Niece Wisdom

The nieces have been keeping us in stitches with their snarky, sarcastic, hilarious witticisms.  Tonight's piece of advice:  If you go to a club and don't know what to do, just spell your name with your butt and you'll be dancing.  (Btw, they are 14, 12, and 10.)  They then proceeded to demonstrate for us.  It was a bedtime stalling tactic, granted, but it worked for five minutes or so while we struggled to control our amusement. 

Mile Markers

Tomorrow is my parents' fortieth wedding anniversary (go, them!). 
Two days ago was my thirty-ninth birthday.  (Meep.)
I weigh approximately two hundred and fifty pounds, more than many players in the National Football League.  (Just...omg.)
I measure just five feet, two inches in height. 
I have clocked ten and a half years as a teacher of high school students. 
POM and I have fifteen years together. 
I have five cats, which makes me an official cat lady, I fear. 
I have practiced yoga for one and a half years, practiced very sporadically and badly but still reaped rewards from it.
I have blogged for two years and ten days shy of eleven months, blogged very sporadically and badly but still reaped rewards from it.
In one week and three days, I will join a gym and shift my priorities and focus from my job to myself.  (As a friend told me today, there's no grading if you're dead.)
I have been grown-up and self-disciplined for...about one hour now, maybe. 

Road Trip...

...with POM and three nieces.  Portland by way of Yosemite, the Gold Country, and Crater Lake.  It's the first time for these kids, and it is true pleasure to get to introduce them to these amazing locations.  I'll post photos later, once I've had the chance to upload and sort them.  For now, a first-draft reflection on a much-loved place. 
------
7/27
I think almost everyone has this experience:  you visit a place from your childhood and it seems so much smaller than your memory tells you it was.  A childhood home.  A former church.  A favorite library or museum.  Grandma's kitchen.  Yeah, well, Half Dome isn't any smaller than it used to be when I grew up in Yosemite's back yard.  In fact, when seen from Washburn Point, it is every bit as stark and breathstopping as it has ever been.  Maybe even more so, because since I was twelve, I have amassed experiences and perspective that inform my apprehension and appreciation of its mass, its scope, its importance.  I have since been at the top of a tower and looked down through a lucite floor and seen humans who look like little plastic figures from the game of Life.  It impresses upon me the significance, then, of the ant- or pebble-sized humans I observe on the top of Half Dome's beak through my high-powered binoculars.  I have seen, repetitively and in full harrowing color, the collapse into dust and smoke of two enormous skyscrapers, man's achievements, sandcastles kicked over by disgruntled playmates.  All the more resonant, then, the 8000-foot pinnacle of granite, sheared smooth but still standing after millennia of erosive weather and a shifting base and millions upon millions of tourist feet. 

A Reminder, and Amen!

"If you aren't free to fail, then you aren't really free."

--Madeleine L'Engle

(quote source)


Food for thought for teachers and the education system.  Hmmm.

I don't feel like being newsy

...so I attempted a quickie poem instead.  (This one is from a "line by line" prompt at WeWritePoems.) 


Writing Assignment

Sloth and frustration –
stacks of books unread, tall and tottery,
     my prison cell;
laptop, staring with accusing eye, shakes its head, disgusted,
     my jailer, glaring, taunts and jingles the keys of freedom.

When I was eight, my gift was a typewriter,
brown and plastic, cheap,
but the best, most official gift ever – I was a writer,
till I sat to spin yarns and came up with dust and drivel.

The sword of Damocles hangs by a thread overhead.
     Yes, again.
The dentist’s lead blanket of humid heat presses my chest,
I hate the pressure.
If only it were Christmas and cold
     (it’s never cold in L.A.),
I would write to the smell of cinnamon and fireplace,
and the eloquence would flow like winter hot chocolate.

Faithful Madeleines and Marys and Annies show up to work every day.
But the wrinkle in my time feels ironed in and permanent
and it’s hard to get up off the couch to walk the field
and I am so far from being a pilgrim of eventual grace.
I said I hate the pressure, but I lied;
that pressure seems my only hope.

In dreams, I fill twenty pages a day with pearls and sand,
     and smile to the interviewer and
     respond to mail with wit and
     declare my success to be born of just showing up to write
          – I just don’t feel whole if I haven’t written today.
My royalty checks would finance my coastal writer’s cottage
     in Mendocino or Maine, where the ocean salt would
     suck the words from my hands.

Laugh till you cry

OK, WhatNow posted a link to the most hilarious site I've visited in ages.  I just spent an unseemly amount of time trolling through its archives (still not done) laughing till my jaws hurt.  Caveat:  I have a semi-twisted sense of humor;  if you don't share that trait with me, you might not like this site.  If you're sick and weird like me, though, click now.  I'll listen for the howls. 

Camp!

OMG, THIS the coolest. thing. ever.  (As seen on Read Write Believe.)  I want to go to it almost as much as I want to go to Oxbridge in England next summer!  This is going on my bucket list for sure!

Bullets of Tuesday

Well, the enjoyment and self-discipline continue unabated (or so I'm telling myself). 

• Met a classmate/colleague at Peet's Coffee to work on our theses together.  In reality, we spent several hours catching up after not having talked much throughout the year, though we did spend an hour or two actually working.  She was a bit hungover, so we cut the afternoon short.  I did stay a little longer than she, but then it got cold again so I went home.
• It's been cold-ish here.  It's as if we traded weather with Seattle.  I love the misty-rain and cloudy mornings. but the rest of our locale is complaining mightily (they'd be complaining it if was wretchedly hot, too).  On Monday, the sun only managed to break through for about half an hour, in the very late afternoon.  Today it managed a couple of hours, but again, only in the afternoon.  We'll see what tomorrow brings. 
• Today the rain-ish-ness kept me in bed longer than I had planned.  It's ok, though, as I was reading a book for my thesis, so it counted as work. 
• Tomorrow I will head to Starbucks for the majority of the day, to work.  I'm supposed to email my advisor "something" by Friday.  (Gah.)
• Thursday is the funeral for Madame X's dad.  Madame X reported having a day that actually felt "normal" today, for which I am grateful.  It's been difficult to know how to provide support to her and her family, which is odd to say about someone I've known and loved for over a decade.  I think the books and movie gift card were the right things, though;  she called today to thank us for them and let us know she's already used the gift card (which helped lead to the shreds of normalcy today).  After the funeral, she and her family may have to head to parts north to see her grandmother once more before the dementia sets in full-bore.  Pardon my English, but Madame X has had a fucked-up year, and I know she won't be sorry to see 2010 get hit in the butt by the door on its way out. 
• Saw Winter's Bone, and it was excellent.  They made a few changes between the book and the film, but it did not detract from the story in any way.  My only criticism is that the beating one of the main characters receive is in no way as intense in the movie as it was in the book.  That was probably motivated by a desire to spare the viewer the discomfort and gore, but it weakened the impact of the later plot events, at least for me in comparing it with the book.  They definitely nailed the casting dead-on, and the setting is just perfect.  I recommend both the film and the book.
• I think Despicable Me comes out this Friday, doesn't it?  Strangely, I'm really looking forward to seeing it.  When I first started seeing trailers for it, like, last year, I was fairly meh about it.  But since I've seen more detailed trailers recently, I'm hooked.  "It's so FLUFFY, I could die!"  (LOL.)
• I walked today. 
• I've been obsessively checking the College Board's website to see if our AP scores have been posted yet.  This is the first year we get to check them online (finally, join me in welcoming the CB to the 21st century), but they're not up yet, at least not for my school.  Sigh.  The curiosity is giving me heartburn (or was that the KFC I indulged in earlier?). 
• This was a pretty boring post, but I'm in documentary mode, I guess.  Thanks for reading. 

No more Debbie Downer for today

Other things are going on besides death and cancer this summer, so I figured I should include a post on those, as well. 

• I am actively working on my thesis.  I met with my advisor this week when I was on campus to do library business.  I struggled a bit this week with carving out my daily schedule to be efficient and regular.  I don't think I'll have as many problems with that next week, though;  I think I know now what I need.  If it doesn't work well on Monday, then I'll leave the house and work out in public somewhere.  (Damned distractions.  Damned internet.  Damned wi-fi.  Damned procrastinator and rationalizer that I am! :-)
• The weather here in SoCal has been gorgeous -- cool and "June-gloomy" in the mornings with full sun and breeze in the afternoons.  Fabulous!
• I've gotten to see some good movies recently:  Toy Story 3 (cried like a little girl for the last twenty minutes of it), Eclipse (liked it, want to see it again, and now that "Jacob" is 18, I can drool openly over his chiseled torso -- heh), Before Sunrise and Before Sunset (yeah, I'm a little behind in my cult favorites -- loved these movies, the second even better than the first), The Closer, Season 5 (which finally came out on DVD -- sheesh!).  Looking forward to seeing Despicable Me, Salt, and Inception when they come out.  I'm hoping to go see Winter's Bone this afternoon.
• My reading has been oddly varied of late.  Naturally I've been reading a lot of sci-fi criticism and theory for my thesis.  I did read Winter's Bone, because I knew I was going to want to see the movie;  I really liked the book, though I'm having trouble explaining why.  I think the main character is likable despite the world she's trapped in.  I also just finished Barbara Walters' memoir, Audition, which I've had for, like, ever but finally just decided to pick up.  It was a good balance of juicy and judicious, which I appreciated.  I've just begun The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, by Aimee Bender.  I've only read the first chapter, but so far I like it and am looking forward to reading the rest of it.  I'm also reading Switch, which is about the psychology of change (both institutional and individual);  I am learning a lot. 
• Bought and love Sarah McLachlan's new CD.  Will be going to Lilith Fair next week, which I hope will be fun.  Court Yard Hounds are good, too.  Bought but haven't yet absorbed the Eclipse soundtrack;  same with the Sex and the City 2 soundtrack. 
• Planning a road trip to the PacNW with nieces at the end of July, which should be fun.  We don't have any other major vacations planned this summer.  The thesis MUST be done this summer.  Next summer we may celebrate with a trip to England -- yeah-uh! 
• The theme for this summer:  total enjoyment and self-discipline.  I know, I know, those two things sound like oxymorons, but I think they're just a paradox -- they seem to be contradictory but they can coexist quite well.  It's like a sonnet -- strictures of format but complete freedom within those boundaries to write about absolutely anything.  My life this summer needs to become a sonnet. 

Sad start to summer

My dear friend and colleague, who likes to go by Madame X on my blog, lost her father on Wednesday.  He had only been ill for about four weeks.  It started as a UTI and pneumonia, which they treated with antibiotics, but then they discovered liver lesions and diagnosed it as cancer.  He went downhill very quickly.  They never did kick the infection, and they never discovered where the cancer originated (rarely does cancer start in the liver, and his was no exception), but they named the cause of death as metastatic liver cancer.  Her family will not have an autopsy done because, I think, they're just exhausted.  This is sobering to me, because Madame X is not yet 37, just one year older than my own younger sister.  I know death can strike at any time, but it's weird when your close friend loses a parent. 

I had a student in my AP class this year lose his mother just two weeks before school ended.  She had fought cancer for over 13 years, but after beating it so many times, she lost this round.  He didn't make a big deal about it;  in fact, he didn't really want a lot of people to know.  I only learned about it in the final personal essay I had them write.  It explained why he'd looked like such hell lately, and why he had missed several days of class after a year of essentially perfect attendance.  How do you comfort a kid who's less than half your age and experiencing a pain you can only imagine in your nightmares?  All I could do was hug him;  at least I'm good at those. 

POM's sister continues her own battle with cancer on multiple staging grounds.  Her long-term forced relationship with steroids (to reduce swelling in the brain where gamma knife surgery removed a tumor -- twice) has caused her to blow up like a human balloon.  This once stringbean blond looks like a perpetually pregnant air-filled weeble.  And like a weeble, she keeps bouncing back up after every punch.  Her faith astonishes me daily.  She lives for her five kids, the oldest of whom just graduated from junior high and the youngest of whom is starting preschool.  She's just come off the steroids, a development she's thrilled about, but despite good news about no more brain tumor, she's weathering bad news about her liver and lungs, where innumerable active cancer sites are now present in spite of the chemo round she just finished. 

Our only role in these situations is one of support -- praying, being a conduit of information to other pray-ers around the world, filling in where a babysitter or chauffeur or photographer or hugger is needed.  It never feels like enough. 

Straight up

This is a good one.  I think I'll read Winesburg, Ohio next.  It's been in the basket beside my bed for probably two years now.  Perhaps the time is right. 

One more day to pack up the classroom at school.  I'm taking this opportunity to purge my filing cabinets like mad.  It's gorgeous...but it's taking forever.  I lost an entire day Saturday when I was sidelined with an icky stomach thing.  Dammit.  Oh well, if they want to fire me for not being done, let 'em.  Rumor has it our "new" classrooms won't even be ready for the beginning of the school year, so I'm already mentally gearing myself up to unpack right back into the same room.  Can anyone say "typical educational bullshit"?  I knew you could!

After I'm finished at school, I start on Teh Thesis.  And before the week is over, I will have seen Toy Story 3.  Can't wait, actually.  :-)

'Night for now.  More...much more later. 

I'm not dead yet!

Just entrenched in the school-year-end psychosis that goes along with excessive grading and excessive hours spent at school in said grading.  So I shall forthwith entertain you (or bore you) with bullets of life since I failed to complete NaPoWriMo:

• I failed to complete NaPoWriMo.  But I'm not beating myself up over it.  The fact that I made it as far as I did lets me know I can actually do it for real next year.
• I have to move out of my classroom at the end of the school year!  Gah!  I've been in this room for 10 years and have, obviously, accumulated 10 years worth of both treasure and crap.  While I welcome the opportunity to purge, I am frustrated at the district's expectation that we will have grades in the day after finals schedule (the day after graduation duty) and have all of our classrooms packed and ready to be emptied the day after that!  We're requesting that they give us the weekend to finish up.  Contrary to popular belief, we do give finals during finals week (shocking, I know), so the notion that we're "not doing anything" and can just pack during school hours, using students as free slave labor, is not one that works for me. 
• The district also swears that they'll have our "new" portables in place and ready to go in time for us to move in before school actually starts in August.  Forgive me for saying I'm skeptical, given their track record over the past decade.  (Lord, help us.)
• I will write my thesis and have it finished during the first month of summer.
• After returning last night from a thirteen-hour grading day at school, I had to spend the next three hours monitoring an impromptu party (flash mob style) at a vacant house across the street from me.  Police were involved (finally).  They finally shut off the big searchlight, which was glaring almost directly into my window, at 3 a.m.  Needless to say, church attendance did not happen today. 
• Visited a junior high in San Diego area last week to see their failure-is-not-an-option model of student accountability.  Food for thought. 
• I've been looking through a lot of photos today, putting together an album for a niece who is graduation from junior high.  What a trip down memory lane!  The things that stand out most to me:  (a) I used to be thinner, a lot thinner;  even when I was fat, I was still thinner than now.  God!  (b) My yard used to be pretty, with a backyard lawn that wasn't patchy, and with semi-tended flowers in both the front and back yards;  now...aw, hell.  Where did I used to find the time and energy?  I'm not that old.  (c) I used to take a lot of pictures;  now I only take them on special occasions;  I miss capturing art like that. 
• I'm so angry about the BP oil spill in LA that my own bp goes up when I read about it or see horrendous pictures of it.  I might have to (re)join the NRDC or something.  I feel furious and powerless. 
• Is it just me, or have there been lots of odd celebrity deaths lately? 

And on that note, I'll stop whining.  I think I'll get this blog back to a more regular pace when summer starts.  Till then, I'm still checking in and reading everyone else's blogs at least once every week or two.  Prayers for survival and health and effectiveness always appreciated! 

#22 NaPoWriMo

Today's prompt was to use any or many of the words in this Wordle.  Here's my half-assed, last-minute, hoop-jumping effort:

dizzy with lack of sleep;
tomorrow my exhaustion
will reverberate through my day
and pepper my instruction
with gaps and rust,
and my colleague
will crow at lunch
about how she’s caught up
on all of her grading,
and I will smile
while a small fierce squall
inside my soul
rages,
my soul an emporium of
grading jealousy
and tired indifference.

#21 NaPoWriMo -- off-topic again

Too late a night spent grading
to work up a draft
to meet a prompt. 
So these impromptu
lines
will have to do.

***

The wind tonight
is steady and cold,
firm and fierce,
promising rain,
but sometimes
the wind lies.

#20 NaPoWriMo -- Just a little whining is all

Too tired for the prompt again.  This'll have to do:


warmth of heating pad on shoulders
soothe the tensions of the
millstone around my neck.

(excessive grading)

#19 NaPoWriMo

Today's prompt:  lightbulb moments, eclat, epiphany, aha moments

This one is borne of the moment.  Very much so.


Dutifully I sit
to write my poem, when
the lurch,
the tremor,
the rattle,
the waiting…waiting
to see if it becomes something more.
In a frenzy of googling
the guru’s version of
postshake websanity,
I am struck
in fear and shame that
we still haven’t bought
the planned case of
water and Dinty Moore beef stew,
and when the freeway falls
and the houses split,
we will be woefully unprepared
--still--
and I am moved to make
public confession of my
sin of omission,
to my chagrin,
I a twenty-plus-year resident
of this shaky locale.

*The guru is CalTech’s Earthquake Center.

#18 NaPoWriMo

Today's prompt:  Write a poem featuring the cat family, whether big or small.


lionize her
leonine grace,
the pride,
the language of the tail,
the purr of harmonic resonance,
the purr that heals;

quiet paws give pause
and so we hang a bell,
when we should worship
the ancient god instead.

a cat by any other name
would scratch as deep,
bite as hard,
shed as much,
disobey as often,
eat as many moths,
and knead and nudge and curl up around the heart

#17 NaPoWriMo

Today's prompt:  Let’s be elemental. Fire, earth, water, wind. They touch our lives every day. Choose one that interests you, then take a point of view that is not so much your usual. Observe what interaction you’ve known, or not known, with this element. You might make it personal or take the element’s point of view (how might humans appear to you from that stance?) or wander where you may. Tell us something about your element that we don’t know. You’re welcome to make your own rules, and as always, the most important point is simply to write and share, however it comes your way! Have fun!

I try to stoke them
but they smother my light;
I come to refine them,
but they suffocate my heat;

Extinguish me, will you?
Even the largest trees
need my aid
to grow
and procreate;
I am healing and closure –
they call me destruction
for they have no sight
or knowledge;

sister earth only grounds them
and fattens them;
brother water washes dirt from them
and hydrates them;
uncle wind dusts them
and fills their lungs;
yet
I alone can give them
language and
thought and
impetus;
I alone can make them
bulletproof.

Foolish mortals,
come, hold still,
let me purify
and inspire,
let me lick you
and make you whole.

NaPoWriMo #16 (sort of)

Today's prompt is, "What's that smell?"

eyes droop
as I call to mind
scent of pine,
smoke (wood or cig),
rain-wet (paved or dirt),
citrus blossoms,
and grandpa’s coffee…and…
church incense…and…
the eyes shut,
just for a sec,
as brain shutters off
to dreams.

the better poem
will have to wait
till morning.

#15

I'm too tired to do the prompt justice tonight.  I'll cop out with a haiku which isn't much of a haiku:

nap on couch in afternoon sun
conscious thought lost in rest and dream
awaking to life

#14 I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

Today's prompt is for a cleave poem, a new one I hadn't heard of yet.  I really like the idea of this form, but it's going to take me some time to write my first one.  Time is what I do not have this evening, along with the necessary energy.  So the cleave will have to wait till this weekend.  For today, a freeform tale:

At the pond
in the park
baby ducklings,
just-hatched,
heart-breakingly tiny,
clump in groups
dive in panics
scamper in pods
behind a mother duck,
but not their mother duck;
they are lost
and seeking refuge
with any grownup;
for good reason,
we learn,
as the black crowned night herons
begin their dusky quest
for ducky dinner;
one by one
the ducklings are scooped
gulped whole
for a sad supper
of nature red in tooth and claw,
though beak fits better here.

Across the pond
the little boys
spy the one remaining duckling;
look, mommy, it’s a baby duck!
(Don’t look, little boys;
life’s lessons are too hard for you today.)

#13 I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

Today's prompt:  In his poems, Norman Dubie tells stories, sets scenes and paints landscape, sometimes lush and sometimes wretched. His writing is sure and vivid, and his language is beautiful. As you’ll see below, his similes are incomparable. If forced to compare him with anyone, I’d be more likely to pick a painter than another writer.  For this prompt, take a Dubie line to jumpstart a poem of your own. Your poem should be titled “Poem Starting with a Line from Norman Dubie.”  (We were given a list of possible first lines to choose from.) 


Norman Dubie Starts the Party

The lights of the galaxies are strung out over a dipper of gin.

The music of the spheres rocks the house of cosmos.

The seven sisters dance in the tonic,

toes flicking juice of lime across the expanse.

Orion beats time on heaven’s floor with his bow,

and the bears, both major and minor, sway in a slow Russian step.

And I, tonight’s wallflower,
sit in the other room of the sky,
weep woe into my coffee
and complain about the grading
that chains me to a desk,
that keeps me from terpsichore’s task

I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

It's much too late, and I'm much too tired, and I fear that will be most evident here. 

We are more than one-third through NaPoWriMo. If you feel like you’ve started to make things up (two parts desperation, one part coffee grinds), then Carolee Sherwood’s prompt for Day 12 will play into your hand.  Make up a secret code. Begin by writing a few nonsense sentences, like “The raindrops tap out a cry for help” or “The dandelions are saying all at once, ‘You are overwhelmed.’” The formula is easy: come up with a message and assign it to something unlikely. Remember, of course, that inanimate objects can speak and that signs and symbols may be nonverbal.  Once you have a few sentences, select the one that is most intriguing to you and use it to start a poem.

Well, I went with the code idea.  Can't get much more code than text-speak.
 

Top Secret: And Some of It’s True

The child in the restaurant
drawing on the kids’ menu
drew, not a house or a horse, or mommy or dog,
but an iPod,
yes,
complete with apps.

And she held it up
for her mommy to see;
proud mommy of a child
of the twenty-first century.

And the drawing of iPod said,
“OMG, lady, WTH must you stare?”

“IDK,” I spat back, “WTF do you care?
I straddle the centuries;
I’m a teacher, you know;
I can play your code game
and you know it fo sho.”

“LMAO,” iPoddy-mouth said,
“FWIW, though, to me you’re
over the hill, like, half dead.”

“OFFS,” I retorted,
with a roll of my I,
“GTG, bcuz IMHO,
ur the NME now,
so don’t even try.”

“^URS, lady. CU in BFE.”

“I’ll BRT. (What a huge SOB.)”

I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

So many ways to go on this prompt.  I tried two different directions (forks in the road).  I'm not happy with where I ended up with either, but it'll be food for ongoing thought.  I guess good prompts are like that. 

Today's prompt:  the choice we didn't make (or the thing we didn't choose).  Every day we make choices. Some are small: English breakfast or Lipton? the highway or back roads? Some are more significant: convertible or mini-van? farmhouse or condo?  Some choices lead us straight into the life we’re living, but for this poem, think about one of the things in your life you didn’t choose.  Be concrete. Pick an object — something tangible* — and write your poem directly to it, as if you were writing it a personal letter. Explain why you didn’t choose it. What could things have been like if you had? Talk about what your life has become without it. See where the “confession” takes you.  *As an alternative, dig a little deeper and write your poem to a person you left behind.

Fork #1

I didn’t choose
to fall for your theology
then have you go crazy
--god complex and all,
a fifteen-foot deep-end dive.

I didn’t choose for you to
open your arms
then slam the door shut
on my trusting fingers.

I didn’t choose
to get on my knees
and open my palms for
life-saving bread
then have you kick
all of the kneelers in the teeth
and walk across their prostrate backs.

I didn’t choose
to join a vibrant communion
of artistic, godly souls
only to have you
depress the plunger
and send them to the winds.

I didn’t choose it
but it’s what I got.
At least I learned
how not to lead.


Fork #2

Dear Wild Fulfilling Life,

It’s long since we spoke
and yes,
I’m still with security,
ever since we split,
you and I
--and that was kind of the point.

I still firmly believe in
commitment,
but lately I’ve been reflecting
and I’ve begun wondering
if we could ever still have a chance.

I still think about you,
often,
dream about the days we spent,
reminisce the nights we made
when we stayed up forever.

Security has been good to me
but I miss the spice
of risk,
the danger
of yes,
the possibility
of what the hell.

What do you say?
You up for another go?
Perhaps just a tryst,
to see how it flows?
Am I stupid for asking?

Love (?), me

I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

Today's prompt:  Pamela asks us to write about any celebration we have been to recently.  Write about a birthday party, a wedding, a baptism — any kind of celebration where you were with family or friends or both. Write about the colors you remember, the sounds (and how they made you feel) and the tastes you remember from any of those events. Did these things make you feel good? Did you experience any new foods? Did you meet any new people?  Sometimes, beyond our control, festivities can take a turn for the worse. Maybe that happened to you or someone you know. Whatever happened, be it great or not so great, let’s write about it!


Half Dozen Days

Church service with masses at mass,
jubilant hymns and
joy at the new-again possibility
of sweets and wine.

Adjourn to Mom’s
for ham
and casseroles with cheese
because everyone knows
protestant parties
are carb-based events.

Pastels of purple pink blue
and egg-yolk yellow
decorate the room
on eggs boiled
and eggs both peanut butter and plastic.

Mom steals Dad’s practice
of a too-long prayer
while stomachs growl
and peekers eye the
devil’s eggs and a
cousin’s billowy homemade rolls.

Tableware clinks,
refills resonate in too-small glasses,
a cousin’s resonant laughs fill his chest
and the table air,
complementing conversation
of gentle politics on eggshells
and army tales.

The earthquake strikes
during dinner,
a ninety-second roll;
we find we all prefer
our rolls slathered in butter
instead.

The cats who didn’t die by car this morning
(one did – Happy Easter)
lounge and flirt
and hiss and purr
and play highwire acts
on the uncleared table.

My own contributions are
photos and hugs,
two types of dessert and
merciful silence via nap.
He is risen…
and I will be, too;
just give me a minute.

I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

Today's prompt was random.  I might work on this one some more.  Not sure if it's worth it, but I might work on it anyway.  Heh. 
Prompt -- Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to:
• Use at least twelve words from this list: flap, winter, torch, pail, jug, strum, lever, massage, octopus, marionette, stow, pumice, rug, jam, limp, campfire, startle, wattle, bruise, chimney, tome, talon, fringe, walker;
• Include something that tastes terrible;
• Include some part (from a few words to several lines) of a previous poem that didn’t quite pan out; and
• Include a sound that makes you happy.
Write a poem!

Mission: Spring Break

Good Friday’s iron talons leave marks in our palms
The Paschal torch now glows during Mass
These holy mysteries and his most patient life
have saved me from the lion’s mouth and
heard me from the among the horns of the unicorns.

But no (hu)man hath quickened (her/)his own soul.

It is spring break
but it is only a break from the daily routine bells.
I need a massage
someone to strum the hamstring, the heartstring
till my cat purr erupts
I march stiffly, like a marionette, to my doom,
climbing the summit of the grading pile,
these papers I’d like nothing more than to dump in a pail
and nurture a healthy campfire with
or issue into ashes up the chimney

In my quest for health and balance
I do yoga stretches and…nothing else
I startle to see in the mirror that I’m developing a wattle
a hated wattle, the kind I’ve always mocked in
aunties who shellac their hairdos into upswept bushes
that ring and fringe their heads,
as distasteful as biting into a caraway seed
and not knowing until the poison flavor spreads
and permeates the tongue’s buds

I vow to improve…again
I read helpful books and
I stow my tome until the meal is done,
grudgingly
but I am trying to become more mindful
and thereby more healthful
but…

But no (hu)man hath quickened (her/)his own soul
and I need help in this mission
I need a break from habit and self.

I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

Today, think of your current love, your current obsession or the one who got away. Now come up with five or more unusual metaphors for the object of your affection/obsession: wool scarf, cough drop, puddle, half-empty bottle of red wine… Choose your favorite of the bunch and write a poem celebrating (or trashing) your love.


a half-smoked
cigarette,
     discarded in favor of
     health or hurry,
dropped on the floor,
          still burning,
inches still of white
                            unenjoyed,
inciting thoughts of
“whatta waste”

wish i’d smoked that one
all the way

I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

Today's poem is an epic fail -- supposed to be a tanka.  Yeah, I'm gonna have to work on that form a bit, perhaps about a different topic.  I couldn't get "the turn" today.  And I couldn't get the syllabic proportions today.  And that's ok for today.

Today, Alan Summers wants us to write poems about “humor in love,” and he has a specific form in mind!  Write and capture humorous incidents related to love in a 5-line love poem called a tanka.

kibble’s gone
burgers in wrap, jaws drop, pause
raised-brow disbelief – for us?
still laugh at their shock, stop, gulp
dogs are so easy to love

Food for thought, both lighter and heavier

First, for the light, in which I feel a new tradition coming on:
http://lomagirl.blogspot.com/2010/04/peep-jousting.html


Then, for the heavier but necessary, in which I am challenged to speak up for myself and my beliefs:
http://portraitoftheartist.blogspot.com/2010/04/standing-up-unabashed-rant.html

I'm so afraid of this kind of commitment that I don't even want to title these posts as napowrimo.

For the Day 6 prompt on ReadWritePoem, by we are supposed to converse with an image.

these couplets will not be heroic
(nor even couplets)
but her clay fingers,
gripping the clay she has formed and fired
to contain the coffee she has ground and brewed
to be a chaser after the eggs and toast she has cooked and served
to nourish us, are.

Random Bullets of...

randomness:

• Today is POM's b-day.  We'll be celebrating all week, because that's just more fun.
• Lent is over, and I have proceeded to make up for all of the dietary restrictions in the span of a single day, I think.  Bleah, I feel gross.  Back to a healthier approach tomorrow! 
• Clash of the Titans (in 2D -- I had read too many disparagements about the 3D version) was ok.  Let's put it this way -- the first movie was completely campy and goofy, and so is the second movie -- and both films were a couple of hours of good entertainment.  No Oscars here, not even for the special effects.  Will I own it?  No.  Do I regret seeing it?  No. 
• The Class -- was not what I expected, especially not given the rave reviews and Palm D'or it garnered.  On the one hand, I enjoyed his interaction with the students, the realness of the conversations they had, the fact that he took conversational cues from the students, the interesting intelligences of the kids, and the fact that the film didn't tie up all of the story lines into a neat little closure bow because school almost never does that in real life.  On the other hand, I disliked the unrealness of some of the conversations, was appalled by the ridiculous and inept mistakes he made with several of his students, and kept finding myself shouting snide questions and advice at him.  If I had to rate this film, I'm firmly on the fence, which hurts after a while. 
• Coco before Chanel was completely delightful, artful, and beautiful. 
• I've started House Rules, by Jodi Picoult, and it's already made me cry once.  I "knew" a lot of facts and info about Asperger's/autism, but I'd never placed myself into the shoes of one who lives with it.  Not even reading Temple Grandin has brought this home to me like this.  Yes, Picoult always goes for the emotional punch (pathos), but it doesn't feel cheap in this book as it occasionally has in some of her other books.  Granted, I'm only partway through, but so far, I'm appreciative. 
• I get to go grade tomorrow.  I'm drowning, but I've enjoyed these two days of freedom.  I refuse to spend my entire spring break grading.  Next year, I want to go away again for our break. 

A poem for Monday

And now for a poem of deep inspiration and syntactic genius:

spring

    break

Advice from a Cat Herder

OK, so I'm up late because I don't have to get up tomorrow morning -- thank God for spring break -- and so I'm trying to get caught up on some writing and reading I wanted to do.  I'm having fun so far with ReadWritePoem's NaPoWriMo prompts.  I'm seeing them as writing exercises, which is healthy for me, and it's keeping me writing every day -- also good.  I still don't know how things will play out once school resumes, but I'm enjoying doing this for now.  I don't intend to work any more on the current poem, so I may as well post it. 

Mark Stratton says it’s time to get personal! Here’s Mark’s prompt for Day #5:  Today, let’s make poetry really personal. Give poetry, as you write it, a name. Possibly a gender. And a personality. A poet I know has written (and continues to write) a series of poems based on this principle, and I shamelessly ripped it off (with permission, of course) and made a poem I called “Sasha.” Sasha is many things, all at the same time, yet all are Sasha/poetry to me.  So it’s your turn. Give poetry — how you view poetry, what poetry means to you, your poetry — a name. Now write a poem suits your view or vision.

Though I’m a teacher, I apparently have difficulties following directions (given all the caveats and "buts" to be found below).  OK, so I didn’t personify it or anthropomorphize it so much as zoomorphize it (give it animal characteristics), but it describes what I think I have learned about poetry.

Shep, the Cat Herder, Speaks

“You have to show up for work,
and every day is best;
cats like a routine,
so they know what to expect;
sometimes they like surprises;
sometimes they’ll surprise you
out of the blue;
but mostly they get sketchy
if you switch things up on ‘em too much.
Cats don’t have to have a routine themselves,
but they like for you to have one.

“When you show up every day,
be kind, be quiet, be still.
Reach out to pet them,
but let them decide when
to come to you.
If you chase 'em,
they’ll just get skittish
and run away,
or maybe even scratch you –
and dawg, if their scratches don’t sting.
Be prepared, though
with fishy food
and kitty treats
and those feather toys they love,
because trust me,
you don’t want to be caught unprepared.
Be ready to feed 'em,
willing to play with 'em,
happy to rub 'em in the same spot ten times,
and okay with leaving 'em alone
until tomorrow.

“If you want to be a cat herder,
it helps to be intuitive.
Listen carefully to ‘em
and they’ll tell you what they want.
Mostly you just have to get out of the way,
let 'em go where they want to go,
let 'em do things in their own good time,
because they’re cats,
and that’s what they do.
You’ll get along much better
once you realize that they’re in charge
and you’re just there to serve them.”

More of a rant than a poem

For the Day #4 prompt, Nelle Lytle encourages you to keep going with your NaPoWriMo poems by writing inside-out or outside-in. She says:

I watch too much HGTV, so I have learned (very well) about bringing the outdoors inside and also turning outside spaces into rooms (which is, apparently, more than putting the old sofa out on the front porch).

In our case, writing inside out (or outside in) means setting your physical or metaphorical inner bits out of doors, to be walked around and looked at from odd angles, as if they were monuments or mailboxes (as an example). Or it could be transforming your internal organs into flowers or letting a pack of four-year-old’s (human or otherwise) loose in your attic. Write a poem today that illustrates your idea of what is inside-out.

I decided to tackle the inside-out thinking of the American public school system, of which I am currently a part.  [sighs deeply]  I probably should have chosen a different topic, as this isn't much of a poem after all. 

(All ritual apologies apply -- just sneezed it out, didn't edit it much, it's a first draft, etc., ad nauseam)

School Logic
(or, Your Seam and Tag Are Showing)

My fellow educators,
we must leave no child behind;
we must close the achievement gap;
we must work smarter, not harder;
we must turn out young citizens who possess the skills
that citizenship requires of them;
we must work leaner and meaner in light of budget cuts;
we must deliver a quality education despite worsening conditions.
We must do these things,
because everyone knows
it’s about the kids.

Let us, therefore, train our children to take tests better,
for it is in testing that our success is measured,
as it is in weighing the cow repeatedly that fattens the cow.

Let us, therefore, decry flexibility and creativity,
for it is in uniformity and pacing guides that our
children’s salvation may be found.

Let us, therefore, insist upon purchasing a new textbook package
for every child. Protests
of “but we do not use the textbook so we do not need a new one”
or “we prefer to design our own curriculum because it better meets our students’ needs”
or “it will be a waste of money – let us spend it on something truly useful”
will neither be encouraged nor tolerated,
for it is the data experts, only, who understand what true learning is,
and it is only through programs and off-the-shelf products
that we can protect our students from their bad teachers;
for it is in one-size-fits-all that differentiated instruction is best delivered.

Let us, therefore, write up good teachers
for the number of students who fail their classes,
and place said write-up in their personnel file
with the admonition that “it is not your instruction but your assessment,”
for it is in these open and frank conversations that morale is built
and good teachers become further inspired to try again
the incentives they have tried in the past and abandoned
and are discouraged from lowering standards and cooking the gradebook
in the name of accountability and student success.

Let us, therefore, require that teachers meet incessantly,
either on their own time or during instructional minutes
(we will provide the subs),
in order to analyze and discuss what teachers can do
to improve student failure rates,
for it is in focusing on teachers that we can best attack the problem,
as focusing on the individual needs of each individual child
would surely stretch our resources too thin
and certainly miss the point of education altogether.

Let us ensure that bad teachers are fired
(except for the one who slept with a student,
or the one who grades nothing,
or the one who gives enough extra credit to turn F’s into A’s),
that superintendents say no to every request made for crazy timewasters like campus gardens,
that school board members vote their own pay raises
(because everyone knows “riffing” sixty teachers and twenty custodians
is damned hard work),
and let us increase our class size average to a number that would
shock the rest of the nation if they knew about it,
and the name we shall give it is tightening-the-belt and research-based strategy.

Let us publicly lament the loss of a majority of new teachers in their first five years
and stanch the flow by requiring new teachers to attend hours of meetings
and complete hours’ worth of additional reflective paperwork,
for everyone knows teachers need to learn from trained administrators
who left the classroom after two years of teaching kickball and typing,
rather than from collaboration with colleagues in the trenches
or regular conversation with teachers with whom they share students,
which would only lead to gripe sessions and forming of bad habits.

Let us give students packet work and call it credit recovery,
for asking students actually to learn to write an effective persuasive essay
is just unrealistic for some of these kids and in light of times we’re in,
especially since we had to close the majority of our alternative education sites,
and since our vocational programs are still only whimpering back to life
after decades of dormancy,
and since we only allot four years for high school,
and since we group students based on age rather than ability or achievement,
and since we pass students on to the next grade level
even though they passed none of their classes the previous year;
we’re just going to have to make some tough choices.

Let us unite and make those tough choices together,
because we are in this for the kids.

Posting As Is

This one is asinine, but I'm done with it, so post it I shall. 

It’s daunting to take on a commitment as large as NaPoWriMo, but here you are. Today is Day 3, and you are facing your fears. RWP member Joseph Harker thinks there’s a poem in that; here’s his prompt for you:

Write about something that scares you. It could be tarantulas or your significant other cheating on you or an existential fear of the unknown so long as it unsettles you. Describe it in the most vivid language possible!  Sometimes by articulating our fears, we strip them of their power. (But don’t go too far! A little fear is good to have.)

[Caveat:  I haven't committed.  Not really.  I'm just playing along for now.]
[Caveat:  And yeah, well, I did go too far.  Oh, well.]

TITLE
Fear List: Beginning with
“All of my poems become
rhyming bits of doggerel and rhythmic schizophrenia,
like this one”

(SUBTITLE: The poetic equivalent of the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland, with head-snapping sudden changes of direction and heart-stopping plunges)

Pain and mediocrity,
and what if my dogs could talk?
(Oh, thanks, Billy Collins, for your effing revenant.)

Inertia,
blindness,
loss of teeth,
and what if I couldn’t walk?
(Or losing money and job, and becoming mendicant.)

Earthquakes over five-point-nine,
being thought of as harsh or unkind,

swiss-cheese memories

and a plaque-y brain;
passengering on a burning plane;

being left out,
or left out of the loop,
loved ones flying earth’s physical coop;

the thought of never weighing less,
being told I must wear a dress;

facing a blank page and finding
I have nothing to say;
writing for hours and still finding
I have nothing to say;

an ear bent badly
so I hear things wrongly
and thus represent them poorly
so the muse flees me quickly;

losing it
because I’m not using it
(and many “its” apply);

loss of control,
lack of self-determination
at the expense of logic
and what’s best for the kids;
some of my students’ bleak futures,
inability to change our school culture;
a generation gone awry;
forgetting how to cry,
or crying too much;
being stupid and such;

inability to see the big picture,
helpless suffering in God’s animal creatures;

acedia,
conservative media;

what God might do to me
or ask me to do;

not being as intelligent as I like to think;
…and apparently everything but the kitchen sink!
(Yeah, that I’m not afraid of at all…
well, except when the plumber has to be called.)

Odd, but fun, so I played

At ReadWritePoem, day #2's prompt is as follows: 

If you love acronyms as I do, your mind has already shortened “Read Write Poem” into “RWP.” But the three letters RWP form known acronyms for at least 31 other phrases, including “Random Weird Person” and “Right Wing Pundits.”

Today’s writing prompt is to type the letters RWP into the abbreviation search field at Acronym Attic and write a poem inspired in any way by one or more of the resulting phrases. You don’t have to use the words from the phrase in your poem, but you can if they fit. GLWI (Good Luck With It)!

(All ritual apologies apply -- just sneezed it out, didn't edit it much, it's a first draft, etc., ad nauseam)

RWP
My father’s initials
on regular white paper
which must be excavated
from piles in his office
by a dedicated research working party;
office and house
rife with photos –
restful work, photography;
retired with pension now, he pursues
a reduced workload program,
except the taxes,
which he still insists upon doing himself
which he still insists upon postponing perpetually
until my mother threatens to put him on a
resource watch program
(a.k.a. restrictions will punish);
he adheres to a right wing policy,
much to my chagrin, which,
in turn, chagrins him;
he is a really wacky person,
but I’d still like to send him
reeling with pride.

From Good Friday

"Bend thy boughs, O Tree of glory;
Thy relaxing sinews bend;
For awhile the ancient rigour
That thy birth bestowed, suspend:
And the King of heav'nly beauty
On thy bosom gently tend."

(from "Crux Fidelis," Pange Lingua, Palestrine/Sarum Plainsong)

Why do I forget about this stanza every year?  I do not complain, though, because every year I get to discover it afresh and be amazed.  The idea of a tree coming to life, or rather becoming animate, to wrap its arms gently around the body of the Lord, holding it, tending it, is so powerful, so intimate.  I always picture a tree in full foliage, rather than a hewn construction.  It feels protective.  It is such a maternal, caregiving, pieta-like picture.  I free-associate:  it feels ent-ish, only quieter;  it feels like Mary Oliver's trees, who do their jobs, and live their lives, and speak to us, teach us.  As we heard on Palm Sunday, if we don't praise him, the stones will do the job loudly instead.  Why, then, shouldn't a tree be able to cradle the maker and master of the world?

------------------------------

"Blest tree, whose chosen branches bore
The wealth that did the world restore,
The price of humankind to pay,
And spoil the spoiler of his prey."

(from "Vexilla Regis," Sarum Plainsong, Mode I)

I love that last line.  I love the irony of the spoiler having his own plans spoiled.

and, in the same vein,

"Thus the scheme of our salvation
Was of old in order laid;
That the manifold deceiver's
Art by art might be outweighed
And the lure the foe put forward
Into means of healing made."

(from "Crux Fidelis," Pange Lingua, Palestrine/Sarum Plainsong)

The deceiver outschemed, out-art-ed, out-crafted.  The foe falls into his own lure, just as the psalmist prayed.  The lure, the trap, becomes a source of healing instead.  I have a healthy appreciation for such ironies.

Maundy Thursday Thoughts

Much to say about Maundy Thursday. I’ll start with my reflection from tonight’s service, in which the ritual of foot washing was observed:

Why does it undo me tonight to watch my priest de-vest, wrap an apron around his waist, kneel on stone, and wash the feet of the other priests, deacons, and acolyte before us? Why does it move me to see grown men and boys remove their solemn black shoes and socks to bare their white feet before us to be washed? The washed ones appear humbled, nervous, uncomfortable in varying degrees; they sit hunched or ramrod straight, they purposefully make no eye contact with anyone.

The irony is that, though they sit above, they are not in control of the situation. The ‘master,’ the priest on his knees, is mysteriously still the one in charge, despite the natural expectation that the server is the lowlier and more obedient of the two. When the ‘master’ humbles himself to do a difficult or demeaning job, it does not demean him but rather strengthens his position, due to his willingness to be low and do work. I have a deeper, truer understanding of the notion of servant leadership.

I would be interested to know what goes through the minds of the washed as they sit there being wetted or dried, looking down on the moptop of our tall priest’s head.

------------------------------

A passage from the hymn we sang as the blessed sacrament was taken away from the altar to the altar of repose:

“[W]hen man partaketh,
Tho’ his senses fail to see,
Faith alone when sight forsaketh
Shows true hearts the mystery.

Therefore we, before him bending,
This great Sacrament revere;
Types and shadows have their ending,
For the newer rite is here;
Faith, our outward sense befriending,
Makes our inward vision clear.”

-St. Thomas Aquinas

Hoping to have a true heart. Hoping to be shown the mystery. Hoping to be befriended by faith. Hoping to have some inward clear vision.

------------------------------

Working on a found poem from the various texts of tonight's service. Will post it, if I can find it well enough.

Today's Lark

Taking my cue from ReadWritePoem's NaPoWriMo Day #1 prompt, which is for a shuffle-a-poem (drawn from setting one's iPOD or iTunes to shuffle, and then using the titles of first five songs), I came up with this:

(All ritual apologies apply -- just sneezed it out, didn't edit it much, it's a first draft, etc., ad nauseam)

She hears the lark
in the clear air
outside her frosted window;
she hears, too, the
carpenters
whacking hammers
on wood; 
the sun streams
bright, in
sky blue
flecked with movie-perfect clouds,
light glaring off the rime;
but she is
raining on the inside,
aching for an
old-fashioned Christmas;
she puts
"Ave Maria"
on the iPOD
--Pavarotti,
if you're curious --
but she cannot
make herself
forget that it's really
Easter.
She hunkers like
the hobbit
in the hole
beneath the hill,
and waits for
her cartoon-perfect cloud
to lift.


[Ed.- My five shuffled song/audio titles included "An Old-Fashioned Christmas," by the Carpenters;  "Ave Maria;"  "The Hobbit;"  "The Lark in the Air," by Loreena McKennit;  and "Raining on the Inside," by Amy Grant.  LOL!]

Somehow Spirit; and human nature

Yes, it's blurry.  It was from very far away;  I was up on a hill.  I leached all of the color out of it.  But I like it this way.  I could not tell from that far away what the bird was -- all I know is that it was white, and it was a bird of prey, and it had just left being chased by a persistent crow.  But I'm ok with not knowing, actually.  It opens the door to a more symbolic interpretation for me. 

Palm Sunday is hard, or at least weird.  It's disingenuously joyous and exuberant, because we already know our fickle ways;  we already know that in less than a week we're going to be calling for his unjust death;  we already know that we're going to give in to mob mentality, because that is the human way;  we already know that we're going to claim the consequences of our passion and our lack of foresight for our children ("let his blood be on our hands and on the hands of our children" -- What? Thanks a lot!  Speak for yourself, they say.).  So what else is new?  We keep doing this, exhibiting tragic lack of foresight, mortgaging our future generations' futures, offhandedly claiming the consequences of our actions, until those consequences start to hurt a little, and then we cry, "Yeah, but we didn't know then what we know now."  Why should we expect anything different from ourselves?  It is the human way.  And I am definitely human.  God have mercy upon me.

Tidbits from Kathleen Norris

• She talked about the writing process and the fact that it is largely made up of boring work habits.  Everyone has to face the blank page.  (The cleanest houses are those belonging to writers on a deadline [and, I would add, teachers with a load of unpleasant essays to grade].)  The voice of the mocker says, "Why bother?  Who's going to read this?"  Acedia rejects the routine.
• We all have 24 hours to live in a day.  We either see this as a blessing or as a curse (acedia).  It's a choice sometimes. 
• Dean Nelson asked her if acedia was our national disease.  She replied, "As any reader of fairy tales knows, if you have a problem and you don't know its name, you're in trouble."  She went to describe symptoms of acedia -- ennervating despair, commitment phobia, boredom...the extremes of either lethargy or workaholism.  Yep, that's American society.  She mentioned watching a CNN broadcast in which story on a search for a child sex offender was immediately followed by a story on gas prices rising -- they both had the same importance, the same urgency.  (She said, "That's why I've stopped watching tv news and started reading The Economist.  Heh.)  Pretty soon we won't know what's important anymore.
• When asked about the opposite of acedia, its corresponding virtue, she noted that the ancients regarded it as zeal, enthusiasm.  But given the misuse and associations with the word zeal nowadays, she says it's love.  If you can love, if you can be in relationship, you have defeated acedia.  Acedia says nothing matters;  love says it matters.
• "Now, more than ever, we need symbolic language."  It touches our hearts.  Metaphors reach us more than anything can.  We've tried to shield ourselves from language that makes us feel.  She used the following as an example:  In the Civil War, the post-war effect on soldiers was called "soldier's heart."  In World War I, it was called "shellshock."  In World War II, it was called "battle fatigue."  Today it's called "post-traumatic stress disorder."  It's a long way from "soldier's heart" to PTSD.  We want to shield ourselves from pain.  Norris says that when we use terms like "PTSD" outside of the medical arena, we're fooling ourselves. 
• Re: poetry -- physical chores enhance poetry.  It's the same in the monastic tradition;  repetitive physical labor helps memory.  She referred to Donald Hall, who speculates that iambic pentameter developed out of the rhythm of walking.  [Calls to mind Augustine's "Solvitur ambulando" -- "it is solved by walking."] 
• Three things are taught so badly, she says, it's a miracle any of us is still alive:  the Christian faith, poetry, and math.  Textbook poetry is some of the worst ever.  Norris (like Mary Oliver before her) notes that kids have learned by 10 or 12 that poetry is boring.  She alluded to the missed opportunities to stimulate what's there already in kids.  [And again I am forced to question my vocation as a teacher in this current broken system.]
• She speaks highly of Flannery O'Connor's The Habit of Being [which I just so happen to have on my bookshelf, awaiting the right time for reading;  perhaps it will be soon]. 
• She lamented, "In the Christian community, what separates us is more important than what unites us."  She went on to note that St. Paul was writing about this in his epistles to the various churches.  Today's divisions are nothing new;  concerning the big church blow-ups, "we've been here before."  If there's one thing that still unites us, though, it's baptism.  She said, you hear people say "I was baptized a Roman Catholic" or "as a ____."  No, you're not, she said.  You're baptized as a Christian.  Baptism is ecumenical. 
• In response to the typical question about what advice she'd give to writers and hopefuls, she said first, "Of course, you're reading a lot."  Then she advised, learn to edit and revise yourself;  love revision as much as writing.  Writers' groups can help, but learn to detect when you've fudged or overworked or overdone something.  Everyone faces the blank page.  The world doesn't care if you write. 
• When asked what do you say to people for whom acedia appears to be a daily reality, she first responded, "Commiserate.  We've all experienced it."  Secondly, anything to get them out of the closed circle of the self.  It can be something social, labor, learning something new.  Thirdly, if a person is suffering with clinical depression, send them to a doctor. 
• There are no shortcuts, only the passage through the dark nights.  There is no magic pill.  God sends us moments, people, at times.  Receive these moments gratefully.  But it's not a snap-out-of-it. 
• What to read:  Flannery O'Connor's The Habit of Being;  Emily Dickinson's poetry;  The Praktikos, by Evagrius;  the Desert Mothers and Fathers.

Delightful

Seeing Kathleen Norris at ReligBeachTownU was truly delightful, as were the fellowship and conversation with friends on the way down and back.  Got to see my favorite FeministProf, too, and ran into an old acquaintance from ImplosionChurch (knew him pre-implosion). 

I'd have to say this has been the most stimulating and learning and reflective Lent ever, and I've been observing them for over a decade now.  I am blessed beyond measure. 

Further specifics tomorrow.

It's been...

...an odd day, of convictions and of mercies, of errands and of rest, of contact and of solitude.  I did not grade this weekend, but there were more important things than grading to attend to.  I'll pay for it this week, but so be it.

Kathleen Norris's The Cloister Walk is knocking me out.  I'm going to hear her speak on Wednesday, and I'm trying to finish the book by then, but it's the kind of book that slows me down, in a good way.  I'm reading slowly, carefully, marking the margins and pondering her insights, instead of devouring it too quickly the way I normally do.  She has made me consider things about the Psalms, the book of Revelation, Emily Dickinson, God, poetry, and sin that I've not considered before.  What an amazing Lent this has been.  I know, that sounds weird. 

In other news, my conservative family and friends are sounding the death knell for the country as regards health care.  My liberal family and friends are rejoicing for the sake of justice and "doing unto the least of these."  May I be honest?  I don't what I think about it.  I don't know who's right.  I see valid points on both sides of the deep chasm.  I don't want to be angry tonight -- I'm tired of being angry about things outside of my control, because despite all my anger, nothing gets fixed -- so I'm just giving the issue up to the only One who really knows what's going on, and trusting that he will see it through as he intends for it to happen. 

Heavy, heavy burdens people are carrying;  much to pray for.  I feel like a newbie pray-er. 

Something is different.

And finally, the Mary Oliver post

The first time I was fortunate enough to see Mary Oliver read at UCLA was a couple of years ago. When I received an email from UCLA Live and saw her listed, I went online immediately and snapped up three tickets. Flanked by POM and my sister, we “mmm-ed” with the rest of the surprisingly sensitive L.A. audience every time she read a line that punched our collective gut or poked our collective heart or strummed our collective soul. We listened attentively despite the ungodly loud hearing aid whine another nearby attendee was obliviously projecting. Mary Oliver was signing books afterward, and I happily waited in a line that moved more quickly than the lines for most Disneyland rides, and had her sign my copy of Thirst. (I had two other books for POM and my sister to get signed, since they didn’t have any of her books themselves.) As she signed, I babbled my semi-planned oration of thanks…thanks for allowing her work to be used on the AP Lang exam about a decade ago, because that is how I discovered her, thanks for her amazing poetry…but with an emphasis on babble. I think I was so excited and nervous to be there in front of her, and I talked too fast and stammered over my words. She just blinked at me.

Still...

...in afterglow from last night's concert!

...of mind and heart after yoga tonight (or at least more still than I was when went in).

...a night person who doesn't want to go to bed this early, except that I have to get up at 4 a.m., which sucks.

...behind in grading (woefully).

...not doing such a great job with the daily writing, though I've started trying to journal a little in the morning, which has worked for two days, anyway.

...trying to remember to be thankful and appreciative, even if just for the small things, every day.

...planning to write about Mary Oliver and my current lenten reading.

..., I'm signing off for now. Tschuss.

Ethereal and Holy

Making one's way to the dead center of the second-to-highest row in the Walt Disney Concert Hall is a bit vertiginous at first, but once seated, the location offers the sitter the best view in the house. I wasn't so sure that it would offer the best sounds in the house, but I needn't have worried. I felt I had just the slightest inclination of what God and the angels and the fellowship of the saints must experience when the notes of praise and worship ascend from the lowly earth -- from cathedrals, churches, chapels, cells, gardens, kitchens -- wafting, winding, weaving up through a loom of air. The Anonymous 4 sang worship to Jesus and his mother tonight, and time both slowed and sped.

Hear the voice of my complaint

While many of my other Lenten rules are going just fine, the one I think I might care about the most, journaling and writing regularly, is the one I'm finding the hardest to maintain. The time change is doing an odd number on me this week; I get home and it's light enough and I have time enough...but I keep doing stupid things like falling asleep at the table or on the couch. Sigh. That's one thing I miss about the retreat; I had time enough to write for pages.

A gift: my sister called me with an extra ticket for the Anonymous 4 tomorrow night! I'm delighted. I saw the listing in the paper and lamented that I couldn't go. They are singing A Medieval Ladyamss. And I'm going. Even though it's a school night.

Retreat! (a.k.a. Run Away!)

Back from our silent Lenten retreat. It could not have come at a better time. I had just lived one of the worst weeks ever -- school really sucked last week, and I just got completely overwhelmed and had a meteoric meltdown (at home, fortunately), such that Friday I was a complete zombie. I was never so ready for a retreat.

This was my third silent retreat, and it took me more time than usual to quiet my restless mind and noisy heart. Our focus was sacred listening, and it was really an exercise in lectio divina, the ancient method of delving more deeply into scripture, and we did it through several of Jesus' parables. In addition to the guided meditations, I also continued reading, writing, and reflecting through The Cloister Walk, by Kathleen Norris, which I somehow up to this point had managed never to read. I am always amazed, even though I know it's going to happen, at the interplay and overlap of the things I'm reading, thinking about, and discussing with others. This whole weekend meshed and melded that way.

Our retreats frequently offer the opportunity for confession. I've always shuddered away from that in horror. Why would I ever want to do such a terrifying thing as telling my sins to another human being who is sitting in the same room as I am?! It's one to thing to confess to God, because God already knows the state of my heart anyway, but it's entirely another thing to tell someone who's blinking and breathing right in front of me.

I wasn't going to do it. I did not want to do it. I was feeling a push to do it. Oh darn; all of the slots were signed up for. After lunch Saturday, I felt terrible. I couldn't tell if it was what I ate, how much I ate, how quickly I ate it, or something else -- vestiges of my anger and frustration of the week? Or a different kind of blockage? I lay down for a nap, but when I woke, I did not feel any better. So I got up to walk. I grabbed my camera and headed up the hill. I didn't take a watch, so I am not sure how long I walked -- it was probably two or three hours. I walked fast, I walked slow, I stopped to take pictures, I stopped to just look, I did some yoga stretching, I prayed or I didn't, I laughed at the barking dogs, I spied on birds from hawks to hummingbirds, I enjoyed the views of hills and clouds, I luxuriated in the light and angle of the sun. I started feeling better near the end of my walk. When I returned to our silent meeting place in the library, more slots had been added to the confession sign-up list, so I signed up. I felt even better.

I did it. It was nerve-wracking . But it was useful. I have a lot to think about.

More later. The time change makes me sleepy. Oh, yeah, and so did the great conversation I had till three o'clock this morning! Back into the frying pan tomorrow. I still have a lot to say about the retreat, Kathleen Norris, Mary Oliver, Dante (of all things), and others. But not tonight.

This post...

This post
will not be
what I want it to be,
but that's ok
for now.

A week
(and half a weekend)
of grading
claimed priority,
and rightly so,
I think.

This week
I give way
to the call
of writing.

--------------

I am the bookmark maker for this year's silent Lenten retreat. Our theme is Sacred Listening, which is, of course, always timely. I found an icon of Elijah hearing the voice of the Lord -- the still, small voice of the Lord -- and I included several scriptures that have to do with listening, hearing, hearkening (yeah, I'm an old-school/KJV/poetic/Shakespearean kind of gal). But I also had to get my old favorites, Madeleine and Mary Oliver, in there, too.

None of their admonitions or reflections are terribly new --
we must listen to the silence,
listen to the Spirit,
listen to the work that is trying to be communicated through us,
listen to nature,
the birds,
the trees,
the water,
the dog,
listen to the person trying to get a word in edgewise,
close mouth and listen,
get out of the way and shut up and listen,
we have two ears and only one mouth for a reason
-- no, nothing new,
but certainly I still need to hear it (listen!).

------------

More on Mary and Madeleine, and Kathleen Norris and Dorothy Sayers (both of whom I'm reading for Lent), later in the week. I haven't forgotten my vow to write about Mary Oliver's reading. Even if no one else reads it, I need to do it for me.

Whoosh!

(The sound of time passing.) (Like crazy.) This'll be a brief one tonight. Grades are due Friday a.m., and I'm behind, as usual. Benedictine meeting tonight was uplifting. Nine p.m. night at school the night before was not uplifting, but it was productive, anyway. I'm looking forward to the weekend, if for nothing else, to sleep in and catch up on my thoughts and blogs. I'm looking forward to writing about Mary Oliver and the reading I'm doing. G'night, all.

Ah, Mary!

My soul has opened
and been reassured,
yet challenged.

I shall put my soul
to rest
and write more
of Mary
in the morning.

Another...

...long day. Wrote a substantial portion of a new course. Wrote lots of emails. Wrote sub plans. Wrote and executed a shopping list. Wrote some blog comments. Wrote a blog post (brief) (and almost in the past tense). Off to bed; up tomorrow to do the same...except that I get to end the day, not with a grocery shopping trip but with Mary Oliver! Cool.

Oy

I hate days when I'm at school for fourteen hours. Today was one such day. On the bright side, I did get a lot done -- not everything I wanted to get done, but a lot: research workshop conducted, sub plans done, room cleaned (well, cleaner; straightened, perhaps), boards up, AP assignment typed, six letters of rec finished/printed/signed. And again I say, oy.

When one leaves school at eight p.m., one wants only to hit the drive-thru and go home. Despite the urgent desire, I went home and had a bowl of cereal. (I added blueberries -- health value!) I probably should not have eaten at all, given the late hour, but going to bed without my supper feels punitive somehow, and I already feel punished by the day. At least I kept to my Lenten rule and avoided fast food. It's been a long day; I celebrate the small successes. Off to bed.

The weekend...

...was short, compared to last weekend, during which we had a 3-day weekend (thanks to the Presidents) and during which I actually enjoyed a 4-day weekend (thanks to a dentist appointment, which facilitated my taking Friday off). Nice! And then Tuesday was a sub day, as I had to attend a conference on positive behavior. So really, last week was easy.

While this weekend is short (and tempered by the fact that I felt terrible for most of the day -- was it the chicken last night or the cheerios this morning? or perhaps a passing bug?), this week will again feel short, as I'm missing three days in the classroom due to being pulled out to write a course and the fact that I already had Friday scheduled as a personal day for several months now. Eek! I'll have to reintroduce myself to my students the following week.

What is it about February? This seems to have happened last year at the same time, too. I think it's because February is the beginning of our new semester, and everyone seems to see it as a good time to start new things. Sigh. Never mind that the high school exit exam happens in exactly a month and that I have two classes of sophomores to prepare for it. At least my sub is tried, true, and excellent. I wouldn't be able to sleep if it weren't for her. (She's my former master teacher and a retiree after over thirty years in our district. No one tries to pull crap on her. She's a godsend!)

In other news, Lent doesn't seem to be as difficult this year as it has in years past. Maybe it's just that it's still early in the season -- I may be singing a different tune in a month. The take-aways haven't felt as challenging -- oh, sure, I want wine with dinner and sweets after, and it's hard to go home and cook when I'd really rather go out to eat, but I'm not suffering, by any measure -- but the add-ons are more difficult. I'm a spectactularly undisciplined person about certain things, and I'm spectacularly good at rationalizing why I cannot do certain things at certain times. Excuses R Us, right here. So there's a good reason I forgot to do morning or evening prayer yesterday, and there's a good reason why I read two pottery magazines instead of reading something a little more devotional and challenging (not that art isn't devotional -- it is, exceedingly, but for me today, reading about it was more avoidance behavior than devotion).

Today's sermon, naturally, was about Jesus' temptation in the wilderness. Of course, his forty days of fasting put my little Lenten disciplines to shame, but fortunately it's not about comparative self-denial. It's about identifying our besetting sins and obsessions and addictions and distractions, and then setting about to cultivate the corresponding virtues (that from today's sermon). It is the opportunity to do new things. (We all know the definition, usually attributed to Einstein, of insanity -- in essence, doing the same thing and expecting different results.) Time to do new things for new, hoped-for results. New Year's resolutions never work for me -- they're good for reflection and such, but I rarely stick with them. Lent, though...I guess maybe because God's involved somehow...I tend to take a little more seriously.

P.S. A lenten devotional upcoming -- I get to go hear Mary Oliver later this week! Can't wait!

It's Thursday. Heh.

Nice to be back to yoga tonight, after a hiatus of several weeks (imposed due to busy-ness and laziness). Glad tomorrow is Friday. I'm not in the mood to teach this week. Thank God for presentations and exams. Heh.

Day two of Lent went fine. It's always easy in the early days. It's also mysteriously easier when you cancel your cable. Heh.

More rain in sight for the weekend. My only complaint is the headache the change in barometric pressure is giving me. I'm happy not to have to water the lawn for yet another week. Heh.

Ashes, ashes

Truly random bullets of Ash Wednesday:

• I did not see any students running around campus today with ashy black crosses on their foreheads. I did not see any teachers in a similar state, either. Nor was I among them, as our service is in the evening.
• Am I weird for noticing the ash particles falling from my forehead and the priest's finger to my nose? I've got an obvious cross-shaped black smudge across my forehead, but I'm worried about getting smudges on my nose. Really.
• It is surprisingly simple to make ashes for Ash Wednesday. I had to do it once, when I still attended Once-Amazing-Church-that-Tragically-Imploded. Take the palm fronds from Palm Sunday (of the previous year); put fronds into metal roaster pan; start gas bbq; place open metal roaster pan onto grill; flames will erupt of their own accord before long; allow fronds to burn down into ashes; allow ashes to cool; sift ashes and place in appropriate container. That's it; no tricks, no accelerant, no additives. One Palm Sunday's worth of fronds made enough ashes for several years.
• Psalm 143 was assigned this morning. Verse 10 in most versions reads, "Teach me to do your will, for you are my God." I prefer the way the English Standard version (the Authorized) puts it (as I often do; I am, after all, an English teacher and Shakespeare fan, so I love the old poetic language): "Teach me to do the thing that pleaseth thee; for thou art my God; let thy loving Spirit lead me forth in the land of righteousness."
• Lent is a time of both taking off and taking on, of shedding and adding, of retraining focus. It is not merely about deprivation and metaphoric self-flagellation. It's about portfolio diversification, as it were -- pulling resources out of less productive vehicles and reinvesting them in more effective and profitable funds. As it were.

Ah, well, Lent

It is upon us, even tomorrow. We availed ourselves of Shrove Tuesday (a.k.a. Fat Tuesday), courtesy of Claimjumper and a wicked messy burger. Hours later, I'm still full. In some ways, I think this Lent will be very difficult; in other ways, I feel very ready and welcoming of it. It is time once again to curb excesses and indulgences that have become too much a way of life. It is time to reorient my focus yet again. It's too bad that focus can't be permanent, but then I guess I wouldn't appreciate it so much if it were. May your own Lenten season feature a regaining of clarity and health for you, however you choose to observe it (if at all).

Random Bullets of Weekend

• Got grades done and in; had no sleep for it, but they're done-ish.
• Had several seniors who could not manage to get their research paper citations correct. Gave them zeros and made them re-do. Will change their grades once their papers aren't riddled with plagiarism anymore. You'd think by the time they were seniors, they'd get it...but you'd think wrong.
• In San Diego for POM's pottery conference. She's getting to see some biggies in the mud pie field. It's pretty cool. Learning some new techniques and clever tips. It's inspiring her to take her work to another level. Perhaps a workshop this summer....
• Got to meet up with a former college prof of mine (a.k.a. Feminist Prof) and her husband for dinner last night. Fun conversation, as always.
• Got to eat the "dirty tacos" about which I have actually dreamed, in which chipotle, pork, and lime meld into some sort of transcendent food of the gods. Oh, the honey-chile butter on fresh, warm tortillas didn't hurt, either.
• Usually prefer to watch the SuperBowl at home, but apparently will be watching it at a Mexican-food sports bar in Old Town someplace. Should be interesting. (Love the Saints and love their history, but I'm gonna have to scream for Peyton and the Hoosier Horses today.)
• Lots of rain again this weekend. Think it's stopped for today, but you never know around here. It's quite sunny at the moment, but it happened that way yesterday, too, and then it proceeded to pour off and on for the rest of the beautiful day.
• And best of all...tomorrow's no school! Heaven!

In grading hell...

...yet again. I'm just over halfway through my late-collected research papers. Fortunately, it's just one class, but I'll admit to be being sick of marking up Works Cited pages ad nauseam. We were so pressed for time at the senior level this past semester that none of us had enough time to teach this as well as we needed to. We hope to correct that in second semester. I get a new batch of seniors tomorrow for my second go-round of the new sci-fi class. The first semester turned out fairly decently, better than I had any right to expect. It took a while to teach them how to engage in the level of thinking I wanted from them -- you mean SF has a purpose? I just thought it was for cool special effects -- but they got there, or at least started to. We ended up with some good discussions in the last month of the semester. And Ender's Game blew them away, which made me very happy. Regardless of how you may feel about Orson Scott Card, no can argue that the novel isn't powerful and gripping. Some of my students said it was the best book they had ever read in school. Gratifying. However, I hate it when one class sucks the majority of my energies and time. Now perhaps I can go back to being a good teacher in my other classes, too. Perhaps? Please, God? My poor AP Lang students.

I can hardly believe that Lent is fast approaching and Easter is only seventy days away. It's OK, though. I feel ready for Lent. I need it. I almost want it. I need to clean up, cut back, refocus, retrain, re-prioritize. I look forward to our silent Lenten retreat. The focus last year was prayer, and it was earth-shaking, even for one who has been raised with church/God/prayer as daily, sometimes ho-hum realities. This year's focus is listening. I expect it to be just as powerful an experience.

Since school has drawn all of my energies, I have not made much progress on my thesis. I met and had dinner and conversation with two classmates last night, and it was the shot in the arm I had hoped it would be. The fondue was gorgeous, the wine plentiful, and the conversation soothed my soul and energized my brain. I love that. These ladies are amazing humans and teachers. I will have a couple of days "off" this month, and I think I may actually be motivated to use them to work on the thesis instead of burning them away by sleeping in extravagantly or devouring a novel.

The Benedictine group continues to be both a support and a challenge. They make me a better person, and a better Christian. I am reading a novelization of the life of St. Benedict, and his faith is so galvanizing. My own practice is so weak and pathetic in light of his, but rather than depress me, it inspires me. How much could we see accomplished if we actually believed everything God said about faith and about what God is willing to do for us and through us? Yet why does complete submission to God's will terrify me so? Probably because I'm a control freak. Heh.

Got to take pix of a dear friend's new son. His big brother (who isn't yet 3) is not so sure what he thinks about his new baby brother. He misses his daddy's lap and his mommy's undivided attention, to be sure. He'll adjust, I'm certain. But it was pretty funny, in a wry sense, to observe his expressions and body language as we took photos. Their adorable brotherly pix feature older bro looking off in the opposite direction, making faces, refusing to sit on the lap of the other parent (the floor was preferable). Yep, he's going to have some adjustments to make.

Finally saw Avatar. Did not really look forward to it. Knew I had to see because...well, just because I had to. Left the theater with a very different opinion. Yes, the dialogue clunked along in places; yes, sometimes it was Titanic in Outer Space; yes, the fact that the stupid 3D projector broke down 2/3 of the way through the film was frustrating and rant-inducing; but I love the movie. The vision of the luminescent forest was alone worth the price of admission. I look forward to seeing it again (for free, using the free tickets we got as a result of the projector break-down -- score!).

OK, so who could tell that I'm avoidance-behaving for all I'm worth right now? And it's true, though I can certainly rationalize my behavior by noting that I'm behind in my blogging (very much so -- so much for Project 52), and I have a lot to catch up on. Heh. All right -- back to more research papers on GPS, UAVs, and other military research projects. Fun stuff! To my faithful readers, I hope this finds all three of you healthy, content, and well. :-)

A Day Off

Beautiful, amazing rain today -- a true storm, with wild wind and lots of water. We get those so rarely here in SoCal. I hope the burn zones didn't wash away. We truly need this water, this refreshment of earth and air...and soul.

I was supposed to go to school today to catch up on grading and grade entry. Needless to say, it did not happen. Instead, I cooked -- pizza (for today) and soup (for the rest of the week; it's supposed to rain much of the week). And I read, finishing an Orson Scott Card book I have not read before (the first in his Homecoming series). And I caught up on a DVD of Fringe, which I'm enjoying a lot. And it was all good.

I could have used the day more wisely, however. I certainly engaged in escapism, and I was very aware of it while I was doing it. I do that more than I should. I always have very good explanations-to-self for it (I did grade for six hours on Saturday), but...when it comes down to it, I'm mostly just being rebellious.