Let's Dance!

Here's a fun editing marvel that spans a lot of recognizable movies.

Dear God

I would like to respectfully register a complaint about the lack of adequate communication between us. Although I heartily accept all the responsibility for every misunderstanding, I have to lay the problem of fixing it at your feet because I can’t do it myself. That’s right; I’m happy to openly admit it: I need your help. And, we’re talking about ALWAYS, here, not just once to pacify me for the moment.

This journey we are on takes us through a breathtaking world of harrowing, mysterious, and truly incredible moments. Kudos to you for the planning and imagination that you took to create it. It is certainly quite the ride! I know you have done all of the hard part and I shouldn’t expect any more from you, but, let’s face it…I do. I love that your Son has shown us the way and I treasure the experiences of hearing your Spirit’s breathy whisper in my ear as I try to maneuver through the unknown, but – and I don’t mean to sound unappreciative here – could you please be a little less subtle with the directions?

If I remember correctly, we have had this discussion before. Perhaps you thought I meant just the once…or twice…or three times that I asked, but surely by now you know that I am a slow learner (and stubborn to boot, although, I really am trying to work on that). Besides that, we now have to add slightly deaf in one ear, unsure, self-absorbed, and forgetful to the list of issues that make me short-sighted.

These decisions and choices that I keep stumbling over probably seem simple and clear to you, but I really struggle sometimes in knowing what to do. I don’t mean the black and white, good and evil type of choices, but the gray area decisions about what to do with my life. The ones that are not necessarily right or wrong, but will somehow affect the next choice. As is evident throughout my pilgrimage, a small turn can have a significant impact down the road. So, from here on out, could you please add me to the list of handicapped followers who need obvious signs. Not the little nudges and whispers that are enough for holier people than me, but huge, flashing arrows and bright neon signs that say, “Michelle, go THIS way! Love, God.” Yell it in a voice that I will recognize as yours and, when I stand frozen with indecision, please give me a hard shove in the right direction to make sure I get moving.

Anyway, “Ask and you shall receive, knock and it shall be opened,” so here I am, respectfully asking for some clarification. Please don’t leave me in the middle of any more intersections, dizzy from spinning around as I try to discern which is the best path for me. (You know I will mess it up on my own!) I promise to continue trying to keep myself open to your will, watching for your footsteps, listening for your voice, calling your name, if you will but speak louder, write more boldly in the sky, and grab me by the scruff of the neck and drop kick me into place when I miss the gentler cues. Life is precious and I don’t want to waste any more of it wandering in the wrong direction.

Love,
Your struggling child (M.)

Pink Glove Dance in the Starlight Parade

Blessed are the Care Givers and Givees

Here's a woman who really knows how to deliver an entertaining invocation! Don't stop it until you hear her whole delivery. Very sweet and very funny.

We're All Here

And so the halls of education are once again open and echoing with the familiar sounds of scuffling footsteps, clanking locker doors, slamming books, and not-so-quiet voices. Isn’t it great how well humankind is represented in each classroom?

The studious get right to work, unable to stop themselves, the restless constantly fidget within their seats as trapped energy surges up and down their spines looking for an outlet. The fashion-conscious adjust their hair, or shoes, or latest gadget, and the socialites press their heads together to incessantly whisper about nothing and everything because it’s all too important to wait for break. The prim roll their eyes at me for being too lenient with their counterparts while the slackers in the back corner roll theirs because I am a stick-in-the-mud. The gentle just gaze at all of us with a smile of silent sympathy.

The permanently bored, the never serious, the sarcastic, the sullen, and the irritatingly cheerful; they are all there, present and accounted for. The sweet, the snide, the shy, and the devious peer up through lowered lashes to make sure I am not watching them while the beady stares of the self-assured, the insatiably curious, the tattle-tales, and the desperate attention-seekers hope that I am.

As I waded through my first day of substitute teaching, instead of focusing on differences, I couldn’t help but think how these predictable groups of learners represented other congregations, as well. Age, in fact, really doesn’t seem to matter much for, although I was with adolescents today, I have met these same personalities in kindergarten, in church, in college, in staff meetings, and in jury rooms. America is all about individualism, but sometimes, collectively, we don’t really seem all that different.

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…