Curious Connections

Cleaning the bathroom tonight,
My nose and throat sting
As Tilex-induced vapors bore their collective ways
Into my mucous membranes,
Raw already from this week's cold.

My memory burns too.

The eyes inside my skull blind me to shower grime, and
Peer into a dark, cool changing room.
Shadowed green, white, and yellow tiles
Drip with condensation created by the perfect recipe of
Wet bodies, the Georgia summer heat, and humidity which would make pine straw curl.
Sunshined green leaves and light peep through high windows
And I hear a girl yell as she jumps off the diving board across the courtyard.
My rubber band goggles strap tugs at my knotted hair,
And my feet slide across the foam soles of flip-flops which are too big and mildewed.
I hurriedly do my business in the swimming pool's stall,
Considering the tumor on my great-grandmother's leg
Which only made its presence known during swimsuit days in Texas just like this one.
Did she notice it first in the mirror of a swimming pool bathroom like this?
Do I have one too?
I curiously study my skinny thigh in the corroded mirror.
My eyes and nose burn from the truckloads of chlorine in the pool.
It is a gift which I now carry permanently in my hair, eyes, mouth, nose, skin.
I push open the heavy, metal door,
Into the heat
To go back for more.

Anticipation

O come, o come Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here,
Until the Son of God appears.

Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice!
Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice!

O come, Thou Dayspring, cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here.
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death's dark shadows put to flight.

Four Wheel Fall

Despite drought, fires, and negativity, the fall has triumphed yet again. Yesterday, Tim and I relived our youth by tearing through peaceful, leaf-covered paths out to the power lines near his parents' house. Though the overall colors may not be high-scoring for the experienced Tennessean, there were several especially flamboyant maples which we caught sight of. Here are a few other glimpses of the clime:

A Good Day

Yesterday, I awoke to this.

So we decided to shrug it off and go camping anyway. Whereupon we found this:
(That's a forest fire.) Along with 20 coon hunters and their thousand coon dogs in our favorite camping spot.

Today, my apartment parking lot looks like this:

And three neighbors' cars + mine are trashed.



Running through yesterday's chaos, however, was indescribable joy. I missed church and Sunday School, but I got the chance to fellowship with four delightful Christian neighbors (all of them involved in the wall incident!) as we waited on the appropriate authorities to arrive. I didn't sleep outdoors by a river as planned, but I spent 4 hours of the morning in the brilliant fall sunshine, sipping coffee and laughing with new friends. Tim and I didn't sit around a campfire in the middle of nowhere last night; we got the chance to hang out with his brother and Reidun around a fire pit in his backyard. Lately, I've realized how deeply I long for the kind of friendships I had in college. I can still carry on the most solid part of them over the phone or in now-and-then visits--the part that shares concerns, prayers, hopes, the big things. But the explosions of laughter and delight--a cardboard figure of Homer Simpson gazing out off the roof, Club Sparkle karaoke, Bloody Fang--are few and far between now.

I found that part yesterday, though, over and over again. Maybe God makes walls fall down and fires burn for more reasons than the destruction of His enemies. Maybe He uses catastrophes to help with little longings for laughter too.

My car is smashed and a forest fire prevented us from camping. To God be the glory.

Bing calleth

Tomorrow, Tim and I are going to see White Christmas the musical with my mom and dad. This one is for the girls.

We wait, we hope, we trust, we know?

Today's impossible dream: helping my students apply characterization to a story in an age-appropriate, culture-appropriate, down-to-earth, [insert own catch-phrase hyphenated description here] manner.

"Describe John Wilson's characterization at the beginning of the story."

"He was in Vietnam."

"Yes, he was a Vietnam veteran, but what was he like as a person?"

[pause]

"Armless."

"Okay, armless. Add that to the list."

"Yeah! He was ugly too!"

"Maybe, but we're focusing on what he was like on the inside."

"But he WAS ugly. He had that nasty hair and dressed like a homeless man!"

"Personality, folks. Inside."

"Ooh! OOOH! He was unemployed!"

"Okay, good descriptions, BUT still failing to answer the original question. Remember back to the first days of school. Your parents maybe asked you what your teachers were like, and you said, "Mr. Correll is AWESOME, Ms. Deaver is weird [lots of heartfelt 'uh-huhs' in the background], Mr. Bailey is loud, Mrs. McKinney is strict but cool, and Mr. Long is incredible. Now pretend like you have to describe John Wilson like that. I'm asking you, what is John Wilson like?"

"Nice."

"Okay, that's a start."

And so it goes.

October Storm

Bells on bough,
Once stretching every vein and chlorophyll-green cell to its bursting point--
Now huddled and clustered
Like old bankers in black wool trench coats
Waiting for a bus to work
In a wet, grey London morning.
You hold your head down and companions close,
As if together you will be stronger--
Bearing folded wings against the whipping wind.

Shiver, tremble, quiver.
Vibrate.
Resonate!

Stir the air with frantic circles.
Cling!
Cling by a thread--
Fibers so thin and dry they may
Snap
At any moment.

You hush my hurry,
Shushing louder than any schoolteacher
During an exam.

On inhospitable heights you--
Lonely in community--
Wave, whip, tinkle,
Tolling the untold,
The silent.
Calling, "Courage!"
With mute lips
And loud limbs.

Ring for me,
You hopeless lot.

Ring your melody of bravery
Until your grip is lost,
Strands tearing our mutual tension
To shreds.
And you fall,
Tumbling, in dizzying concentric circles,
Terrified at the void
And lost forever.

Charles Dickens and a Screeching Sholandric

There are exactly six days of school left. Six. And then it's over, my first year . . . no fanfare, no meaningful pinpoint in time, no big to-do. I usually finish these things, the milestones, with something in my hand or on a piece of paper giving me a pat on the back. I guess I have some of those this year, but in the end, my eyes might be too tired to read them and my hands too tired to hold them. The eyes and voices of my fellow teachers whisper that they too feel it--pure exhaustion. This is an empty time of year . . . the purpose in it all seems to have flown away. Discontent reigns inexplicably in the middle of unaccountability.

Two days ago, a girl in my class made me a little notebook paper poster of my name, along with the comments that I was "the coolest" and her "favorite teacher." Then yesterday I picked another girl over her to replace me in our Teacher for the Day stunt. The compensation hug and "It was a really difficult decision" were hollow.

Running a marathon: accomplishing something, then at the end, realizing that what you've just focused all your energies on is about to end itself, be over, and that you have somewhat destroyed yourself in pursuing it.

spring

I hear the train a'coming . . .
March comes in like a lion . . .
Spring fever . . .

It was warm today. Actually warm. And through a haze of bronchial weezes, it suddenly hit me. Spring is coming. I've been superbly happy this winter, but there's just something about crossing that 70 degree mark that pushes my joy meter into the danger zone. Summer, come quickly.

RMS

My roommate Abby is now knee-deep in student teaching in the other school I taught at last year. Watching her wade through overachievers (that's for you, Tim), coaches, Paidea curriculum expectations, and the general "too much to do in too little time" takes me back. Last year at this time, I was two weeks into experiencing the great Rossville Middle, having launched the temporary assignment with mind made firmly up that I was NOT going to be a teacher. Then I was thrust into this artic, asbestos-laced building . . . America's Choice, 2nd grade reading levels, complete lack of social graces, odd odors, and mice. How do I know if a sentence is complete or not? What in the world is a narrative? How do you fit a 120 minute lesson plan into 75? How do you teach someone to read at the 3rd grade level when you are trained starting at a 6th grade level? I started like Abs . . . frustrated, overwhelmed, unsure . . . And, then, 4 months later, my mind was firmly made up. I'd be back.

I'm so glad I did.

bend it like, well, you know

So David Beckham is moving to L.A. And I'm willing to bet significant sums of money that, when he was 22, the thought of a California breeze daily ruffling his perfectly mussed hair was farther from his mind than the thought of a California lifestyle is to a humpback whale. Why star in a Coming to America sequel when you are the god of an entire country? In L.A., the novelty of his accent and his wife's strange fashion will soon wear off, and he will fade into normality, just one of thousands like him.
Why jump for so drastic a change? Why leave so much good behind? Why pursue uncertainty?
Deep beneath all the soccer politics and the draws of LA, I believe that Beckham is moving because of something much more important. I can't pinpoint it yet, but I heard it whispering in my ear this morning as my homeroom furiously scribbled their 3 quarter prompts. I'm halfway through this first year of teaching, supposedly changing lives, and I'm wondering if this is it. "Little c" calling, destiny, life goal . . . approaching is more than a trade or new contract with a 1874909837 million pound signing bonus. It's LA that I see up ahead. And the new contract might be a better move. What helped Beckham figure it out? That's what I want to know.