Monday Night Poem

Fabulous shame—

Bitter taste of words unspoken,

Burning gaze of expectation

Never fulfilled.

Coals of regret singeing my lungs—

With every sizzle, knowing

I didn’t let anyone down.

Rotten peace—

Words set free like doves

To be marked for hunters’ sport and

Shot through with a million jagged metal bits.

Twisting,

Writhing,

Tumbling from the sky.

Set free to die.

Snakes on a Bus?

A friend of mine from school just introduced me to this blog created by a couple of his friends. It's like an amateur Onion for educators. Check out the bus driver post especially.

Looking for Amazima

The departure of our dear friend Chris has brought with it an unexpected result . . . it feels like I'm a balloon whose tether has suddenly been cut, allowing me to float up above my life and consider it from a perspective I haven't had in years.
After I graduated college, life felt limited and limitless. Move to Montana? Why not. Search for any old job to tide me over? Why not. Apply to teach in one school way back in the South? Why not. Little to risk, little to lose.
Then, with the hire in that school way back in the South, suddenly came this sense of calling and purpose. Move back. Figure out the massive task of teaching in a community that seems to not really see the point of education. Build relationships, show unconditional love, keep my head above water in a place that would really rather not have any of this, thank you. But I was called. I had prayed that God would make it happen if He indeed wanted me here, and here I was, prayers answered. Meet my best friend and love of my life, marry him, move into our patchwork house. Calling solidifed and confirmed.
But suddenly I find myself 4 years into what now feels less like a calling and more like a career. In addition to that, balloon Meg is these days constantly bumping into people, blogs, newsletters, natural disasters, etc., all of which are making me question the very calling that seemed so clear 4 years ago. Disciples like Katie call me to remember Jesus' warning to count the cost of following Him, but the cost of my life right now seems low to nonexistent. We are both young, both free of obligations (besides the house, of course) . . . limitless and limited, once again. Where to go? What to do? What is it that He wants from us? What cost does He want from us?
Of course, both of us agree that we can't think of any place where we could do any more good than where we are already. We speak the language of our students. We are trained to teach them. They are transported to us everyday. We are not dependent on others to support us in these difficult financial times. The needs of those in our community are great, and we have easy avenues to build relationships with them and the means to love them. I cannot help this feeling of restlessness, though. We will see where it leads.

two year hiatus

A couple of friends have mentioned this (massive, I must say) blog. Upon perusing it, I feel compelled to mention its deliciousness (word?), precisely because of posts such as this:

http://thepioneerwoman.com/blog/2009/12/dream_on_buddy/

What's in a Name

As a novice Language Arts teacher, I've begun to experience the joy of parents who have chosen rather unique names for their offspring. My first year it was pretty much limited to Kane, graduating to Ricky Martin and Austin Powers last year. This coming term, however, promises to be even more noteworthy. We've got a Precious Favors and even a Fooquan (pronounced "fook-wan") joining us on our team. None of these distinguished students, however, have experienced the likes of what is going on in New Zealand.

All I have to say is, with my husband and his fixation with names like Wagon Wheel and Circus, we better not do any vacationing with the Kiwis once our poor children are born.

Pictures of . . .

. . . almost our house. Check them out on the old flickr.

Please, not a cycle

Tim has spent the weekend and first part of this week battling the almost-flu, shooing me away whenever I get close to him with, "Don't! You'll get sick!" I spent the weekend and first part of this week laughing at him with, "If I'm going to get sick, it's already too late."
Well, now I'm sick too--frustratingly, after cleaning/disinfecting almost every surface (think: doorknobs, tables, bookshelves, windowsills . . . you get the picture) in the apartment last night. Oh well, at least my new sneeze germs will find a nice clean place to land and make their home.

Sunday School Questions

Loosely quoted questions from my 4th and 5th grade Sunday Schoolers today:

1) What do you call people who don't believe in God?

2) Why did Jesus have to be baptized if He was perfect?

3) People say that God is 3 in 1. What does that mean? How can that be?

4) Some people say that Jesus is God's Son, and some people say that He's not. Which one is right?

5) The Bible says that even calling somebody a fool is enough of a sin for the sinner to spend an eternity in Hell. In the Apostle's Creed, it says that we believe Jesus only spent three days in Hell, paying for our sins. So how could He have paid for so many sins if what that Bible says about the "fool" sin is true?

I don't remember thinking about such important things at so young an age. Are the hormones in milk not only speeding up puberty but also the mystical "age of accountability"?

Low to High to ?

At the beginning of the school year, I somewhat naively affixed my name to a coaching contract for this spring. Last year's track season was a slacker assistant coach's dream: show up on the afternoons which are convenient for you, get in a good workout and a few laughs with some kids, blow a whistle, look official, etc. So when I carefully swirled my cursive m, e's, and d on the contract this year, my vision of the season was, well, somewhat different than what 2008 RMS track has become in reality.

Due to lack of staff/interest/general giving-a-crap, I find myself no longer the girl's assistant coach. Oh no, folks, my pretty little signature has won me the grand prize of girls and boys head coach this season. (Note the aforementioned picture of the coach I was last year--my FIRST coaching position).

I held a preliminary interest meeting Friday. Roughly two hundred kids showed up.
As soon as the kids left, I freaked out, threatened refusing to coach the boys, engendered sympathy from friends, etc.

After a weekend's breather, though, I'm feeling better about this challenge. Voluntary conditioning started today after school, and only about 15 kids showed. We had a good workout, got to know each other, and left promise for the afternoons and evenings to come.

Tryouts begin Monday and are not voluntary. Whether or not I'll be stampeded by the hordes of the interest meeting, I don't know. I do know, however, that I'm actually looking forward to tomorrow afternoon.

thoughts, sayings, actions, emotions

(mine and others')

Marriage doesn't change anything about your relationship except for the way people look at you.

Two congratulatory cards.

Two overwhelmingly generous promised showers/parties.

Genuine joy.

Blue eyes crinkled up by the biggest, most peaceful smile I've ever seen on his face.

I'm going to be my wedding photographer's next door neighbor in a few months.

No more Deaver's Achievers. Sparks' Spectaculars? Sparktacular's? Sparkler's? This could get out of hand.

You're not leaving us, then? You're sticking around a little longer and aren't going granola--off to live in the woods alone? You know I mean that in the best way possible, right?

How can I help you?

He did good.

I love you both!

Everything.

Nothing.

How do I know what is important and what is not?

Prayers. Tears.

Laughter.

New recipes, old songs, dancing in the kitchen to both.

Leaving, cleaving. Waiting.

NEWs

Catch the Flickr photos. I'm gonna be a Mrs.

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.