myself, how I ever came to take simple, private moments like this with the universe for granted. Twenty minutes later I went inside a different person.

Happy Birthday, Sarah!

A quick mind, a determined spirit;

A sensitive soul and an accepting heart.

A lover of numbers, an eye for style;

An understated wit and a work of art.

 

We love you!

Raggedy Ann Summers

This vignette in front of Glenda’s antique store, Somewhere In Time, recently sent me reeling back to my childhood. As I drove past it, headed out of town on errands, I was suddenly transported back as sun-drenched memories of childhood summers that I thought would never end flickered through my mind like worn but still-loved movie images complete with sights, sounds, and smells:

Long days and sleeping in. Sizzling sunshine and cool shade. Shorts, 2-piece swimming suits, and thongs for your feet. Lying upside down in the rocking chair reading Nancy Drew novels and horse stories for hours. Sucking the juice out of homemade Koolaid popcicles before crunching the ice. Running through the sprinker and popping tar "babies" (bubbles). Soft ice cream cones from the Shoestring Drive In eaten across the street at the park. Shivering through swimming lessons in the morning, a peeling nose and three-month sunburn from hours of swimming every afternoon, and going back for more in the stillness of the evenings. Playing stick horses and building card houses. Loading hay onto the back of a truck, picnic lunches at the barn, and swinging from a rope in the hayloft. Sleeping under the stars in the backyard and telling the same ghost stories over and over with a friend. Hamburgers with homemade barbecue sauce flipped over charcoal briquets, the crack of Hermiston watermelons sliced into triangles, and headaches from eating homemade ice cream too fast. Sparklers, parades, and fireworks on the Fourth of July, and a family barbecue on my birthday. Single-gear bicycle rides everywhere; standing to peddle uphill, sitting back and letting one or both hands drop from the handlebars during the downhill coast. The fire siren signaling noon or screaming a warning of dreaded grass fires. Saturday night movies for fifty cents, the warmth of my horse’s back beneath my Wranglers. The calming rhythm of hooves clopping on pavement, the smell of evening at sunset, and the pounding cantor of freedom on a dirt road. Freeze Tag and Annie, Annie, Over at the neighbor’s house until dark, a gentle breeze in limp, sun-bleached hair, and cool grass under tender bare feet. Endless blue skies, sheets of heat lightening, and a feeling of time standing still. Sailing the Milky Way, counting falling stars, and making a wish on the North Star. Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight: Please don’t let me ever forget how this feels.

Whew!

Got that sucker done! (Never again.)

Thinking Back

I can't believe that Danielle's 1st Thursday art show was ten days ago already. It seems like I just got back. She will be updating her website (click here if you need the URL) soon with pictures of her work. In the meantime, I have posted quite a few memories of the evening on my family blog (K-Kids Family Fun).

The evening was beautiful and warm. Sarah and I rode the trolley the fourteen blocks from her place to Urban Studios to save ourselves the hassle of finding parking. Later, when I was about ready to fold for the night, I bid the girls, who were going to hit the dance floor, adieu and begged a ride to Sarah's apartment from Larry and Dan. Although Larry forewarned me that they had been unable to find a close parking spot, I still thought it better to be with someone than walk alone after dark. Ironically, by the time we got to Larry's car, he only had to drive me four blocks or less to my destination.

At least he had warned me though, right? In Rome he promised me once, at the end of a VERY long day of walking, that we only had five blocks to go before we'd be at the hotel. It was near the end of our three week Lorenzo Fitness Tour and by evening my feet were tender and, until we took a dinner break, I was running on borrowed steam. After silently congratulating myself for making it past what I counted as three very l-o-n-g city blocks, Larry, who was always brimming with energy (like the Ever Ready Bunny to which Don likens him) turned around to us and declared with way too much glee, "One!" Gasping in disbelief, I swung my arm in a futile attempt to clobber him, but he had anticipated a disgruntled response and danced out of my reach. Eventually my ruffled feathers were soothed with mention of gelato.

Ah, yes; good memories. And Danielle's art show will be another. It was great to see Jen, Sarah, and Danielle all dressed up and happy and to be a small part of the evening's fun. Now it is back to the day-to-day stuff for all of us, yet, in the midst of the doldrum, it is really nice to be able to mentally transport back in time long enough to recharge with a smile. Thanks for letting me tag along!

I'M A FREAKING IDIOT!!!

What on Earth was I thinking? I have seven feet of canvas to paint by Monday! And PLAID! Lots of it has to be painted to look like plaid! Who drew the plaid on there? ME! The idiot who volunteered for this project in the first place. It took two days just to DRAW the freakin’ picture. How could I possibly conceive of getting it painted in only three days more? I guess that’s what idiots like me DO; completely underestimate the reality and abundantly overestimate their patience!

Don’t ever…EVER…let me get into a project like this ever again! NEVER!

Thursday, August 5th: Get a Glimpse

Danielle is participating in First Thursday in the Portland Pearl District this month. Urban Studios, at the corner of NW 10th and Davis is featuring her artwork on their walls and will open their doors Thursday night from 7-8 p.m. (note the time change) for free food, drinks, and live music while people come in and browse. It is the place to be and I'm packed and ready to go check it out! Congratulations Danielle!

Amber Waves of Grain

Many of the towns in my area are islands in the midst of wheat fields. Right now, that which is not hopelessly bent by severe wind or rain stands tall around us like pale toupees covering the wild blue pates of the hilltops. It is a sign of man’s dominion over the earth as well as his dependence upon it; his dreams and hard work and faith that if he plants a seed and nurtures it, it will grow and multiply to feed the hungry…or at least the highest bidder. At best, it is a gamble because the destructive forces of drought, hail, fire and more are whimsical and devastating.

As the bobbing heads in the field remind me, it is time for harvest once again. Like huge grasshoppers, harvesters will dot the fields, cutting stalks and spitting out grain and chaff. Wheat trucks will be clogging up the roads at 45 miles per hour and in the end, the fields will be left with bad crew cuts that darken and rot in the autumn damp and chill soon to follow. Unlike the farmers whose livelihoods depend upon this crop, I tend to take it for granted as a part of the scenery and a source for summer jobs; but this year I am determined to take a minute to appreciate the beauty and promise that it adds to my life.

A wheat field’s showy, golden, wind-rippled beauty brings a reminder that another cycle is being completed. Fallowed fields were tilled to receive seeds of promise that were nurtured into birth and prayed into maturity. Death gives way to new life as harvested grain feeds the world and then comes back to the soil for rebirth. Such is the nature of life; sometimes ungainly and awkward, usually at the mercy of uncontrollable forces, often taken for granted, yet, upon closer notice, absolutely precious at every stage.

Whadaya Know

Many of the students with whom I worked at the high school had struggled for years and, consequently, often built protective walls around themselves. All the empowerment in the world would have no effect without first making a connection with each individual, and finding out where they were academically and how they learned best. Only then could we begin to work toward filling in the gaps.

With some small successes under his belt, one such young man was finally beginning to come into his own as a student. As with many of the kids who came into the high school learning center for help, writing was especially challenging and required more focus than he was seldom able to command. On this particular occasion, he was actually motivated to complete a writing assignment largely on his own. His one scant page of typing had taken more effort than the two pages written by his peers and he was quite proud of it when he held out a printed version for me to check. Impressed that he had done so much under his own steam, I offered congratulations and marked a few errors for him to correct, reminding him to double space the document before printing out the final copy. He flashed me a very downhearted look, like I had slugged him in the stomach, but dutifully turned back toward the computer lab next door. I quietly marveled that he didn’t shrug off the corrections and hand the paper in “as is.” He was gone such a long time, however, that I finally broke away to check on him, afraid that he might have given in to the temptation to get sidetracked. What I found, instead, was him finishing up the last sentence of his paper, adding double spaces between words instead of lines! Oops. I had assumed too much when flipping out my instructions. I hadn’t been completely in touch with what he knew and didn’t know. This was my error, not his.

Years later, when I subbed a first grade class for three weeks, I saw again how important it was to make time for individual students so that they wouldn’t shut down. I was there long enough to get into an academic routine, but short enough that I hesitated to make too many changes. However, by the second week there was no denying that a few students were having some problems in math; fast learners were going too fast and missing some concepts and a couple slow learners were not making the connections they needed before being pushed on by the schedule to the next concept. Remembering how closed off some of my high school students had been after years of failing, I realized that this is where it started and that I couldn't risk letting these few students get lost in the cracks as well. With the generous permission of the teacher for whom I was substituting, I spent the third week focusing on small groups and individuals; assessing problems and learning styles, rearranging groups and routines, and tutoring. It was difficult to make time for everything, but, in the end, I felt that I was in better touch with individual abilities and needs, which promised better outcomes.

I think knowing where each student is in their learning is key to teaching any grade, and uncovering this involves establishing safe, respectful relationships. Although working one-on-one requires time, a commodity which is in short supply for most classroom teachers, it is a worthwhile investment because teacher and student get to know each other better. I believe that then a greater trust is established that motivates students to take risks in their learning and that benefits teachers with a deeper understanding of the skills, learning styles, and needs of the students.

Inspiration

Italy has Michelangelo’ and Bernini’s Davids, France has Rodin’s The Thinker, Washington DC has French’s Lincoln, and Eastern Oregon has Logs to Frogs. What started as a community’s unique way to capitalize on its nickname, Muddyfrogwater, has turned into a contest of creativity. These chainsaw artists are sculpting a lot more than hopping green amphibians these days.

Although I have driven by the event many times, this was the first year that I spontaneously stopped and walked around the booths. Mid-afternoon was much less crowded than when I had driven by in the other direction that morning so it was enjoyable to stroll around and take pictures. Each craftsman was engrossed in his work (Don't even think it, D.; I prefer you keep all your digits!) and no one tried to sell me anything. Grandstands were available for any who wanted to linger and a few finished items were scattered around with price tags attached or marked as items for the evening auction.

It always fascinates me how sculptors can take a lump of clay, or rock, or wood and fashion something beautiful, moving, or intriguing.

This year there was an abundance of bears and eagles as I went through, but one renegade artist was carving a couple turtles that I would have loved to have while another focused on island motifs such as a palm tree.

This character is a great representative of the modern Old West, don’t you think?

I think we are all sculptors when it comes to our own lives. Whether we start out with a master plan or spontaneously look for inspiration in the medium, or both, we are responsible for the outcome. Through our goals and our choices we gouge and carve and scrape our way through life, honing and smoothing our skills, beliefs, and values as we go. Sometimes the environment or media is difficult to pierce, dulling our senses and spoiling our vision, but how we adjust and persevere is what determines the shape of the final product.

Artists are seldom completely satisfied with their work, but I think we need to move beyond our flaws and consider, instead the journey. How did I respond to grains of adversity, to knotholes of selfishness, to unforeseen imperfections in the raw material I was given? What did my design bring to others? What did I learn? What difference did I make? And always: What’s next?

Taking a Break with Friends

I spent some time at one of my favorite parks recently. Although I didn’t take anyone with me, I managed to make some friends when I got there.

I like this park because it is large enough to give everyone some private space, open enough to feel safe, and sculpted enough to be beautiful and interesting. The ornamental varieties of flora create a soothing background and canopy of green, an accommodating combination of shade and sun, and bursts of color. Picnic tables are provided for picnickers, a gazebo for weddings, play equipment for the young at heart, an outdoor aviary for the curious, and a scenic pond and benches for the loiterers. My children have all had senior pictures taken here and I think Dad even came here as a kid. (Said children may now breathe a sigh of relief with this confirmation that I am refraining with great self-constraint from inserting said senior photos here.) I am drawn into this park by the aesthetics of the place, but I am rewarded by the calm quiet that pervades my visits.

This time, after eating my #2 Value Meal at a table in the shade, unharrassed by the very polite squirrels that watched me from a distance, I wandered, library book in hand, toward the pond. Coming to a 12-inch rock ledge, behind a Do Not Feed the Birds sign, I sat on the edge with my feet on the narrow, paved path determined to take a few pictures before retreating to a shady bench with my book. Immediately, however, the picturesque ducks and geese that I had my eye on swam smoothly over to me and, much to my surprise, unhesitatingly stepped right out of the water and came across the path to my feet. Knowing how testy and territorial geese can be, it was a little unnerving to see how close they were coming as they looked me directly in the eye and honked their intentions. I gently spoke back and kept the camera to my face, however, and they politely stayed within two feet of me while I clicked away. When I put the camera down and they decided I had nothing to share, they continued to waddle beside me to the grass. Eventually, I moved over a few feet into the shade and read my book while another lone duck came over, got out of the water, nestled at my feet, and dozed, his beak resting against his chest and one eye watching me for awhile to make sure I didn’t wield any surprises.

It was a peaceful way to spend a couple hours and I feel rejuvenated with every visit. I am learning to surrender more willingly to opportunities that offer moments of diversion from my well-worn routine and to spend time in places that build my energy instead of depleting it. Besides, time spent with good friends, even new feathered ones, is always a joy.

Courage Doesn't Always Roar

I think it was something about her salt and pepper hair that made me think she was severe. She wore it pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck; no curls, no barrette, no loose strands. She went to our church, but I had never seen her smile nor heard her talk so when Dad informed me that my horses would be spending the summer in the lot behind her house, I was less than enthusiastic. It was up to me to water them daily, which meant I would have to traipse into her yard and use her hose to fill the trough. He might as well have sent me to eat gingerbread off the witch’s house with Hansel and Gretel. Only love for my horses gave me the mettle to go there alone the first day.

For a long time I quietly stood next to the trough, gazing at the hose left like a snake in the grass a whole backyard-length away from the fence. The grey, shingled, neglected old house at the other side of the shaggy lawn taunted me with the faucet that I would have to climb through a barbed wire fence to reach, leaving me vulnerable to her. How could I be sure that she wouldn’t come out and yell at me for trespassing? What would I do? Was she watching, ready to pounce?

Before I dared to move, she was suddenly there beside her house. Worse, she was moving toward me. To my eleven year old mind, she was old, which meant anything over 50, but still independent. She might have been tall and robust at one time, but now was slightly stooped. As soon as our eyes met, she smiled and I quickly learned the adage about not judging a book by its cover. Mrs. F was soft-spoken, kind, and funny and, although I never had much opportunity to talk with her after that day, she continued to teach me volumes from her actions.

As the years marched on, I watched her frame bend until her face was parallel with the floor. Several Sunday mornings Mom and I spotted her walking along the highway, even in the brutal winter, determined to get to church. Usually her son would bring her, but if he failed, she didn’t let it stop her. I remember Mom fussing that she should strike out so, but I think it was just a testament to her faith; she knew she would make it to Mass one way or another. On the days that her son helped her, we would all silently watch as they entered the side door at the front of church, Mrs. F struggling to walk as Mom does now. I think the whole parish collectively held their breath. Her son had his own personal struggles to wrestle in life, but I mentally blessed him every time he brought her in. He, too, will have some stars in his crown.

By the time I was in high school, she was in a wheelchair. Seconds before Mass started, the side door would open and her son would wheel her next to the end of the front pew. Then, after Mass, both of these shy souls would slip back out without a word.

I don’t remember when Mrs. F died; she just seemed to silently slip away. I don’t suppose she ever knew how much she touched my life in her later years without even saying a word. Now, thirty years later, I think of her every day as I watch Mom with some of the same physical struggles; self-conscious about how hard it is for her to walk and worrying that using the walker or wheelchair to get to our pew would make a scene. Then I remind her of Mrs. F and how people felt about her and she quiets.

“Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow.’" (Mary Anne Radmacher)

The Pipes Are Calling

Our little town may not have seen any fireworks on the fourth, but we certainly heard bagpipes this weekend! Our annual Caledonian Games celebration went off without a hitch. The week preceding it is always hectic for me because of all the last minute signs and setting up that I help with, but this year was worse than ever.

The week started out with Mom needing a change in her meds to compensate for the buildup of fluids in her system, causing shortness of breath. Fortunately, a call to the cardiologist and the reinstatement of her “water pill”, as she calls it, and potassium began to bring relief within a few hours.

With the distraction of Mom’s increased physical needs, the frequent interruptions of a panicked Caledonian president, and the ticking of the clock, I had to really hustle to finish the signs, tickets, and computer work by Thursday night. Although I felt that some of the signs were a little “thrown together,” our Saturday afternoon stroll through the park with Mom in her shopping chair confirmed that it all sufficed anyway. I guess it just forced me to prioritize, quit obsessing, and just get done. Thank goodness for happy endings!

Restless

It’s the pervading emotion around here. Don was gone most of last week, the house was quiet; it was the perfect time to get things done. But we couldn’t. Or, is it that we wouldn’t? Maybe a little of both.

Until the surgery site fully heals around Mom’s new pacemaker, a danger remains that she may push, pull, or lift too much or too high with her left arm, thus pulling the leader wires out of place. Ironically, in doing its job of stimulating her heart to beat more regularly, the little medical marvel has brought renewed energy that she cannot put to much use yet, which spawns her restlessness and indirectly leads to mine.

Since Mom is forbidden to use her walker because she may lean on it with too much pressure, I have become its three-week replacement. Although I am glad to do so, it definitely shortens the leash for both of us. While it makes her feel like she should refrain from bothering us any more than she can help, I struggle with the frustration of trying to do anything for myself because it either takes me out of the house or I get interrupted multiple times and lose interest. The result is that we grind through our days repeatedly trudging at snail pace between the bathroom or the chair and count as our accomplishments only that of getting dressed and undressed. The highlight of our days is lunch and a DVD.

Although Mom and I tend to sit and mourn what we cannot do, I think that we both circle back to the fact that it is still better than the alternative losses we could have suffered. What’s a little short-term inconvenience? The fact that Mom is restless to be doing more is a good sign of her recovery and, to be truthful, I doubt that I would be any more fruitful if I had a chance, anyway. I find that I mostly feel industrious when I can’t do anything about it; as soon as I’m free, the notion leaves me entirely. So, for the week that’s left of Mom’s restrictions, we will continue to endure, if not with grace and cheerfulness, at least with fortitude, politeness, and thankfulness. Six more days and counting…

Where Are the Fireworks?

Fourth of July? This couldn’t possibly be the Fourth of July; it’s far too quiet! I didn’t hear any canon blasting the start of breakfast in the city park at 6 a.m. Where’s the parade with the fire engines draped with children and the solemn color guard? No chalk art decorates the downtown sidewalks. No free snowcones are being given away. Children aren’t racing, hunting for coins, or swimming for free and go-carts aren’t escaping the hay bale barriers. There’s no sign of a street dance, sparklers, or fireworks anywhere. And what’s a Fourth of July without a barbeque, family chatter, and homemade ice cream?

There is none of that here in our little town like there is where I grew up, but we just didn’t have the umph to go there this year. I always think that I won’t miss it because of all the effort we have to go to, but, alas, I do. Happy Hard-Won Freedom Day, America. Treasure it always.

This Week I Thank God For...

...the intercom monitor between Mom’s bedroom and ours,

...warning signs,

...folding transport chairs,

...not being home alone,

...reliable transportation with gas in it,

...24-hour hospital emergency rooms,

...kind and knowledgeable medical staff,

...modern medical technology,

...cell phones, internet, public wi-fi routers, & Facebook,

...prayer chains, family, and friends,

...understanding bosses,

...pacemakers,

...experts,

...Mom, and

...time.

Mom's House, Mom's Rules

It is with mixed results that we bring our landscaping expedition full circle. The weather seemed to be working both for and against me, I worked more than connected, and poor Mom had almost bi-polar reactions to the excursion.

The weather somewhat cooperated by issuing rain only at night and offering a chilling sunshine during the day. I had not expected the windchill factor that occurred and was, therefore, left to huddle in a too-small, too-thin, borrowed sweatshirt, but I suppose the bright side of that was the quick dissipation of any hot flashes while I toiled against the weeds. However, Mom, who is always cold, preferred turning up the heat in the house to donning a sweater, so outside was frigid while inside was stifling.

As my stiff, tender joints will attest, I did make some weeding progress. Although I couldn’t make myself go out twice a day as planned, I did stay out long enough each day to accomplish an acceptable amount of work. The cold wind made it less than pleasant to be outside, but the sense of accomplishment was worth it. Regretfully, I did not make time to call any friends. I feel badly about this neglect because they are so good to me, but I will call them first thing when we go back next month. Now that the entire front yard, which is the most noticeable to passersby, is done, I will be able to slow the pace a bit next time and work in some visiting for both Mom and I.

It was difficult for Mom to make the decision to live with us year-round five years ago and so we have made an effort to visit and maintain her home as often as possible. Our trips have declined during the last three summers because of her health issues, but this year the change of venue seemed to be more draining than enjoyable for her. When she came out of her room the first hour we were there, crying over the toilet that kept running, I began to rethink trying to travel with her any more. It is no longer a matter of freeing her from all the planning, packing, cooking, and work. Something has changed this year. After three days of reflection, I am thinking that the mere effort of moving her limbs has become such an all-consuming job that Mom no longer has the energy to find joy in much of anything. She still loves having people visit if they come to her, but even that can become tainted with her worry over whether they are enjoying themselves, or if they still like her, or if Don and I are making them feel welcome, or what she could possibly do for them. Sadly, I think that perhaps her physical frailty has somehow also created an emotional powerlessness.

So our trip has been a success of sorts, but perhaps a hollow one where Mom’s happiness is concerned. Yet, I know deep down that not making the trip would not necessarily have lessened her frustrations and, now that we are back, she is pleased at the accomplishment and at the memory of the two people who had stopped in to see her. I hope this will be enough motivation for her to try again next month.

Off We Go

Today is packing day. I need to spend a couple nights at Mom’s house this week to get some weeding done. While it would be an easy feat for me to pick up and go alone, it is quite a production with Mom along. Don would stay home with her, but it is best if I am around to help her dress. Besides, in spite of her complaints about packing, I think it is good for her to get out of the house for awhile, even if all she does is sit around a different house. And, actually, I do most of the packing anyway.

To save some costs, I plan our meals and bring most of the food with us. That just leaves a little filling in when we get there. In spite of all her camping experiences when she and Dad were younger, Mom has definitely lost her camping spirit. Her idea of what to pack and mine can be considerably different; God forbid she should be expected to put milk on her cereal instead of bringing the Mocha Mix too. And did I forget her favorite marmalade? No, I just didn’t want to rent a UHaul. Regardless of our final negotiations, we manage just fine and both always leave her house feeling better for having been there.

So, here’s to a few days of labor and memories and seeing old friends. May it be worth the packing and unpacking, repacking and re-unpacking that this week will surely bring.

25 Things That Inspire Me

Yesterday we were blessed with a whole day of blue sky and, although the rain-soaked clouds are back today, I can bear the dreariness much better after the opportunity to soak up some cheerful sunshine. The reprieve, brief though it was, helped me to appreciate once again the life-giving force of water rather than let myself drown in my frustration of its temporary over-abundance. This made me realize once again how important it is for us to be aware of what inspires and sustains us so that we may open ourselves up to the positive in our lives whenever possible. I have decided that acknowledging the negative in my life is necessary for realistic assessment and learning, but dwelling on it is draining. Therefore, I challenged myself to discern 25 things that fill me with life and inspire me so that I can more consciously direct myself toward life-building hope, appreciation, and joy. It is an interesting and somewhat surprising process. What's your top 25?

God’s Grace
Family
Nature
Shopping Buddies
Music
My Computer
Architecture
Sunshine
Uncut Fabric
A Smile
Art
Joy
Color
Photos
Gentleness
New Paper
Camera
Creative Supplies
Thoughtful Words
Feeling Loved
An Interesting Challenge
Reading
Shared Trust
Someone’s Faith in Me

Deluge

Okay. I’m done. We have had rain off and on for weeks, but this week, this day, is enough for me. I feel like my home has been moved into a rainforest. I have foregone complaining until now for selfish reasons. Rain is good for the crops and good for my yard. It means a lower water bill and that no one, including myself, will expect me to go out and pull weeds. Rain adds to the water table, which sustains this area through the dry summer months, cleans the air, prevents forest fires, and washes the bird poop off my car. But a weather dial that is permanently stuck on this setting is not a good thing for me. A spring shower is one thing, but this bone-drenching downpour-that-never-ends is depressing. When it is finally over and the sun has come back out to play, I will be able to cheerfully proclaim how refreshing a good Eastern Oregon rain is, but for now, all I want to do is feed my growing depression with food. Where did I leave those potato chips?

School's Out

Well, almost. Anyway, it’s out for me. Mom is afraid to be alone at all now and the person who checks in on her for me is dealing with a health issue of her own for the next couple weeks, so it was time to quit working. At least I finished May with several nice days of work in a variety of settings.

My last two sub assignments were for a fifth grade class that I certainly enjoyed. It is a fun age because they are fairly autonomous, the curriculum subject matter is interesting, and the kids are cognitively capable of more in-depth processes and activities than primary grades. This particular class was also accustomed to working in small groups, and was currently divided into literature circles that were working their way through a mystery novel and accompanying worksheet packet. Cooperative learning is a skill that not every teacher takes the time to teach so it was nice to see it in action. When I tried a cooperative exercise with students in the same grade at another district, it was soon evident that group work was a new concept for most of them. This class, however, was definitely getting the hang of it.

It has been a great two years of substitute teaching. Being exposed to nearly every grade in different settings and situations has been really beneficial for me. I’ve been challenged and learned a lot about myself and the kids, picked up tips from other teachers, and gained confidence. Certified to teach no higher than eighth grade, I had originally surmised that I would prefer teaching nothing lower than fifth. Now, however, I know that I enjoy every grade because each has something different that is fun or exciting to me. Although no one is more surprised than myself when I say it, first graders have especially won my heart.

Whatever happens from here on out, I (rather restlessly) lay in God’s hands. I have no idea what He has in mind, but my current plan is to take some online classes through Oregon’s state colleges next year that will help me keep my teaching certificate. These classes can be taken randomly at any time to enhance a general license and they can eventually add up to a Reading Endorsement if I choose to continue. It isn’t the Special Ed. Endorsement that I originally thought I wanted, but, until God lays a new dilemma at my feet, I am at peace that it is the right thing for me at the moment. At any rate, whether I ever teach again or not, I find that this mental stimulation helps my sanity during the long, quiet days of caregiving. So, for now, here’s to a warm and relaxing summer vacation!

Lookout

Sometimes, when we are in the dining or living room area a scuffling sound attracts our attention just as we catch sight of a blur moving past us at the speed of light. No, Superman doesn’t live here; it’s Ellie going from the apartment window to the kitchen window for a better view of something that piqued her interest. She loves to perch on my sewing machine table in the apartment family room or climb over my kitchen sink to the garden window; either of which gives her a great view of the backyard. Heaven help us, however, if we are in her path when she spies a cat or bird in her territory.

Actually, I’m quite impressed that, out of the 34 windows boasted by this house, she has earmarked the two that give her the best views from different perspectives of the biggest part of our yard. Don’t think she doesn’t routinely check her domain from other viewpoints, but these two require the most hours of scrutiny.

I am sure there is a lesson somewhere in all this. A lesson on perspectives, determination, or watchfulness would all be appropriate, but my thoughts just keep circling around how much pets can add to your life..if you let them.

Hole in the Clouds

It is so nice to see the blue sky and sunshine break through the clouds these days. We’ve had more cold days of rain than usual this spring. Although that’s great for the land, it can be dismal for my spirits. However, even just the occasional glimpse of a brighter day is cheerful enough to sustain me.

Today Mom had a front tooth break off and she cried in frustration over her two recent bouts of falling and now this. In her misery, she wonders if she is being punished. I hope she is able to see through the clouds of disillusion soon and glimpse a different perspective. She has been blessed with good health all her life and may have forgotten that others have had to deal with these misfortunes and worse much earlier in life.

I know it’s easy for me to sit here and espouse a brighter attitude, but I hope she can see some hope shimmering through the hole in these recent rain clouds. Her psyche has become as fragile as her body, but she’s not alone, she’s with family who love her, she’s still a dynamite 96 year old, and I’m pretty sure the dentist can fix up her smile if she will just give him time.

It Has Begun

Well, the yard work around here has officially begun. Don has mowed several times now and I finally drug myself outside, kicking and screaming, to clean out my first two flowerbeds. I enjoy myself once I’m out there, but it is sure hard to get started. I also filled up my flowerpots a couple weeks ago and left them in the basement until I could trust the weather. This wasn’t an act of efficiency, by the way; I just couldn’t pass by the flower displays at BiMart any longer without indulging.

In spite of my groaning, weeding flowerbeds is actually a relaxing feat for me. My only complaint with it is the consternating fact that the damn things keep growing back. It seems only fair, in my humble estimation, that weeds should only crop up once per year. Once they are pulled out, they should play by the rules (my rules) and stay gone until next year. Really. Is that too much to ask? That the weeds NOT be the most ambitious thing in my yard?

Mothers Day

Madonna and Child (cropped) by Rafaello Sanzio

There is a type of love that comes with being a mother that, for me, can only be described as ferocious. It is so strong that it influences decisions, drives late night worry, and overrides mistakes, hurts, and doubts. At its worst it can become unreasonable, manipulating, and selfish, but at its best it is forgiving, healing, and empowering.

This year I have experienced Mothers Day for the 55th time as a daughter and the 35th time as a mom. Although I miscarried our first child at three months, the feline roar of that love had already begun inside of me. It is as a mother that I was able to better understand my own mom. Her sacrifices meant more to me once I was an adult than they did when seen through childish eyes. Like being able to replay a movie to get more meaning from it, I now understand her perspective. For instance, as a child, I didn’t understand why she befriended a neighboring woman and her three small children. The kids had snotty noses and seemed unkempt to me and I was horrified once when she asked me to take them to a puppet show during a church bazaar. But Mom was inviting me into the realm of empathy and compassion. Knowing the woman was on her own after leaving a drunken and abusive spouse, Mom sewed clothes for her kids and helped rebuild her confidence through acceptance and friendship.

As a daughter I have come to realize that, although I struggle to become autonomous and wrestle with my own values and decisions, I will always be a child in need of a Mom’s love and approval. Oddly, that doesn’t even change when you have to assume the role of your parent’s parent because of age or infirmity. Similarly, as a mother, I am experiencing what Mom warned me of many times: that you never stop worrying about your children even though your ability to protect them wanes.

I believe Mary and Jesus understand this kind of connection because they lived it. I did not appreciate their relationship fully until I became a mother, but now I can imagine what this woman went through at the foot of the cross because I know in my heart that as she looked up at her son’s tortured figure, she could still feel his tiny presence in her arms from when he was a baby. It is comforting to me to know that they understand the struggles and the pain and the love that we experience in this life, and that we can look to them for sustenance where our human experience is wanting.

The connecting thread between mother and child may be fine, but it can still be strong. Ferociously strong. Forever.

Pieta by Michelangelo

I Should Have Known

After the third time yesterday afternoon that Kim reconfirmed with me whether I would, indeed, sub again all day today, I should have known there was the portent of something unusual. I think I mistook the glimmer in her eyes and her laugh as an apology for forgetting if she had already asked me, but now I am left wondering if it was more mischievous than that. I certainly need to remember from now on to ask more questions of this high school secretary when she asks me to sub in the future.

Monday I subbed for only half a day and just wore some nice, but casual khakis and a pullover shirt. The classes I had that day were Algebra II and Web Design. Since I would be at school all day today, I decided to dress up a little more, topping my new sweater with a scarf and blazer. I tried not to cringe when Kim handed me the keys to the Ag. Room, since this meant one of my classes would mean fending off sparks during welding and wading through animal poop at the land lab when I took students there to feed the chickens. NOTE to SELF: If the information is not volunteered, ask which classes I will be subbing in. Waders, ear plugs, and a leather apron may be preferable to earrings and heels.

It is always a relief to see a well-thought- out lesson plan when I arrive. Last minute calls can be hairy because sick teachers don’t have the time or energy to prepare for a sub. For that reason, I have learned to bring a bag of tricks with me when I get an early morning request. As a general rule, however, getting a call the day before usually means that the teacher has had a chance to prepare a plan and leave some resources. So, today I only brought a book to read during the teacher’s prep period and, sure enough, was given an emailed plan that, although brief, seemed adequate in its directions. Apparently, this was not the first day of the teacher’s absence, though, and the sub plans hadn’t varied much from the day before so I had to weather some groaning when I directed the Biology students to take notes on the chapter that could then be used on the quiz. The first such class opened their books and at least appeared to jot down some facts, but the second class thought they might turn to ash if they had to do it aga-a-a-a-in. *sigh* A DVD would have been nice to have at that point. Or even a word find. NOTE to SELF: Ask for whom I will be subbing to give myself a heads-up about how much leeway there may be in the lesson plans. A Plan B should always be in my bag.

The final period of the day was to be either demonstration speeches or the Farming Game (no lie, it’s a board game). After giving the students the choice, two decided they would give their speeches and, since they were both cooking demonstrations, everyone was pretty ecstatic. We removed ourselves to the staff room, which is also the old Home Ec. Room, and I prepared to take notes on the students’ deliveries while the rest of the kids actually became the perfect, quiet audience. Would miracles never cease? The making of the brownies (from a mix) went well and, while they cooked in the oven, the next student began her fry bread demonstration. Suffice it to say, forty minutes later and three trips to the rescue by me to dump out the excess four cups of water mistakenly added, to stir in more flour because the demonstrator’s arms were tired, and to generally speed up the lagging process, the release bell rang. Flour and water muck were all over the counter, the brownies were not done because the oven temperature had been set too low, and only two half-cooked three-inch frybreads bubbled away in the hot pan. NOTE to SELF: The “easy way out” isn’t always.

“Can you sub Friday?” I heard as I finally checked out at the office. (Was that a chuckle or a smirk?)

“Uh, no. I have to work at the middle school.” *smile* “Really. I do.”