12/29/09 - Joy in a Bad Haircut

Aunt Janet, Colleen, Jenny, me, Grandma Collier, and Wendy in front.

Me & Jen

My sister Jenny often thought her hair was ugly and unmanageable. It was thin, light brown, and poker straight. She would get so frustrated with it that on several occasions, she refused to go out because of it. Once she even sat in the van while the rest of us went out to eat. Due to my acceptance of my overall ugliness (or more like a lack of prettiness), I never really got hung up on my hair. I was okay, as long as I did not catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror or a car window. My long, curly reddish hair was the least of my problems. I was grateful it did a good job hiding my face...until the day I let Colleen's friend cut it, and I was left with about one inch of fuzz. I was horrified. I cried and felt like a freak. It was Jen who helped me come back. She sat me down in front of the mirror on the vanity in mom and dad's room. She put some make up on me; some eyeliner, a little blush, mascara. She said I had beautiful eyes and that this hairdo really draws attention to my best features. I saw my pretty green eyes for the first time that day. I saw they had power in them that could surpass a disaster haircut. I practiced using them, reigning in that power, and was a little impressed. I was still very self-conscious, but that ugly feeling I lived with and accepted for so many years shifted a bit and set me on a path of self discovery and eventually even love.

12/28/09 - What I Don't Remember...

I don't remember my year in the trailer park with my first husband. I don't remember that smell of other people's life inside the walls and carpet of our trailer, or the feeling that you couldn't trust the floor beneath your feet. I don't remember the life insurance guy who came and sat in our ugly, dark kitchen and sold us some policy that ensured us if one of us died, the other would be well taken care of with more money than either of us dreamed of having. I don't remember the way I wished for terrible things to happen so I could have that money and escape...so I could be free of him and that depressing, claustrophobic darkness of debt that I had no other ideas about how to lift off us. I don't remember feeling ashamed.

I don't remember that crazy girl who would come over in her tank top and short shorts when I was sitting, chubby with a pregnancy and dripping wet with sweat, on the stoop outside the door, and she would blabber nonstop through twenty cigarettes and a trillion nervous ticks and twitches, and eventually talk me into loaning her a few bucks and watching her dirty baby for hours.

I don't remember getting as craby as I got huge with that pregnancy that made me hate the smell of beer and my mother's taco salad.

I don't remember crying melodramatically, eating popcorn for dinner, and spending Valentines Day cutting out hearts and flowers and writing nice things on them (from him, to me) and taping them all over our brown living room while he was out drinking with his brother.

I don't remember listening to George Winston while I dreamed up happy scenarios of me and the perfect child I was going to have. We ran, hand in hand through parks, giggling. We played in water fountains. We danced and twirled around and around, and then letting that baby cry for hours because I was afraid of all the anger inside me. I was afraid I would hurt him. I don't remember feeling ashamed some more. Ashamed and embarassed and sad and hopeless.

I do remember pretending to be happy, pretending to be on top of it all, pretending to be strong and loving, pretending to be a grown up...until I couldn't pretend anymore.

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The challenge in this writing exercise was to, after all the "I remembers," go in and poke at something you really don't want to remember...something you avoid thinking about because it's too ugly or hard or embarassing. As I wrote this the first time (in 2009) and again, this time here, I found/find myself sobbing. This outburst of emotion, I can see, comes from several places: 1.) I am still holding on to bits of shame and guilt for those choices, for my ineptitude as a parent and a person. 2.) My heart is also breaking for that lost and crazy version of me...that me that wasn't me at all...but was. And 3.) this sobbing is also, quite clearly, coming from a beautiful wave of relief and gratitude that I  fought (with my choices) to become a truer version of me...and I am still moving closer to her. She is the best I have to offer this world, and I cannot wait to discover more of her.  

12/27/09 - I remember #3 & #4

I remember my fourth grade teacher Mrs. Hedges. She was old and short with really tall, curly grey hair. Her serious old-school strict demeanor made us all afraid of her and dread the fourth grade from the time we entered first. I also remember learning big things in her class. Important things like geography, the solar system, and pollution. We did not just read a story in her class, we had to learn about author. We also took some big tests for which we actually had to study. I remember secretly liking it all.

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I remember about 15 years or so ago, my cousin Nicole, in all her amazing thoughtfulness, treated me to a sort of spa treatment one evening in her apartment in Chicago. I forgot why she thought I needed it (must have done the trick). I am not a "spa" kind of person, but I enjoyed her company and didn't argue. When I arrived, she had a hot bath drawn and dinner in the oven. It felt so awkward for me to take a bath solely for the sake of pampering myself, at a friend's place, nonetheless. I did it anyway so as not to make her feel silly for being so gracious. When I came out, warm and refreshed (way more than anyone could have convinced me I could have been), she had this buttery, lemony, perfectly seasoned, wonderfully fluffy Orange Roughy ready. It was the best fish I ever ate - to this day. I wanted to lick the pan after we finished it. I actually remember staring at that pan and contemplating the idea.

Female friendships are brave and beautiful. We take risks. We love with acts of kindness. We often do for each other what we wish our men would do for us, without worrying about perception or rejection. I've been hugged by, kissed by, held by, massaged by, pet by, pampered by, scrubbed by, held together by, comforted by, enjoyed by, cradled by, loved by women unself-consciously. I think that in these ways and many more, we are the stronger sex.

12/27/09 - I Remember #2

I remember my great grandmother Nanny carried her money in a change purse she kept in her bra where her breast (surgically removed years ago) used to be. She never minded one bit whipping that little purse out in a checkout line. The first time I witnessed it, I was mortified, then curious, then proud. She was small and had soft white hair that always looked salon-done. I remember she wore this horrible perfume. Chanel #5? And whenever she came from New Mexico for a visit, she would come looking for us, armed with that bottle of horror and spray it all over us. My sisters and I would hide from her until we knew she was unarmed. Aside from that, we enjoyed being with her. She told great stories and was not afraid to say anything. When she was mad at Bompa (great grandpa), she would say, "oh, just stick it in the window and let the window fall on it!" My sister had to explain that one to me, which made me laugh too hard when she said it again. It was clear that she liked us, and we liked her.

12/27/09 - I Remember #1

I remember opening. 

I am opening. 

Shhhhhh.

 What's out there? 

Waiting without any intention...

just waiting, 

right there. 

You can reveal yourself to me. 

I will be still. 

I want to be awake, forever, 

for you. 

Show me how. 

Reveal your perfect truth... 

or truths?

 Make me ready. 

Quiet my head. 

Open my heart...

so wide I lose my self inside it. 

SHOW ME. 

PLEASE.

 AS MUCH AS WE ARE READY FOR. 

I know I remember you. 

I know I can find the details in my dna...

in the dna of daisies 

and bluejays 

and squirrels. 

I see you there and I remember. 

I remember you in tiny footprints 

and in every kind of laughter, 

in sun rises 

and sets.

 I remember you when you blow the hair away from my face 

and touch my cheeks softly with every gentle summer breeze. 

I remember you in music 

and on that hill on 91st street when I'm riding Sissy. 

I remember you in caramel coffee 

and in Tee-Stee's stories. 

I know you from those thank you cards my students write 

and from an afternoon with Maggie. 

Sometimes I see you in the way my husband looks at me, 

and I see and hear and feel and love you in and around and all over my sister Jenny. 

I remember you guiding and nudging me toward my first mission trip. 

I felt you in my cells that week. 

I feel you in my cells sometimes 

and I wish I could always feel you there. 

I wish I could remember who I am...

with you...

always. 

Be here now.

December 23, 2009 - Stuff that Makes Me Happy

      

Last night at dinner with Bob, over a shared prime rib, I fell deeper, yet, in love with my husband. He is working so hard to get that kitchen remodeled the way he wants, but without spending too much (which is really not too much, but he worries). I calm him with reminders of how blessed we are, and how pulling from our savings to invest in our house is why we started saving more aggressively to begin with...and even if we go broke (which we won't) we would do it together and be in a great position to make more $$ on the house and go live in a condo. It all sounds okay to me, as long as we get to hang out. He agrees. We both feel safe in our love and respect for each other.

I am in love with my job right now, too. Delight in everything increases as you SHIFT. (The job is also more delightful, to be realz, because winter break started about an hour ago.) Before leaving school, I got to spend time with a student's mom. She's beautiful. We talked and talked and she reaffirmed for me that people just want to be good. We want to be good and find what makes us happy.

Stuff that makes me happy:

traveling
not being sweaty
mixed berry cobblers with vanilla ice cream
writing
being proud of and happy for my loved ones
music & walking
crossing stuff off to-do lists
time with sisters and sister-friends
Saturday Morning
reading great (albeit not always scholarly) literature
hot showers
having space
being nice to people
breezes in my hair and on my body
paying attention to my love
teaching
understanding

leaves on the water

scooter riding

creating beautiful stuff

mentoring great student teachers

sitting still & quiet

birds on a wire

thunderstorms

curls & squiggles

great coffee

dancing in kitchens

gathering with family

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What makes you happy? Are you doing enough of it?

November 7, 2009 - Maggie Day!

We walked, Maggie and I, with our iPods, and found God everywhere. Maggie saw clues to secret treasures in the sidewalk stamps. She is God's joy in motion. Constant motion. We breakfasted at Panera. We colored.  I read to her, and she read to me. We went to Target and to the park where she found friends exactly her size that called to her, "hey, little girl..." We wrote in our journals. I slept on the futon to be close to her and good thing, too. It was not long before she was pushing me off it as she snuggled in and kicked her way to 80% takeover. There are not many things worth a good night's sleep. Maggie is one of them.

July 1, 2009 - Understanding, by Design?

Day 1 of UbD workshop. UbD (Understanding by Design) is the latest acronym to solve the invented woes of our education system. I volunteered to help rewrite curriculum to reflect the UbD concept. Undertaking this futile endeavor (as we never stay with a reform idea for more than 3 years) would entail enduring 4 days of this "training." Trying to stay open and positive, I go to the workshop with a happy heart and a mind ready to learn and grow.

Ugh!! That was effing frustrating! I got so crabby because that condescending presenter kept contradicting herself as she managed to create more confusion around EVERY question anyone asked. She could not seem to explain anything so that it made any sense. Now my pain body is hovering around again because I allowed myself to become so agitated with the presenter's lack of facilitation skills and unnerving directness as she told everyone how wrong they were. A dark part of me wants to punch her face.

I have to weigh the unprofessional choice to give up on this commitment with the likelihood of my unprofessional behavior in response to that woman if I stuck it out another 3 days. I choose to not attend days 2 through 4. I am afraid of my negativity making a tough situation worse for others.

And, yes, it occurs to me that my annoyance with this woman's lack of skills may be a reflection of a similar deficit in myself as teacher. Oh, how I hate to look at my own ugly. Many times, when I am not as prepared and intentional as I could be, my lessons come out sloppy and unclear. My students are not shy about telling me this, and instead of taking it personal (as I usually do), I can be learning how to facilitate in a way that allows for lower levels of frustration and higher understanding. I can see, now, how I might be making learners uncomfortable. I will focus more on my own presentation style. That's awful to sit through, and I hate to think I torture my students that way.

That is my Understanding...by Design? Oh, you clever universe.

Student changed the title. I kind of agree. Except he did not use a comma between the two adjectives.