Garth Brooks

It’s a little dreary outside, and we’re in for a heat wave today.  I’m sitting in my favorite corner spot on our new sectional, watching the birds through the picture window, sipping coffee, and listening to Garth Brooks’ most recent album.  

My birthday was in April, but I’m getting my gift today.  After 25 years of waiting, I’m finally going to see Garth in concert.  I’m little-kid-at-Christmas excited.  Foolishly excited.  

I bought not only one but TWO new shirts for the occasion.  They both read, “Blame it all on my roots,” because I’m THAT obsessed.  I bought two in case one didn’t fit right, but I’m glad I did because I’ll probably sweat right through the first one before we even get into the stadium.  

I mean, I would prefer it to be 70 degrees, but I’m not going to let a heat wave ruin my good time.  I’ve got a cooler full of water bottles and hard lemonades, and we’ll grab some sandwiches and chips from the local sub shop.  We’ll arrive early with our chairs and our cooler and our Garth playlist.  We’re doing this one right.  

*****

I’m seventeen years old; a newly licensed driver, relishing the freedom that comes with my own car.  I’m perched on the edge of the bed in my best friend’s room, letting her do my makeup.  Country radio is playing in the background, and when Garth comes on, the two of us grab hairbrush microphones and sing “Ain’t Going Down ‘till the Sun Comes Up” at the top of our lungs.  We’re jumping on the bed with the excitement of toddlers, gearing up for a bonfire in the woods.  

*****

I’m a freshman in college, with my fake ID in the back pocket of my low-rise jeans.  My tank top slips off my shoulder as my friends and I embrace and sing along to “Friends in Low Places” at the local bar.  We are young and foolish and full of possibility. 

******

I’m sixteen, in my tiny basement bedroom.  I’m just learning about betrayal, and my emotions are raw.  I’m proud of my new tape/CD player with detachable speakers, and I crank up the volume and play “The Thunder Rolls” on repeat, beating that iconic drum part with my concert band drumsticks on my twin mattress.  

*****

I’m fourteen years old, and mostly clueless about life.  But I’m full of teenage angst and optimism.  “The River” paints a picture of a life well-lived.  It feels like I’m learning a lesson from this song that I don’t fully understand yet.  But I sing along, dreaming of what the future might hold.   

*****

I’m eighteen years old, sitting with my bare feet on the dash of my boyfriend’s pickup truck. We’re sharing a gas station soda and a bag of gummy bears, singing along to “Wrapped Up In You.” I feel the warm wind blow through my hair and I can’t imagine a moment better than this one.

*****

I started dating my first boyfriend in 10th grade.  We were together for nearly three years, and when we broke up during my freshman year in college, “Unanswered Prayers” was the anthem that I used to heal my broken heart.  

*****

Sevens came out during my senior year in High School.  It was one of Garth’s less successful albums, but the heartbreak spoke to me.  The ballads were different than the honkey-tonk music he was famous for, but the track, “You Move Me,” did just that, and I couldn’t stop listening.  “In Another’s Eyes” was heartfelt and brutal and beautiful (and his first duet with Trisha).  To this day, I can sing every word on that album, because I listened to it on repeat for so long. 

*****

I’m a words girl. Lyrics speak to me.  In my teens and twenties, when I bought a new CD, I would slide the sleeve out of the plastic case and listen to the entire album, reading along with the printed words, to make sure I got the full impact of the song.  “Belleau Wood” was the last song on the Sevens album, and the first song that ever brought me to tears.  I played it for everyone I knew, moved by the idea that it was possible to find beauty in the tragedy of war.  

*****

As I started to understand that the world was full of injustice and tragedy, “We Shall Be Free” came out.  It was a social justice anthem that spoke to me before I even knew what social justice meant.  

***** 

I’ve always been attracted to guys with a wild side.  But I’ve mostly been a straight and narrow kind of girl.  “Cowboys and Angels” made me feel understood and seen, and I would blast it on my discman, precariously balanced on the passenger seat of my 1984 Mercury Marquis and plugged into my car speaker.  Every time I hit a pothole, I would have to start it over, and it didn’t even make me mad. 

*****

Garth Brooks wrote the soundtrack to my teens and early twenties.  His music helped me to figure out who I was and imagine who I wanted to be. 

Music.  It changes us.  It speaks to us.  It brings us back.  It helps us dream. 

Tonight, I’m going to drink some hard lemonades and eat potato chips on the tailgate of my husband’s truck.  I’m going to sweat my ass off and sing at the top of my lungs and pack into a stadium with thousands of other people.  I’m going to see Garth Brooks LIVE and make a new memory to add to the list.  

I can’t wait. 

Lilacs

I love lilacs.  They remind me of my childhood.  In the space between the home where I grew up and my grandma’s house next door, there was a drainage ditch (which we thought was a river) with two lilac bushes nestled beside it.  In between those two bushes, there was a space just small enough that a little girl could sit there with her book and listen to the water trickle by and smell the sweetness of the flowers and disappear into a fictional world.  

When we bought our home, I was delighted to find a beautiful, mature lilac bush in the front corner of the yard.  I don’t hide under the flowers with my book anymore, but I like to cut them in spring and bring them inside… to my living room or my office or my bedroom.  The smell works like a time machine.  

Sometimes I think about that little girl.  Actually, I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately.  My therapist likes to talk about her.  So does my mom.  And my sisters.  My stepdad brought her up recently.  

The thing is… I don’t have a lot of memories of her.  Is that weird?  I’ve always had a terrible memory.  My sisters tell me stories that don’t even ring a bell, insisting I was there.  My friends ask me about middle school dances and high school assignments and field trips that everyone else remembers.  I know I was there, but I don’t really recall. That’s not to say I don’t have ANY memories.  I do.  I even have a few pretty vivid ones.  But not a lot.  Not as many as I probably should. 

Is that a personality trait?  Is it biological?  Is it some sort of psychological defense mechanism? 

In a way, I think it’s a blessing.  I rarely hold a grudge, because half the time I can’t even remember what the argument was about.  I’m quick to forgive because I probably won’t remember what I was mad about in the first place.   

A few decades ago, my (then) new roommate and I were just getting to know each other.  We had exchanged a few stories about our childhoods.  Her biological father died when she was a baby.  And I said something along the lines of, “I didn’t really have anything BAD happen in my childhood.”  

Her jaw dropped.  “Are you serious?”  She was looking at me like I was insane.  But I was sincere.  And I was confused.  

“But…  all the divorces?” She asked.

“Yeah, but that’s just what it was.  It wasn’t traumatic.”

“And you practically raised your sisters, right?”

“Well, yeah, but…”

“And didn’t you say you were kidnapped twice?”

“Only by my parents.  That doesn’t really count.” 

“What about the custody battles?  And when your dad cut you off?  And the times when your mom had you lie for her?  And the cheating and the money stuff and… Jesus, Ame!  No trauma?  You can’t really believe that.” 

But I honestly did.  In a way, I still do.  Thank God for that friend… she’s been calling me out on my delusions for more than twenty years.  

And maybe all of that suppressed family drama (I still resist dubbing it ‘trauma’) is WHY I loved to curl up and escape into somebody else’s world.  I had so many hiding places.  I made a bed in the back of my closet where I could hide and read.  There was a fort in the woods near the house where I would curl up with a paperback.  There was a corner of the basement with a beanbag chair next to the toy box.  

Here’s one of those actual vivid memories.  I must’ve been about 11 or 12 years old.  In our house, we ALL cleaned up after dinner.  And sometimes, I would escape to the bathroom.  After all, you couldn’t get in trouble for having to poop, right? 

Wrong.  I must’ve really been engrossed one night.  I took too long in the bathroom.  My parents called me twice and both times, I snarkily replied, “I’m in the BATHROOM! Can’t a person POOP IN PEACE?” And then I kept reading my book on the toilet.  

Eventually my mom came up and shouted through the locked door.  “There is NO way you’re still using the bathroom.  You’ve got a book in there.”

“I do NOT, Mom.  God.  You’re such a pain.” 

And she stood outside the door, waiting for me to emerge so she could search the bathroom for my book and make a liar out of me.

Another time, she had found my book under the bathroom sink, so I knew that wasn’t a safe place to stash my contraband novel.  What she didn’t know is that I had gotten a lot more creative (and a little bit taller) since the last search mission.  

We had a cabinet over the back of the toilet.  It held towels and toilet paper and was pretty substantial.  The top of it didn’t quite reach the ceiling.  There was a crevice at the top, between the cabinet itself and the decorative piece at the front.  It was just big enough to stash a book, and just small enough to be nearly invisible.  

I finally emerged from the bathroom, and my book stayed safely in that crevice while my mother tore apart the contents of the cabinet.  She pulled out every towel and every roll of toilet paper.  She pulled out every styling tool and bottle of cleaner under the sink.  And she never did find that book.  

Mom, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry.  And if it’s any consolation, I’m now parenting my own teens and every snarky remark makes me more grateful for your patience. 

And when I think about that little girl… and that preteen one… and the older, teenage version, I have mostly fond memories.  I love the idea that every version of me is still THERE, within me.  I think I got that idea from Ann Lamont, somewhere along the line, and I think it’s beautiful.  

My love of reading has been inside me forever.  My tendency for caretaking has never left me.  My desire for peace, for connection, for spirituality have been threads that run through my six year-old self, my 12 year-old self, my 26 year-old self, and this current, 42 year-old version of me.   

And those lilacs?  They speak to each one.  

Mother’s Day Weekend

I’ve been a ball of nerves for two days.  It’s been hard to pinpoint one reason why, because the reasons wouldn’t stop swirling around my head long enough for me to pin them down. 

I think a lot of it was related to my ‘to-do’ list, so I started knocking things off, one by one.  Prepare a children’s message for church.  Fill out the spreadsheet for work.  Write that IEP.  Pay that bill.  Buy the snacks for that event.  Send that email.  Wash those dishes.  

As I get closer to the bottom of that list, the anxiety dissipates a little.  But I’m still a little off-kilter.  In that way that feels like I’m forgetting something. 

I think it happens when my compartmentalizing fails.  

When I left my classroom on Friday afternoon, I knew that I still had some work to do.  I was concerned about two big meetings coming up on Monday.  I still had a little prep to do for that.  And I hadn’t QUITE finished my lesson plans for next week.  There was also some prep to do for MCAS testing, which starts on Wednesday.  But I left my classroom anyway, trying to map out a schedule for how to get it all done.  I still squeezed in a few drinks with some colleagues and a movie with my family.  I knew there was a lot to do, but I didn’t want to give up the things that make me feel whole.  

This weekend, I also had a lot of church stuff going on.  And the church stuff is, quite literally, my second job.  I’m in charge of our Sunday School and Faith Formation, which also means some coordination of special events.  We hosted an event on Saturday, which required some prep and planning.  It was fun, and it went off without a hitch.  PLUS I got most of the work for Monday taken care of, so I was stressed but productive.  And then we had a fun, social event and I had some time to connect with friends and church members who bring me joy. 

This morning, I was in charge of the children’s message and a Sunday school lesson for church, which takes me more time than it probably should.  Yesterday, I had gathered some ideas, but this morning I got up early to work out the details and the kinks.  Mission accomplished. 

But the weekend isn’t over, because it’s also Mother’s Day.  So I’m hosting my husband’s family at my house this evening.  Jack and the kids are doing most of the work, but they still need a little supervision and direction.  I sliced the strawberries and prepped the potatoes and cleaned the upstairs bathroom.  And then I poured myself a glass of wine and headed up to my office.  

And here we are.  I’m writing instead of reviewing the MCAS accommodations one more time.  I’m sipping wine instead of sweeping the floor.  I’m resting instead of checking my work email.  

When I have to focus on all of the things in the short span of a weekend; the family stuff and the work stuff and the church stuff, the busy-ness takes over.  The doing takes over and I forget that it’s okay to just be, well… be-ing.  A human being instead of a human doing

But this weekend was good.  I feel like I tried to add balance.  I did some being.  I spent some time with family and friends.  I spent some time in prayer.  I spent some time writing.  I spent some time connecting.  

And now it’s time to spend some time relaxing.  Because, after all, it IS Mother’s Day.  The rest of it can wait.  It will all get done.  It always does. 

Happy Mother’s Day to those who are celebrating.  I hope you get to spend at least some of your day just being.   

Emotional

It’s 5:30 in the afternoon.  I worked a full day, stayed after school to help a few struggling students, and then spent an hour sitting in the car on the phone with my therapist.  

Now I’m home.  I’ve changed into my leggings and one of my favorite, soft, baggy shirts.  The text on the front reads, “Kindness Matters.”  I’ve got a third of my afternoon Dunkin Donuts coffee left in this plastic cup by my side, and the steak I just sliced for dinner needs to marinate for 30 minutes.  

So I can write.  Or I suppose I could read.  But I need one or the other.  Because words are the thing that can best soothe my soul.  

It all feels a little bit overwhelming right now.  You can tell because I haven’t posted anything in a while.  

What’s new?  Absolutely nothing.  And everything.  Isn’t that the way it always is?  I live the same day; variations on a theme.  I feel trapped.  I liberate myself.  Things get better.  Then worse. 

I get terrible news.  Followed by an inspiring email.  The sun shines.  The sleet falls.  Such is spring in New England.  

I don’t have any insight today.  I just have so many damned feelings.  I’m overflowing with them.  Fear.  Regret.  Joy.  Peace.  Frustration.  Contentment.  In waves, they just keep coming.  They tug me under.  Throw me against the rocks.  Bring me to shore.  

All I can do is roll with them.  Try to feel them instead of analyzing them.  Try to be in the moment instead of above it all.  

My shirt is soft.  My drink is sweet.  My dog is snoring at my feet.  The wind is blowing outside.  

I tell myself to stay here.  To stop following that voice in my head that wants to ruminate or anticipate.  

Notice it all.  Stay in the moment.  My house is warm.  My fridge is full.  The wind is blowing and the sun is shining. 

There is nothing to fear in this moment.  Why do I find it so hard to just stay here?  

Snowstorm

There’s a shot of Bailey’s in my coffee this morning; a rare treat reserved for the days when I don’t plan on going anywhere.  We’re hunkered down for a snowstorm like the hardy New Englanders we claim to be.  Stocked up on batteries, gas for the generator, and wood for the fireplace.  We’ve got plenty of food in the fridge. While there tends to be a rush for bread and milk during a blizzard, I’m more focused on making sure we have coffee and wine.  And something to simmer in the crockpot all day.  We’re good here.  

I promised myself I would write today.  It’s been way too long.  

When I don’t write, there’s usually a reason.  I like to write something and wrap it up with a little bow at the end.  That’s my style.  I like things to be neat. 

When I’m not publishing, that doesn’t mean I’m not writing.  I’m ALWAYS writing.  It’s how I process things.  It’s how I work through my emotions and talk myself off the edge.  It’s how I think things through and figure things out and make hard decisions.  But when I’m not publishing blogs, it’s usually because I’m still working on it.  I haven’t figured it out.  

But when life is messy and things are ongoing and I can’t find a neat little bow, my writing becomes 18 unfinished, typewritten diary entries sitting on my desktop.  That’s what I’ve got now.  The last three are titled, “Fractured Family,” “Stealth,” and “The things I’ve done wrong.” 

I started them all, hoping to find a happy ending.  I was writing to get to that neat little bow at the end.  And I couldn’t find it.  

*****

Here are some things that keep swirling around in brain and in my writing.  I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to give them neat little bows. 

– Bea is gone.  I may have lost her forever.  For five years, she was part of our home.  To me, she will always be family. But she needs space and she’s disconnected and there’s really nothing I can do about that.  It hurts.  

– My sisters are fighting.  Not just regular ‘sister-drama,’ as my husband calls it.  But real, “We haven’t spoken in a over a year” fighting.  And it’s affecting us all.  My dad is sick.  My other sister is pregnant.  We need our sister connection more than ever and it’s splintered in a way that breaks my heart.  I wish I could fix it, but I can’t.  

– Work is a minefield.  I still love my job.  There are still beautiful moments.  But the joy is hard to find, and the trauma is lingering just below the surface. We are all overwhelmed by new and ever-changing rules.  Mental health is deteriorating and our efforts to build resilience and joy are often met with apathy.  It’s exhausting.

*****

That little list makes it seem like life is awful right now.  But, the thing is, it’s NOT.  Our little family of four is connecting better than ever.  Our home is full of laughter.  The boys are doing well in school and exploring new hobbies and Lee has a job.  I’m using YouTube tutorials to learn how to crochet, and there are moments when we’re all gathered in the living room watching a movie and I’m making a blanket, and there is a log burning in the fireplace and I think, “Hold on to this moment.  It doesn’t get any better.” 

 We’re financially stable in a way that is unfamiliar and entirely liberating.  We’re planning a trip to Florida soon.  My mom has lived there for more than a decade, and we keep saying we’ll save the money to come.  We’re finally doing it.  I can’t wait. 

We have good friends.  We’re so blessed to have friends to celebrate with us and cry with us and share the burdens and the joys.  I don’t take that for granted.  

We have our families.  Our beautiful, complicated, messy, connections that bind us forever, whether we want them or now.  

We are bound. 

We are connected.  

Maybe that’s the neat little bow for this post. 

I reread what I’ve just written.  What’s the theme?  What am I supposed to realize?  What am I meant to learn?

We are interconnected.  We are woven together in a way that is divine and holy and beyond our understanding.  

My student’s anxiety doesn’t just belong to them.  It belongs to all of us.  My sisters’ argument isn’t just theirs.  It radiates through our family.  Bea’s choices aren’t just hers.  They ripple through to touch all of the people who have ever loved her.  But the joy affects us all, too.  My children’s laughter strengthens me… which supports my students.  Our friends hold us up when things get tough; so then we can lift and support others.  That fire in the fireplace and the Bailey’s in my coffee lift my spirits, and there is purpose in that, as well.  Maybe all the time that I spend trying to solve unsolvable problems is better spent seeking joy and strength.

Let go and Let God, right?  You can’t fix it all.  You can’t wrap everything up with a neat little bow.  But you can shift your focus to the things that help you weather the storm.  A fire in the fireplace.  Soft yarn against my fingertips.  A shot of Bailey’s in my coffee.  

May we all be blessed with a little bit of beauty and joy as we weather this storm together.   

A room of my own

I had my own room for a time in my teens.  I had my own apartment for a few months in my 20s.  But for most of my life, I’ve shared space with various siblings, roommates, and friends.  When Jack and I started dating, I didn’t consciously consider the reality that I just signed up to share a room for the rest of my life

I’m a pretty social person.  I enjoy people.  And for the most part, I like sharing space.  I love having someone to talk to, someone to cuddle with, someone to laugh with.  I especially love that that person is my husband.  I want to share a bedroom with him forever.

But I’ve always wanted my own little office.  Since I was a kid, I’ve been slightly obsessed with pretty stationery and pens, post-its and colored paperclips.  I love the feel of a solid stapler in my hand, and the smell of a brand new notebook. The click of my fingers on the keyboard is a calming sort of background music to my thoughts.  An office. A quiet space for working and reading and writing.  Wouldn’t that be lovely? 

Turns out, it is.  It is SO FREAKING LOVELY. 

It’s not entirely finished, but over the past few weeks, I’ve been assembling my office.  With Bea gone, we have an extra little bedroom.  It’s just barely large enough to fit a full size bed, so it wasn’t ideal as a kid’s room.  But it is the perfect size for this.  

*****

When I first started this project, I had a vision in mind.  I wanted a comfy chair.  I wanted lots of shelving.  I wanted calming colors and pretty patterns and knickknacks and tchotchkes that made me smile.  I imagined pretty candles and soothing scents and fabric-covered boxes to hold my memorabilia.  

I have a canvas print of a photo that Cal took on the beach.  The sun is setting and the water is coming in and Lee is a blurred figure in the foreground of the shot.  It’s beautiful.  And I could picture it clearly on the wall in this room in my imagination.  

*****

The first thing I bought for the space was a teal, wire wall hanging shaped like the side of a birdcage.  It came with a few small clothespins on it, and it functions as a pretty sort of corkboard for hanging photos and reminders and business cards.  I bought it at a local antique shop when the office only existed in my imagination.  It felt frivolous.  I was buying something I didn’t need for a room that didn’t exist.  But I LIKED it.  I REALLY liked it.  So I splurged a little.  

A few weeks later, the work began.  We started to empty that little room.  The closet was full of Legos and Light Sabers and Avengers paraphernalia. Cal and I painstakingly sorted it all into piles.  Keep.  Gift.  Donate.  Trash.  To make this new space for me, we had to wade through so many of his memories.  It was bittersweet.  

Once the room was cleared out, I wanted to maximize the space.  The doors came off the closet and Jack removed the built-in shelving.  Now I had a cubby.  The old closet was about 7 feet wide and a little more than 2 feet deep.  I imagined a desk in that space, surrounded by shelves for books and photos and pretty, useless things.    

But if I was planning to sit in that little cubby and create something beautiful, I wanted to look at something beautiful.  Instead of painting the wall, I decided I wanted wallpaper there.  I wanted something that would pop a little.  I wanted something happy and colorful.  

I started at Lowe’s.  Jack and I looked at wallpaper, and while there were some perfectly nice things, I didn’t find anything I loved.  And I wanted to love it.  

That was a new feeling.  I have always shopped for the best deals on the most useful things.  I typically pick the ‘good enough’ version of what I need because it is less expensive or more functional or whatever.  I’m quick to compromise. 

When shopping for new bedding, I chose something with a mandala pattern because Jack didn’t want to sleep in a flowery room.  I went easy on the throw pillows, because he doesn’t share my affinity for decorative fluff.  It wasn’t that I didn’t like what I was choosing; it’s just that everything was a little bit of a compromise. 

The couch that I really loved was crazy expensive, but we found this set in the clearance section that would work just fine.  I don’t love my dining room table, but it is a huge, hefty, functional antique and it was free.  

And so the story goes…

But as I sat there looking at that wallpaper, I thought about my little birdcage.  I love that birdcage.  And I wanted it to sit against wallpaper that made me smile.  

So I didn’t buy wallpaper in Lowe’s that day. I did buy a lovely hanging light covered in crystals to replace the single bare bulb in the closet.  It was sparkly and girly and perfect.  

And then I went home and spent two weeks shopping online for just the right wallpaper.  It was a little expensive.  But it was exactly what I had hoped to find.  A pretty blue and gold floral pattern.  The colors were just right.  The pattern was delicate and light but interesting.  I loved it. 

My canvas print.  My little birdcage.  My sparkly light.  My pretty wallpaper.  I was beginning to gather lovely things.  I was choosing without compromise.  I didn’t have to consider anyone else’s preferences.  I wasn’t limited by a shoestring budget.  

It was a brand-new feeling, and I loved it. 

Jack and I found a chaise lounge in the clearance section at the furniture store, but this time it didn’t feel like a compromise.  It was exactly what I wanted.  A comfy chair with a corner, perfect for reclining and reading and relaxing.  It was the perfect size and shape and color and it was only a hundred bucks.  We loaded it into the truck. 

I found an adorable little clock at a craft store.  I picked it up and put it down and  walked away and came back three times before I finally decided that I needed to have it. I finally bought the paper shredder that I’ve wanted for years. I ordered a cute little spinning organizer for my pens and pencils and paperclips and post-its.  I got candles and fabric covered boxes and pretty throw pillows.  I hung Lee’s paintings and Cal’s photo and filled a basket with yarn for crocheting.  

Lovely things.  All lovely things.  But it’s more than that.  When I sit in this room, I don’t just love it because it’s full of lovely things.  I love it because they’re MY lovely things.  I love it because I had a vision and I made it a reality and I didn’t compromise.  I love it because it is totally and utterly MINE.  

I still haven’t gotten my shelves.  Because I haven’t found ones that are exactly right.  I’m still looking for the perfect curtains.  I want to add some plants.  And all of that will come in time.  

For now, I’m going to sit here and sip my coffee and listen to the ticking of my adorable little clock.  I’m going to breathe in the scent of this candle and admire my kids’ artwork and cuddle up on my chaise lounge with a book and a homemade crocheted blanket. I’m going to pay attention to the feel and the sound of my fingers on the keyboard as I edit this piece and write down my thoughts in a room of my very own.   

Motorcycling

I’ve had a motorcycle for over 20 years now.  God, that makes me feel old.  But thinking about that first bike brings me back, too.  It helps me remember who I used to be, back when I thought of myself as a badass. Over the past few years, I got away from riding.  I was too busy parenting and teaching and cooking and cleaning.  And riding just felt so selfish.  

How could I deliberately make a choice to participate in something so dangerous?  My children depend on me.  My husband depends on me.  How could I put myself in harm’s way, knowing how much I was needed? 

Guilt is a tricky, terrible thing. It can make us ignore our instincts.  It can make us suppress our needs.  It can make us contort ourselves to fit in a box defined by someone else’s expectations.  It pushed me to stop doing something that I deeply loved. 

*************

This past spring, one of our amazing guidance counselors invited me to be a guest on her school-wide talk show. She interviews teachers in the building, adds some music and bitmojis and a laugh track, and then shares it with the kids.  It’s creative and fun and I was excited to be a part of it.  

There was one part of this interview that really struck me as I watched.  She asked me to tell the audience something that would surprise them about me, and I talked about riding a motorcycle.  I’m not what most people picture when they picture a biker.  I’m a teacher and a mom.  I’m in a book club.  I crochet.  I ring in the church bell choir.  When you look at me, you might predict those things.  They’re not surprising.  But a motorcycle?  Well, that’s interesting.  Good answer.  Surprise the kids.  Check.

But then, my guidance counselor friend pushed me a little bit more.  She asked me WHY I love riding.  I was surprised at the question.  I paused for a moment, and took a breath.

And then something really cool happened.  I watched myself on the screen; my face lit up.  My eyes opened wide.  I swayed my body as I described leaning into a turn.  I smiled as I talked about the smells and the sensations and the focus of riding.  I explained that I can’t think about anything else while I’m on my bike.  The simple act of riding takes ALL of me.  I’m scanning for obstacles.  I’m using both hands and both feet and my core to control the ride.  I’m hyper aware of my surroundings.  I can’t worry about what I need at the store, or what papers I should be grading.  I can’t think about my to-do list.  I need to be entirely immersed in the present moment. 

It’s a weird sort of meditation.  Block out everything else.  Focus on the present.  Use all of your senses.  Badass meditation, if you will.  

That very day, after the interview, I got on my bike.  I had reminded myself how healing it is.  How restorative it feels.  I leaned a little further into my turns.  I breathed a little deeper when I smelled the fresh cut grass.  I promised myself to get the bike tuned up and ride more often. 

You might think that’s ridiculous. That’s fine.  Most of my family and friends think it’s crazy, too.  They think it’s too risky.  Too dangerous.  Irresponsible.  Some of them laugh at the idea of me on a motorcycle. They really just don’t get it. 

But whether you find your solace in a saddle, like me, or whether your passion lies elsewhere, I hope you do have something in your life that makes you light up like that.  I hope you have something that makes you feel whole and rejuvenated and just a little bit badass. 

Lessons from the Lake

Yesterday, it was 75 degrees and sunny here.  The weather was gorgeous, so we decided to put the new boat in the water.  It wasn’t our maiden voyage, but it was only the second time we’d taken her out on the lake.  Because the water is still too cold for tubing, the kids weren’t interested.  So we invited another couple to join us, and the kids stayed home.  

We definitely lucked out.  Not just with the weather, but also with the launch and the boat itself and all of it.  There’s a lot of preparation involved, but also a good bit of luck.  And some necessary humility.  Boating teaches you lessons you didn’t know you had to learn.  

There are so many things that can go wrong when you’re boating.  That’s especially true when you’re new to the sport or if your vessel is new to you.  You’re still getting used to the processes and the quirks.  Anyone who has ever had to back up a trailer knows that it doesn’t go smoothly the first time.  Or the first 20 times, for that matter.  

Brene Brown talks about FFTs- Freaking First Times- as a source of excitement and as a source of stress.  Anticipation is both a positive and a negative, and first times are a hurdle for all of us, at different levels. 

The first time launching a boat is an unforgettable FFT.  It starts with backing up the trailer.  Some boat launches are friendlier than others.  Some give you plenty of room to swing your truck around and back straight into the water (which is still a lot harder than you would think).  Others are narrow and angled and unforgiving.   Backing up a trailer is counter-intuitive to everything you think you know about driving.  So you have to re-learn and reset.  I advise significant practice in a large parking lot before you try to do this for real.  And for goodness sake, don’t rush.  It will only make things worse. 

Lesson #1:  You’ll get better with practice. Just keep trying. And take all the time you need. 

Then there are the people.  On a lake, there are generally only one or two ways in and out of the water with your boat.  So there is usually a line.  When you’re launching, you have to pay attention to the boats coming in, as well as the boats going out.  There are people on jet skis.  There are kayakers and people fishing from the shoreline and families feeding the ducks.  And whether it’s true or not, it feels like they’re ALL watching you.  

Chances are, most of these people are not first-timers.  And they may or may not remember what it is like to BE a first-timer.  So as you navigate this complicated first time task, you will likely have an audience judging your performance and finding it to be less than exceptional.  No pressure. 

Just before you actually put the boat into the water, there is a mental checklist to be completed.  There are plugs and pumps, wires and chains, pulleys and keys to think about.  It’s not that complicated once you’re familiar with it and you have a routine.  But your first time out?  Having just embarrassed yourself with 6 attempts to back the trailer into the water?  With all of those eyes on you?  Well, that’s when you’re most likely to forget a step.  

Lesson #2:  Don’t let embarrassment distract you from your goals. 

If you’re lucky, someone in the audience will remember what that FFT was like.  They will offer a smile or a word of encouragement or a suggestion.  They might remind you to unplug your trailer lights or give a tip on the best parking spot for your truck.  And when you’re in the middle of an FFT, that small gesture can feel like a lifeline.  

We’ve been doing this a while now, and launching isn’t as stressful anymore.  Jack is excellent at backing up the trailer (and I’m getting better, myself). But a new boat means a new routine.  So, while reversing the trailer has become old hat, there are still different pulleys and levers to check. We’re still working out the kinks.  

Even once you’ve mastered the launch, you have to become an expert in the quirks of your particular vessel. 

Our first boat was held together with duct tape and prayers.  We bought it for $2,000 and I couldn’t have been happier.  The deck had a few noticeable soft spots; you had to be careful where you stepped.  The engine was a little unreliable, despite all of Jack’s tweaks and tune-ups.  He kept a tool kit on the boat, and more than once, the kids swam and I threw down an anchor while Jack worked his magic with a wrench and some elbow grease.  

Also, the fuel gauge didn’t work.  We found that out the hard way.  As we were cruising, the boat stuttered to a stop.  At first, we thought it was that unreliable engine, and Jack broke out the tools.  No amount of tinkering would get it started, though.  The lake was too deep for our anchor, and we were floating toward the rocky shoreline.  I started to panic a bit, but Jack kept his cool.  He broke out the paddles, and we were able to keep ourselves from crashing. 

Another family of boaters was out tubing, too.  They saw we were in trouble and came over to offer assistance.  With an improvised rope-towing system, they pulled us back to the boat launch. It was embarrassing, and a hassle, but ultimately, everything was fine because a few good people were willing to help us out.  

Lesson 3:  There are good people out there.  Let them help you.

In addition to the quirks of your boat, you have to know the body of water you’re in.  There are likely hazards; shallow water or weedy areas or rocks just under the surface.   One lake we went to regularly had a rock wall just under the water line near the boat launch.  It wasn’t marked; we were lucky enough to have someone point it out to us early on, and we tried to return the favor to others who seemed unaware.  

Lesson 4: Learn from those who’ve gone before you.  Teach those who follow.

We were on a new lake yesterday, and we hit a bump.  Literally.  We weren’t too close to shore.  We were putting around, slowly, admiring the houses on the shoreline.  An unfamiliar alarm began to beep.  Jack thought the engine was overheating.  He kicked the boat into neutral just as we hit a sandbar about 18 inches deep.  We were beached.  

I tend to overreact in these situations.  That’s why Jack is the captain, and I’m just the first mate.  I wanted to jump off the boat and push us off the sandbar.  But I have learned this lesson the hard way:  Do NOT jump off the boat without the Captain’s permission.  Even if you think you’re being helpful.  Because then he’ll have to worry about the problem AND worry about hitting you with the boat, which is always LESS helpful than you intended it to be.  

Lesson #5: It never helps to panic.

So I waited.  I listened to Jack.  I eventually did end up in the lake, but not in a frantic panic.  I calmly stepped off the bow into about a foot of water.  It was cold but not frigid.  The boat was lodged but not totally stuck.  I pushed.  Jack put the engine in reverse.  We got ourselves unstuck.  That part was lucky.  But what was even luckier was that I managed to step up the front ladder, grab the hand of a friend, and haul my butt back into the boat without falling backwards into the water or flopping forward into the boat like a dead fish.  I remained upright and dry.  It was an actual miracle.  

Given all of the potential boating pitfalls, you’d think my anxiety would be through the roof on these excursions… and it would be, if it weren’t for my husband.   He’s in his element on the water.  His time in the Navy serves him well at the helm.  When we’re on the boat, there’s nothing that I need to be in charge of.  I do what I’m asked, and I’m often pretty helpful.  But I’m not in charge, and there’s an amazing relief in letting go of that.  When I have no choice but to trust my husband, I’m reminded of how capable and calm and smart he is.  I am so grateful to have that kind of partner in life.  

Lesson #6:  Find a great partner.  Learn to trust them deeply.  

Before today, we’d never been boating without the kids. Don’t get me wrong; I love the swimming and the tubing and the loud, animated laughter when there are children on the boat.  But boating with only adults was just…. Well, it was heavenly. We admired the homes on the shoreline.  We paid attention to nature, and we watched a bald eagle soar overhead.  We joked and laughed and talked and ate and drank and enjoyed each others’ company.  It was relaxing and rejuvenating and refreshing.  It was a beautiful day, and it hinted at a whole lot of beautiful days ahead.  I’m looking forward to our summer on the boat… with adults.  With kids.  With anyone who’s up for an adventure and a few life lessons.  

Lesson #7: Rest.  Relax.  And enjoy the people you’re with. 

Inspired

I haven’t written lately.  I’ve been waiting for some sort of inspiration.  Well… maybe inspiration isn’t the right word.  An idea?  A worthy thought?  

When I write, it’s not always because I’m feeling inspired.  More often, I’m having some sort of internal debate.  Or I’m obsessing about something and I need to get it out.  Usually, when I sit down at my computer, I at least have an IDEA.  Sometimes, it’s a fully-fleshed out blog post in my head and I just have to get it on paper.  Often, it’s just a topic; an observation or a rant … and I’m not quite sure where the writing will take me.  

But sometimes, there is no idea.  Sometimes it’s just been too long and I feel the words building up inside of me.  Journaling helps.  But it doesn’t always do the trick. Because if I’m really honest, it’s much more rewarding to write something that other people might read.  

I had a writing teacher in middle school who once told me, “If you can’t think of an idea, just write, ‘I don’t know what to write’ over and over again.  Something will come to you.  And at least you’re writing!”  At the time, I thought it was stupid.  But I’m not sure I’ve ever gotten better advice.  

Now, instead of ‘I don’t know what to write,’ I’ll start by describing my surroundings.  Maybe I’ll add in a stream of consciousness.  It might not even be complete thoughts.  I’ll jot down words and phrases.  I’ll write terrible sentences, knowing they’ll never be read.  But I have to start.  Sometimes it turns in to something presentable.  More often, it becomes part of the collection of half-written musings in my ‘draft’ folder.  

That’s the kind of day that today is.  I don’t have an idea or a topic.  I certainly don’t have a fully formed blog in my brain.  Today I just have a cup of coffee and a few extra minutes and a desire to put words into sentences.  

I’m not sure if these feelings point to typical writer’s block, or if they’re a symptom of a more pervasive, societal lethargy.  Everyone I talk to is just… tired.  I don’t have to tell you.  You know.  We’re tired of homeschooling and social distancing and wearing masks and missing our family and our friends.  We’re just TIRED.  

And there’s something deflating about a SECOND Easter without.  Without church.  Without tradition.  Without family gathering.  Without the fanfare and celebration. 

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I’ve always loved Holy Week.  As we conclude the Lenten season, we’re reflective and aware of ourselves as being flawed and human and capable of better. And Holy Week gives us permission to slow down and really sit with ALL of our emotions.  We don’t gloss over the hard parts.  We study them.  We FEEL them.  Betrayed. Persecuted. Forsaken.  Crucified. But to get to the end of this journey, it is our responsibility to move through all of it.  If we skip from the parade celebration of Palm Sunday right to the joy of Easter, we’re missing the point.  

Holy Week starts with the anticipation and enthusiasm of Palm Sunday.  It moves to the uncertainty and confusion of Maundy Thursday.  The sanctity and sacrament of the last supper.  Then we feel the deep, heavy, tragedy of Good Friday.  And finally, the joy of Resurrection Sunday.  

But what about that Saturday?  TODAY is that in-between day that we don’t know what to do with.  This Holy Saturday isn’t marked by a church service.  It’s not celebrated with a liturgy.  Today is the day after the tragedy but before the joy. We cannot deny that there has been great suffering.  We can see to tomorrow; we know that joy will be upon us soon.  But today? Today we can only feel our feelings and wait.  

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Yeah.  Holy Week has a different meaning this year.  We have spent the last year moving through the hard parts.  The fear, the confusion, the uncertainty.  The grief, the sadness, the frustration.  

And this spring? This spring is the Saturday before Easter.  

We can’t celebrate yet, but we can see it.  The mood is changing.  The air is shifting.  There is hope.  There is optimism.  Tomorrow, there will be joy.  

Hallelujah. 

Back to School

In my first year teaching, I arrived at school with a terrible misconception.  I thought I would be handed a schedule of classes and groups to teach.  As a new teacher, I wasn’t prepared for the reality at all.  I spent several afternoons crying and sorting through piles of paperwork, trying to figure out how to fit 8 hours of instruction into a 6 hour day.  Ultimately, I failed.  It took a mentor, a partner, and two administrators several days to help me work out the kinks before I could actually start teaching.  It required creativity.  We had to do things like group two different grades together.  We had to divide 45 minutes of service into three 15 minute blocks.  We had to eliminate all of my supervision duties, which earned me resentment from my new colleagues.  It was awful. 

And I’ve had to do it every year since.  

You see, Special Educators aren’t given a schedule.  They’re given a caseload and a pile of IEPs (Individual Education Programs) that outline what services need to be provided to the students.  And it is up to us to make it happen.  We’re flexible.  We’re creative.  We’re resilient.  We work together.   And almost every year, we’re able to make it work.  Sometimes we have to hire another part time person to help with the load.  Sometimes we have to team up to tackle a problem.  But we usually wind up with a complicated, creative schedule that meets the needs of our students.  

This gets easier with experience.  You learn what classes are required and which ones aren’t.  You learn who is the most flexible of your colleagues.  You figure out how to teach two lessons at the same time.  You break kids into groups.  You partner them creatively.  You plan multiple lessons so that kids still have quality instruction when they are working independently.  You advocate for the best possible paraprofessional staff because those are the people who hold it all together when it feels impossible.  

But, despite knowing all of this, even seasoned Special Educators often begin the year thinking, this is never going to work.

In a typical year, we spend hours upon hours in May and June placing kids in specific groups and teams so that we can provide all of the services that they require.  

This year, all of that work was done… but it’s being complicated by the fact that all of these kids aren’t guaranteed to be in the same cohort.  They could be moving through their classes on opposite days, doubling the time that we have to spend teaching that group.  Some of them are choosing to stay home and participate in entirely remote schooling.  To complicate things further, kids on IEPs might receive different amounts of in-school instruction.  While their peers could be in school two days a week, some students will be in-person for four days of instruction.  They’ll attend classes for two days, and then receive specialized support and instruction on the alternate days.  

We’re still trying to figure out how that will work.  Will they complete remote assignments?  Something different?  Can we change their class times?  Add staff?  If I’m teaching an English class in my room, where will the other group be?  Who will teach them? The unanswered questions make my head spin.  

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I have to pause and say that I have been incredibly impressed with the administrative team in the district where I work.  They have created thoughtful plans, working with educators and stakeholders to ensure that we are prioritizing the safety and health of our staff and students.  I am glad to be working in my current district; I’ve worked in several school systems where educators were dismissed and mistreated.  I’ve worked in places where the union and the school administration functioned as adversaries.  I’ve worked in places where the bottom line was always the most important consideration.  I’ve worked in places where teachers were dispensable, especially as they became more experienced and more expensive.  

So, as my anxiety builds coming into this crazy new teaching experiment, I am reassured by our administrators.  My concerned and questioning emails always receive a reply.  Sometimes the answers are clear.  Sometimes the answer is, “We’re working on it.”  Sometimes the reply is, “Thanks for bringing that to our attention.” Our administration is responsive and collegial and supportive.  I have faith that we’ll figure out all of the complicated scheduling details together.  But that’s only the first step. 

In addition to complex scheduling, we’ll also be dealing with substantial changes to the WAY we teach. 

Tried and true methods will need to be revised.  

One of the most essential and evasive things that new teachers need to learn is classroom management.  To some, this comes naturally.  To many, it’s a hard-earned skill.  But it is also highly personal.  Everyone approaches it differently.  Here are a few things that teachers do:

-Use proximity.  Sometimes standing next to a student is all it takes to change off-task behavior.   Teachers in many schools are now being instructed to stand at the front of the room, without moving during class. 

-Call kids by name.  They pay more attention and they respond more quickly.  Teachers recording lessons are being asked NOT to use names for privacy reasons. 

-Use nonverbal cues.  Instead of calling out a kid’s behavior, most of us shoot a warning look across the room.  Or we tap the desk.  Or we simply take away a distraction (toys or phones) while continuing to teach.  Masks and distancing rules make many of these strategies ineffective. 

-Make it interesting.  Don’t sit at your desk.  Don’t lecture.  Instruction should be creative and engaging.  Use project-based learning.  Do experiments.  Play games.  Get the kids up and moving.  Many of the things that we’ve come to accept as best practice simply won’t be possible under new guidelines.

-Provide unobtrusive support.  When a student with executive functioning concerns can’t find his paper, silently hand him another one.  When a student with ADHD is daydreaming, tap on her desk to help her refocus. When a dyslexic student is struggling with a word, show him where the syllables break.  So many of these strategies require shared materials and close proximity.  What is safe?  What will be allowed?  Under what circumstances? 

-Group students for the task at hand.  Sometimes, we want all of the strong students in one group, so we can provide them with a more challenging task.  Sometimes we want to vary the levels of ability in the group, so that they can learn from and teach each other, because teaching is one of the best ways to learn something new.  Sometimes we want them to be with their friends.  Sometimes we want them to practice negotiating with difficult peers.  Contact tracing means that kids will be working with or near the same peers for much of their day.  IF group work can even happen, it won’t be flexible. 

-Differentiate instruction.  Students (especially those on IEPs) have different needs.  They don’t all move at the same pace.  So there are discreet ways to meet each student where they are.  Maybe they have a math worksheet. All of the even numbered problems are the same, so we go over those together.  The odd numbered questions might be review, or simplified, or challenge problems.  Kids don’t all have the same sheet, but they don’t know it.  Maybe we’re taking notes.  Some students have an outline to fill in.  Some have a mostly completed outline with a few blanks to fill in.  Some students have a complete outline and they need to highlight or add definitions.  In middle school, there’s almost always more than one version of the test.  Maybe there’s one with simplified language for kids who are learning English.  Maybe there’s one with fewer problems for kids who test slowly.  Maybe there’s an audio version for kids with dyslexia.  I recently realized that, while nearly ALL teachers do this to some extent, many families and parents don’t realize that it’s happening.  That’s how it works if we do it well.  If we eliminate or reduce paper, or stop sharing headphones, or stop walking around the classroom, we will have to change the way we differentiate.  It will require commitment and creativity.

I’m sure my colleagues could add infinitely to this list.  We’re having to re-imagine education.  We’re adjusting and innovating and modifiying. We’re teaming up to tackle problems that many parents are entirely unaware of.  

But the thing is… we will do it.  We always do.  That’s what I’ve learned in two decades of teaching.  Every year, I’ve come to the table thinking, this is never going to work.  

And every year, I find myself surrounded by passionate, creative, enthusiastic, professional educators.  I am consistently impressed by their commitment and grit and teamwork.  Every year, we do whatever it takes.  We buy materials and write grants.  We purchase curriculum and create what we can’t find.  We scope ‘Teachers Pay Teachers’ to find quality materials that our colleagues have already created.  We connect with students and parents.  We form relationships.  We get to know our students. We anticipate needs.  We modify what doesn’t work and expand on what does.  We share ideas and we learn from each other. 

Teachers are professionals.  We do what we do because we love it and because we’re good at it.  Problem solving is just one of our superpowers.  

But this year, more than any other, our jobs will be made so much easier if we could all extend each other a little grace.  Let’s adopt a few basic beliefs… for both parents AND teachers.  

We are all learning. 

We would love to go back to ‘normal.’

There will be bumps… but we are doing our very best.  

Teachers can try to be understanding… When your teen oversleeps on his remote learning day.  Or your first grader couldn’t find her crayons at home.  Or your internet went down on the day of the big presentation. 

Parents can try to be understanding… When the online assignment doesn’t load.  When the grading takes longer than usual.  When your child complains about restrictions at school.  

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How many times have we heard, “We’re all in this together?”  Well, the thing is… for educators and parents, that’s nothing new.  We’ve always been in this together. 

We’re all in the job of trying to do what’s best for kids.  To help them grow and develop into functional, kind, educated, capable citizens.  And while COVID has changed so many things, that still remains.  Teachers, administrators, and parents are all in this crazy, scary, unprecedented thing together.  

For now, we can take a beat.  We can sit for a moment with the fear that this is never going to work.  But we can’t stay there.  Pretty soon, we’re all going to buck up a bit.  We’re going to put on our big kid pants and figure it out.  We’re going to make it work, because that’s what teachers (and parents) do best.