January-My Word for the Year

January 1, 2025

Each January I start the year by getting back into writing on this platform, sometimes with strong success, and some years (like last year), only managing to maintain consistency until February. Regardless of how often I post or how long through the year I keep up chronicling my life, I have come to reassess the idea of labeling resolutions of any kind as 'successess' or 'failures'. I think I managed 15 entries last year, and some years I have managed upwards of 200. However, I don't choose to see last year as a failure. I wrote 15 more times than I would have if I had not challenged myself to remember to set aside time. I count that as a win. Goals that we have are goals that we believe we want to prioritize. That being said, I also believe an important part of goal-setting is doing a periodic check-in with yourself. If you are not meeting a goal, are there obstacles in your way that you can in someway remove? Are there different ways you can try to reprioritize your time and energy to meet that goal? Or, if you truly reassess, is it possible that this goal is NOT now a priority for you at this moment or period in your life? Perhaps if you are not meeting a goal, you have consciously or unconsciously decided that your effort and energy are needed in a different area of your life right now. If that's the case, that's okay. That doesn't mean the goal isn't important or worthwhile; rather, it means that your focus is on something else that is also important. I have decided to give myself grace in this regard and recognize that I prioritized different things last year, and now I'd like to get back to this goal. A handful of years ago, I saw a post where the writer decided to focus on a particular word to carry with them through the year, rather than making a list of New Year's Resolutions. I adopted this tradition, and have felt the power of my chosen words each year since. In keeping with my musings about success and failure and goals and the like, I have decided my word for the year will be INTENTIONAL. I want to be intentional with my time, my resources, my energy, and my relationships, endeavoring to make sure that the way choose to operate in my life truly reflects my goals at any given time.

2024, Here I Come

January 1, 2024 

 

Six years ago, I had no idea that there was already set in motion a series of actions that would completely alter the the trajectory of my life. Ultimately, when everything came to light I was faced with a future I couldn't begin to fathom, so clearly and wholeheartedly had I envisioned the years ahead which shattered into unrecognizable and irrecoverable fragments. It sounds dramatic. It was dramatic. But at this time six years ago, I had no idea what was coming. Since that time, much has passed--personally as well as globally. In addition to gradually reimagining what the future could hold, we as a society endured the pandemic, which also changed the landscape of what all of us thought our world could look like. Together we weathered that unfathomable storm as well, and came out the other side a little worn, a little wiser, a little changed. But okay, as it turns out. Many of us came out stronger, more resilient. We had the opportunity to reconsider priorities and shifted our perspectives. We allowed ourselves, eventually, to see our way to a better future. This is where I find myself personally now, as well. Having had to re-examine everything I believed my future would hold, I realized that my future still holds the core of what I believed it would have. The shape of it is different; when I imagined my future I imagined very specific details which no longer hold true. But the path still holds love, truth, acceptance, and beauty. I came out of my own personal storm a little worn, a little wiser, a little changed. But I also came out of it knowing that I deserved the future that held love, truth, acceptance, and beauty. And seeking it, I have found it. And the life ahead of me is one I look forward to more than I ever have. On the other side, I am more than okay, and my future ahead is better than I dreamed it would be.

Random Questions in the Midnight Hour

July 12, 2022 We encounter so many people and experiences and opportunities in our lives. Some of them are one-time experiences, some are destined to be short-term--a person or opportunity that serves a vital role, but then moves on, and then some become permanent fixtures in our lives--vital, inextricable, parts of our future. How do you know which is which? How does one change a mindset from assuming a person or experience is temporary, with the possibility of becoming permanent in the future, to assuming that something has now become a permanent part of one's life--stable, dependable, deeply ingrained as part of the fabric of our existence? When do we become that for someone or something else?

A Life of Leisure?

 January 26, 2022

One of the most important avenues to becoming a critical reader is simply to read more, and to read a variety of styles, voices, and subjects. The more ideas and perspectives we come into contact with, the more we are able to really understand our own perspectives and the way in which we choose to situate ourselves in our beliefs and understanding of the world.  It’s crucial.  Those who are not good, mindful readers–of texts, of media, of people–are simply at the mercy of whatever perspective they encounter.  They are helpless against tricks and rhetorical arguments they can’t see through or don’t have enough experience to critically navigate.

Sadly, though, in our society we deem reading a leisure sport–a pastime for the lazy or those lacking a solid work ethic.  Reading, unless assigned by a teacher or a professor, is something we do only if all of our other tasks and chores have been completed, which as we know, is never.  We even admonish ourselves for taking the time to read when dishes need to be done, or when the gutters need to be cleaned, or any number of other tasks need attending to, both significant and menial.  The list never ends. Because reading entails a still body, it seems a luxury, a lavish expenditure of time to sit and read.  To contemplate.  We celebrate a body in motion, one that is constantly doing.  Why is the turning of the mental wheels considered any less important?  At what point did enriching and enhancing the mind become the low priority?  Why do we make ourselves feel guilty–or allow others to make us feel guilty for spending time reading?

We Are Our Own Stories

 January 25, 2022

Don’t forget-- no one else sees the world the way you do, so no one else can tell the stories that you have to tell.                                                             --Charles de Lint

Each one of us is stitched together by the multitude of moments and memories that make up our lives. Though others may have been with us in those moments, quite literally no one else has ever experienced them in exactly the same way as we ourselves experience them individually. We come into each experience with our own past stories, woven together with our unique perceptions, coloring the space we pass through on the journey. We are our stories, and no one else can ever truly know those stories until we find our own personal, singular voice to sing those stories aloud.

So Many Shades

 January 10, 2022

When we were very young, and our parents or teachers wanted us to learn our colors, they knew better than to try to teach every shade.  It's too overwhelming.  When we learn the color blue, for example, we learn the blue that is in the 8-count box of crayons.  Simple.  Easily identifiable.  Then we start to branch out to the vast array of shades of blue, slowly over time.  Yes, that's blue too--light blue, denim blue, sky blue, midnight blue, etc.  We also gradually learn that there are more meanings for the word blue besides that which describes a hue: blues music, feeling depressed.  There is so much more depth and shade in a single word than we could ever imagine when we were children.

Relationships are like that too, at a young age.  Children relate to each other at the most basic level, and that's all they need.  "You like playing on the swings too?  We are now best friends!"  As we grow up we realize that there's a lot more to it, but that too comes about gradually.  As we start learning about our own likes and dislikes, hobbies and interests, communication styles, and habits, we start connecting with new friends based on those things, and we grow away from others who might have loved to swing on the swing with us in kindergarten but had traveled down different paths in their exploration of the world.  We find ourselves having formed connections and circles that cater to what we already know about ourselves and those with whom we surround ourselves.  It's gradual, but as grown ups we often find ourselves with a set group of relationships we've grown into comfortably.  These are our safe people, our beloved people.  These are the ones who have learned all those quirks and idiosyncrasies, all those qualities both endearing and occasionally annoying, and have decided in their heads and their hearts that in the balance your endearing qualities prevail and they have decided--you have collectively decided--that you belong in each others' lives. These are your people.

But of course we know that in this world, sometimes catastrophic events can occur that rip at the fabric of a closely developed relationship.  You lose a spouse or are betrayed by a dear friend.  It can be something that irrevocably changes our circumstances and we have to start out anew.  Now, however, we are acutely aware of time in a way in which we aren't as kids.  Nothing is as simple as "We both like Rom-Coms", so obviously we are meant to be in a relationship.  We know that there are so many shades, so many nuances that make two people's complex and layered lives interlock.  There is a lot to unfold, but because we feel time nipping at our heels, we feel like we have to learn everything in a crash course, learning the details of those shades at warp speed:  Are you a morning person or a night person? Do you like cats or dogs? Are you allergic to pets? To nuts? To cheese? (Being allergic to cheese would be tough, man.) Do you like the beach? Have you traveled? Are you a football-and-beer kind of person, or a wine-tasting-and-sunset-cruise kind of person? Or are you both? Are you someone who never lets the gas tank go below half, or are the type who likes to live on the edge and push it a day or two after the 'needs fuel' light comes on? Do you like to hold hands and hug, or do you not need to be velcroed to one another in order to feel connected? Are you a parent? What kind of parent are you? What's your stance on global warming? Vaccines? Immigration reform? Does pineapple belong on a pizza? What's your love language? Do you communicate using complete sentences? Can you actually spell the words in those complete sentences? How often do you laugh? Who do you talk to when you cry? How do you handle anger? Do you consider yourself an optimist, a pessimist, or a realist?  How do you feel about spirituality? Are you a kind person?  No, really--are you a KIND person?

There's a lot.  And playing the lightening round at this stage of life can feel a little daunting.  We've all developed so many shades of blue that finding someone whose shades are mostly complementary can feel impossible.  At the end of the day, though, we keep looking, because we are all hoping to find one whose shades blend so seamlessly with ours that it paints a beautiful and lasting relationship.  

Life in Death

March 29, 2021

A couple of months ago, I was talking with a dear friend who had recently lost her mom.  Her husband had lost his dad a handful of years earlier.  I lost my own mom over twenty years ago.   We sat together late into the night and shared memories, shared struggles of missing our loved ones, of not being prepared to let go, and reminiscing about the times we were able to share with each of our respective parents before they passed.  We laughed about small shared moments; we cried about momentary meaningful moments, and grieved what we missed--what they missed in no longer being here with us.  We celebrated things we learned from them, and traits we share with them, and gifts they gave us, in memory or in experience, that shaped who we are.

I confessed to them something I had never said to anyone, because it seems a little morbid, in light of social norms.  I am the picture-taker, the memory keeper of my family.  The last pictures taken of my mom, just a few days before her death, were of her holding my niece, her most recent grandbaby.  By that time, cancer had ravaged Mom, and she was weak and tired.  Still, she said in moments when her fiesty spirit and devotion to family was as strong as ever, that she had never not held one of her grandbabies, and she wasn’t about to let cancer stop her from holding this one.  In the photos, we had placed my week-old niece in Mom’s arms, and my sister had her arms underneath my mom’s to stablize her, since she didn’t really have the strength to hold up even that tiny little bundle.  Those pictures are hard to look at to this day.  Mom’s eyes are beaming, proud of her precious new granddaughter, but she is hunched over in her wheelchair, her face is swollen from the medication, the wig she wore to cover her hair loss is slightly askew, and her smile is tinged with pain.  Her spirit was there, but her body was only days from letting go.  This is not the image of the vibrant matriarch of the family, filled with zest for life, that I picture when I think of my mom.

Ironically, then, my confession was that one of my strongest instincts at Mom’s funeral was that I desperately wanted to take a picture of her.  Lying in repose at the front of the church, my mom looked beautiful in a dress she’d picked out well in advance for the occasion.  She entrusted me to make sure she was buried in a dress she liked--one she knew was a good color on her.  Mom liked to look good when she was going out in public.  Her face was no longer swollen and sallow; they had taken great pains to make her hair and her make-up beautiful and natural.  She was peaceful, no longer in pain, and she looked like the mom we hadn’t seen in months.  Her spirit was no longer there, but her body looked like her.  I wanted to capture that vision of her to remember that last look, rather than her battle-weary body in the months leading up to her death.  I wanted to take a picture of the roomful of loved ones too--family, friends, colleagues, students--who came to pay their respects and to share their stories of how she’d touched their lives.  She would have loved that, honestly.  But we don’t do that, do we?  That’s somehow looked down on as perhaps disrespectful?  Uncouth?  Irreverent?

I didn’t mean any of those things--disrespect or irreverence.  I was so moved by the emotion of being in that room with all of those people Mom was important to, and feeling like I’d been given back my mom for a brief moment even as she was being taken away from me, that I wanted to save those memories, that expression of love and grief and loss and connectedness, and tuck them away to savor and reminisce about later--all the minute details.  But we don’t do that, do we?  We don’t take photos of the dead, or of the celebrations of their life.  And I wonder why that is.  We record for posterity all other aspects of life--births, first steps, milestones in school, marriages, even divorces and heartache, reunions, moves away from home, from friends, and jobs, and celebrations of new beginnings.  But the end?  Recording the end of life is perhaps too difficult, too much for us to acknowledge its finality.

It’s not really final, though, is it?  I don’t want to call too much on something as trite as ‘the circle of life’, but when we are celebrating the life of someone we love, especially a parent, what we are doing is recognizing those moments big and small that will continue to ripple out among hundreds of people with whom they spend their lifetimes.  “You have her eyes.” “I can see her in your smile.” “I went into my profession because she inspired me.” “When I look up at the clouds, I can see him.”  “She is sending me rain to say hello.” “You have your mom’s intuition.” “She had the same generosity of spirit you do.” “His sense of humor was just like yours.” A hundred little things that connect us, repeat the idiosyncrasies and personality traits and likes and dislikes, and beliefs, and traditions, and physical traits, and memories of shared moments, days, lives. In the same way that we celebrate and record all those other milestones of life, death--or the passing on of all of these gifts to our loved ones to carry on and continue to share with our loved ones in turn--should be captured as one of the most significant milestones of them all.

I wish I had one more picture of my mom.

30 Things That Make Me Smile

March 29, 2020

Because we have all been housebound for several days now,
and because some of us are looking for a little sunshine right
about now, I thought I’d write a list of 30 things that make me
smile.  Try it yourself; it might lift your spirits a little bit!

1. My children, who are my world
2. My siblings, with whom I share my past stories and journeys
3. Dear friends, who are my sounding board and my sanity
4. Uncontrollable baby giggles
5. Flowers peeking up through cracks in the sidewalk
6. Chocolate
7. A stack of books to read
8. Old fashioned letters in the mail
9. Big fluffy white clouds in the sky
10. The sound of ocean waves crashing against the shore
11. The smell of the air just before rainfall
12. Christmas carols and twinkling lights
13. Waterfalls, lakes, and rivers
14. Heart-shaped stones
15. Long drives with full-blast car concerts
16. Dancing in the rain
17. My cozy bed when the sheets are freshly washed
18. Bubble baths
19. A glass of wine beside a crackling fire
20. Playful puppies
21. Friends reruns
22. Hugs that say “I Love You”
23. Beautiful shoes
24. An exquisite home-cooked meal
25. Holding hands with someone I love
26. Live music
27. Tap dancing
28. Long walks after dark
29. Swinging on the playground
30. Sleeping in late on a lazy weekend morning

So many more, but that’s a start.  I feel a little better now.

Diving Right In

January 2, 2020

I bought a plecostomus for my fish tank today--you know, the algae eaters that help keep the tank clean.  My little betta fish (Swim Shady) might enjoy the company after a few months of solitude, I'm thinking.  One of the things I remember from having a fish tank growing up is that you need to float a new fish in the tank in its own baggie of water for a time so the fish can acclimate to the temperature of the environment before releasing him into the 'wild'.  So I tried that--floating the fish.   Turns out, every time I tried to situate the baggie, the little sucker (see what I did there?) shimmied his way up to the part of the baggie without water and sort of beached himself there.  Now, I don't know off the top of my head how long you're supposed to acclimate a fish, but I'm thinking it's longer than the amount of time a fish can survive without water.  And that little guy was stubbornly refusing to stay wet!  So I decided this fish is a 'jump in with both fins' sort of a fish.

Sometimes in life you need a slow tip-toe into the pool, and sometimes it makes more sense to dive right in.  The trick is knowing which is which.  So we ever really know?  I suppose we'll find out tomorrow if my new friend's daredevilry paid off.

Just Like Riding a Bike

October 3, 2019

There’s an old adage that talks about riding a bike as something that becomes second nature once you learn how—a muscle memory that you never really forget, even if you haven’t done it for awhile.  Here’s the thing, though.  They never really talk about what happens if you actually want to forget how to ride that bike.  Let’s say you’re riding along on your favorite bike.  It’s blue with little flecks of glitter in the paint, because, you know, that’s your favorite color and you love sparkly things.  It’s probably got those little ribbons attached to the handlebars that flutter satisfyingly in the wind.  It might have a few scuffs or dings, but you love that bike all the same, because each of those unique marks represents an adventure you enjoyed.  You couldn’t have wished for a better day to go out riding, so you’re out with a song in your heart and a wide expanse of beautiful road in front of you as far as the eye can see.  You’ve never been on this road before, but it’s promising, inviting.  Almost magical.  Suddenly, unexpectedly, BAM!  You not only crash spectacularly, but your crash is caused by being forcefully shoved off that bike with no warning sign. You fly through the air, landing with the kind of painful thud that reverberates in your ears and knocks the wind out of you, leaving you gasping for air.  You don’t know if you’ll ever be able to breathe normally again.  You can’t even remember what it’s like to breathe normally, to not have to remind yourself to take in air and let it go again, despite the pain. You lie in the dirt, limbs akimbo, dirt and gravel embedded in the tender layers of skin that tried valiantly to cushion the fall.  On the other side of the road, the bike.  It’s crumpled, irreparable.  It will never look the same again.  It will never be the same, you think.

Why on earth would you want to ride again?  A battered and bruised figure might well think walking to be a safer bet.  A longer path, perhaps, and maybe not quite as exhilarating, but one in which it is less likely for you to get knocked back down into the dirt, leaving you struggling to regain your composure, your confidence, your self.  And so you set off down another path, gingerly placing each foot one after the other on the new path.  It’s slow going, of course; every path now seems fraught with the possibility of an unexpected pitfall.  You want to be prepared.  You want to brace yourself.  You want to ward off the possibility of being taken unaware again.

It’s not possible, though, you know.  And as you make your way down this path, the one you had no intention of traveling, and certainly not on foot, you begin to hear a little voice from within.  “It’s not possible.  You can’t avoid the possibility of pain.  You just can’t.  And in trying to avoid it, by being afraid, you also cheat yourself out of something that brought you such joy.”  You realize that little voice inside you is right; you don’t want to give up the possibility of finding that joy again.  And so you go back.  You walk back slowly, almost timidly, to the place where your bike sits, bedraggled and damaged.  On closer inspection, however, you realize it’s not beyond repair.  With a little care, with a little time, you reshape the frame and dust off the dirt.  You polish it again until you see the glint of the glitter start to shine through.  Carefully, you slide one leg over, just to test the weight, the balance.  An easy spin of the pedals propels you slowly forward and you turn onto a side road you hadn’t noticed before.  It’s not well traveled, but there are flowers edging the path and charming trees dotting the landscape.  It’s worth exploring what’s ahead.  As you pick up speed, you feel the wind caress your cheeks and tousle your hair gently.  You feel the kiss of the sun on your forehead and you find yourself daring to breathe again. To look forward again.  To find promise in the path of the unexpected, unplanned.  You are going to take it slow for awhile, and you might stop and get off every now and again to regain your footing for a bit.  But ride again you will. And you realize that perhaps they were right all along.  Maybe you really never forget to learn how to ride a bike.  Perhaps you don’t ever want to forget.

By the Numbers

June 17, 2019

Numbers that help define my worth and value:
--The number of beautifully kind and wonderful children I have (3)
--The number of people I smile at today
--The number of friends I call family
--The number of ways I try to make the day of another person brighter, easier, or happier
--The number of lives I touch in a positive way
--The number of new perspectives I try to see
--The number of times I pick myself back up after falling (or being pushed)
--The number of people I hold in my heart, and the number of people who hold me in theirs
--The number of times I recognize that my world is not only about me

Numbers that don't help to define my worth and value:
--The number in my bank account
--The number of wrinkles and scars my body bears

Numbers that don't IN ANY WAY help to define my worth and value:
--The number of calories I do or do not consume
--The number on a scale
--The number of years I've lived

A Metaphor

January 6, 2018

I went bowling today for the first time in years.  It was a little intimidating, since I know my bowling skills are, shall we say, weak at best.  But I decided I was going to go into it not worrying about what others thought of me; I wanted to just have fun, try to be myself, and not be concerned that I was not exactly in my comfort zone or operating within my natural skill set.  This attitude did not in any way improve my bowling score, but it did allow me to laugh at myself (and my bowling partner), and relax and goof around.  We had a great time.  There's a good lesson there:  attitude and choosing one's mindset ahead of any activity has a pretty significant impact on how you're experiencing life.  Since I'm moving into some new territory as we kick off the new year, I'm going to endeavor to keep that at the forefront of my mind moving forward.

Rise

January 2, 2019

There are quite a few people I know who choose a focus word as a New Year resolution of sorts--one they can center in on as a priority in their life for the upcoming year.  I like the idea.  I've never done it before, but I'd like to think it could help direct my energy moving forward.  (I'm not going to lie; there's also a great likelihood that I'll forget it, in which case, no harm, no foul, right?)  Maybe I'll write it on my mirror to remember.  Anyway, I believe I shall claim the word "RISE" my word for 2019.  As in, "Rise above".  As in "Rise from the ashes like a phoenix".  As in, "Rise and look ahead to all the possibility before you." As in "Rise, Baby--I can't be kept down.  You wanna throw a wrench in the works and bring me to my knees?  Bring it! I'll rise higher than I ever thought I could soar, bigger and brighter and better-- a beacon in the night shining down."  That kind of rise.

RISE.

New Year, Looking Forward

January 1, 2019

The new year traditionally is marked by a pause for reflection, resolution, and recommitment to those things we feel represent growth and truth for us.  This year, more than most, I have been confronted with that reflection rather harshly.  Having seen one particular path for my future--one I was happy with and looking forward to the continued adventure --the path suddenly and violently veered off into the unknown.  To diverge from someone who is an intricate part of one's world, be it a lover, a friend, or even a family member, is a difficult, messy business.  To discover a betrayal of faith and trust requires deep soul searching in order to progress and to look forward, instead of being stuck looking back.

There is a strange sense in this aftermath of needing to look backward at the what-ifs and the whys of the situation.  The how-can-it-be-so-easy-for someone-to-do-this-to-me? kind of feeling.  The what-could-I-have-done-differently? And sometimes that answer to that is simply to be someone you're not, though that clearly can't be the right answer. But let me tell you, that's a difficult train of thought to escape.  Because after all, if one is loveable, how can someone treat them so unlovingly?  It's a trap, though, because although we all have flaws, and both people can contribute to the unraveling of what was once steadfast, in the end, we cannot and should not control each other's emotions or actions.  One person's betrayal is exactly that- that person's betrayal, and not a commentary on the loveability or unloveability of the other person.  That is their choice alone to own. I could say that they will regret it, I could even wish it.  But I don't know that to be true.  Perhaps it will lead to something even better, and if this is truly a person I love, wouldn't I wish happiness for them?  And if they regret it, do I want to 'earn' connection through regret?  No, I want connection with someone who chooses me in joy, not out of regret.  We all deserve to be chosen, to be with people who count themselves fortunate in our company.  One can be mired in the past, attempting to regain the path once traveled, but that path has been erased; it no longer exists in that form.  That does not mean that a new path can't be forged eventually, but it can't be found by looking back; only by looking forward.

So forward we go.  And in looking forward, the most important thing to remember is that if one's desire to remain connected changes, that is their reality.  And they are entitled to that reality.  It just doesn't get to define me and my reality.  I cannot be mad at them, and I can't fault them for their feelings.  However, I can't let it make me question my own worth, my own value, my own loveability.  I have said my mantra this year will be "I am enough" in response to being told that who I am isn't enough.  (And just because I was told this doesn't mean I have to wear it as a badge.)  In rethinking and reflecting, though, I have to say my mantra should be "Good enough isn't good enough".  I cannot be content to try to be "good enough" for others or myself; I need to find people who recognize my value and aren't settling for "good enough".  Certainly I am looking to better myself, as many of us do, especially at the time of year, but I deserve to surround myself with people who don't make me feel as if I need to prove that I am worthy.  And if that path leads me to new paths I never expected to travel, and if that path leads me so far away from my original path that the roads don't cross again, that will have to be good enough.  If I spend my time looking forward, instead of back, focusing on my own definition of self rather than seeing my worth through another's eyes, then perhaps my occasional glances looking back will be ones filled with fondness for a distant time that once was, rather than a path of loss and regret.

Reset/Refocus

January 3, 2018

I've spent a little time over these past couple of days reflecting on ways to reset my focus and priorities for the coming year (as many of us do to mark the new year), and I'll talk about some of those priorities here now and again.  One of the areas I really want to focus on this year is not taking on blame for other people's choices.  I am all about taking responsibility for my own choices, but sometimes as a mom, as a wife, as a teacher...well, as just about any of the roles I play, I can have a tendency to feel responsibility for other people's choices as well.  You know--if only I had.../if only I tried.../if only I said...then maybe they wouldn't have made those choices.  I end up beating myself up for other people's decisions.  At the end of the day, I suppose it's a weird sense of ego-centrism to think that one person has so much pull that they can be in charge of everyone else's decisions, right?  Mind you, I absolutely believe one person can make a difference in the lives of others, and I will continue to live my life in that vein, but I will work hard to stop blaming myself for things that are outside my control.

Note to Self--And Anyone Else

November 14, 2017

Write, even when you don't feel profound; paint, even when you don't feel artistic; take pictures when you need to practice seeing through another lens; read to hear voices that speak wisdom or joy or humor or humanity into your soul; dance, even if no one else joins in; sing at the top of your lungs, even when no one else knows your song. Forgive yourself if you don't feel perfect at any of these things, because every small offering of art offered in love--whatever form, whatever shape, adds beauty to the world. And friend, we need to continue to add beauty to the world, to let it grow and rise up against the ugliness that threatens to continue to speak darkness and bleakness into the individual and collective soul.

Memories

March 7, 2017

Our memories alone are silent black and white films. Shared, they are fuller, richer, technicolor prisms, reflecting a multiplicity of shades, perspectives, and details. Collective memory is shared humanity.

In Defense of Fiction

March 13, 2014

                I just finished reading a novel called Little Bee, by Chris Cleave.  I came upon this book accidentally, as is often the way I come across a particular book.  I’m a haunter of thrift stores, bargain bins, and garage sales for new and interesting titles to line my bookshelves with, both the ones in my home and the ones in my classroom.  I’m a big believer in the power of the written word to transport and transform, to ignite and incite, and to engross and entertain.  I believe in surrounding myself and my children with words, because I believe it encourages them to know that their voices, too, are powerful.  Entertaining.  Valuable.

                So I came across this book on one of my treasure hunts.  I looked first at the binding, then at the cover, and then at the synopsis on the back.  We tell kids not to judge a book by its cover, but my students—especially my reluctant readers—don’t often know where else to begin.  And if we’re honest, we adults who attempt to guide students through the world of knowledge outside their own worlds, we’ll admit that it’s often where we begin, too.  Why on earth else would publishers and artists expend so much time, energy, and money on what the outside of the book looks like?  If we want people to walk into our house and cozy up on the figurative couch with our ideas, we’re going to want our front porch to be inviting, right?  Of this particular book, Little Bee, I thought the graphics and the title were interesting.  The back cover summary, which intimated a dark secret that bound two women inextricably, was intriguing.  I dropped the book into my cart with several companions, made my purchase, and then set out to divide my new acquisitions between my classroom and home libraries.  Little Bee was one I couldn’t immediately place—not until I’d read it and determined what, in fact, was the secret, and whether or not my classroom was the right home for it.

                I dove in, not knowing what to expect.  Little Bee turned out to be the name of our protagonist, one of two alternating narrators in the work.  The world of Little Bee, a sixteen-year-old illegal immigrant fleeing the horrors of her native Nigeria, is shocking, unsettling.  How she comes to find herself connected to Sarah and her son Charlie is a series of choices, each one setting a subsequent one in motion, until their worlds collide and become simultaneously uncomfortably and comfortably intertwined.  The secret that binds them? I will reveal no more than the back cover of that novel did.  Suffice it to say the secret continues to be revealed and unraveled throughout the course of the novel.  Each piece of the secret that comes to light lays bare another part of the story—and it’s worth digging in deeper to find the whole story.

                It’s not a nice story.  In fact, it takes the reader to some very dark places.  I wanted to look away; I wanted to put down the book and be done.  But it was compelling, you see, shining a light on a place and an injustice most of us will, thankfully, never see in the kind of first-hand nightmare-you-can’t-escape kind of way.  We can put the book down—take a break from it for a while, live our reality, flawed though it may be—and remember that we are not in that place.  But the point is, there are people for whom this is a reality, an existence from which they can’t escape.  And in the end, I had to go back; I had to know what happened to Little Bee and to Sarah.

                In my neighborhood, there are no guerrilla troops raiding villages; there is not a violent power struggle between powerful factions that leaves torn and broken human collateral damage in its wake.  This world I stepped into as a brief visitor is, however, real.  The story is inspired by theft and greed and corruption over real crude oil in a very real Nigeria.  The true events are well-documented and thoroughly researched.  If I’d come across a news article online about the human injustice—the unadulterated disregard for human life at the expense of a land-grab that might yield financial gain—I would almost certainly flick the page or scroll past the story.  I would exercise the kind of purposeful ignorance that many who are comfortable in life often exercise.  If I don’t see it, it doesn’t exist.

                The book, though—it made it real.  Funny thing, that; a fictionalized account is what made the thing real to me.  Why?  Because it humanized the circumstances for me.  It made it personal. I cared about Little Bee’s experience; I cared about her life. I was invested and I was moved.  Her story continued to stay with me when I was not with her, and her story continues to affect me even though I have turned the final page. This is not to say that a non-fiction account couldn’t have done the same thing; this is to say that it didn’t.

                This perhaps sounds like a book review, or possibly the initial workings-out of an analysis.  That is not my intent.  What continued to reverberate in my mind for quite a while after reading the book in addition to the fact that I had been educated about a facet of the modern world I didn’t even know existed was something entirely outside of the story itself.  As teachers of English, we have seen a seismic shift in the past several years regarding the importance of reading.  What do kids need to read in order to be productive citizens?  What do students need in order to adequately and appropriately enter the work force?  Overwhelmingly, the answer from the world of business and even the world of academia has been a sharp aversion to the luxury of reading fiction ‘for fun’ and a turn toward non-fiction.  Functional, informative, necessary.  That’s what our kids need.  They need to be critical thinkers and they need to be problem-solvers.  Nowhere in their world, unless their aspiration is to become a stuffy and quaint 19^th Century Literature professor, will they be asked to read novels to make a living.  Why on earth hold on to such antiquated ideas about English curriculum?  Why bother?  The novel is dead; no one needs to read fiction anymore.  It isn’t relevant.  It isn’t real. 

                Except that it is relevant; it is real.  Unrest in Nigeria is real, and citizens are dying.  Government tyranny and oppression, like Orwell’s 1984 or Atwood’s Handmaid’s Tale, exist.  Today.  Right now.  Compelling and disturbing choices have resounding and long-lasting effects on the human psyche, such as those illustrated in The Kite Runner or The Poisonwood Bible.  Real?  These authors aren’t writing about characters; they are writing about life.  Real life.  Issues in our world.  Problems that need solved.  Questions that need to be faced.  Questions that need to be answered.  Oh, they’re real, alright.  And although nonfiction writers write about some of these same issues and ask us to contemplate the hard questions, fiction writers dress up those issues in raiment familiar and close to us, so that we may examine them firsthand, walking hand in hand with the characters on their journey.  They allow us to see the human-ness behind the story and see the way in which a person can inhabit the experience in a personal way.  The fiction, in fact, makes it real.  We are drawn in by the cover or by the artwork on the front, and we are dropped headlong into a reality we might never have known we didn’t know.

Functional, informative, necessary.  That’s what reading should be, according to the pundits of the day.  And make no mistake; I am not advocating abstaining from reading nonfiction.  There is a wealth of fascinating, engaging, and informative nonfiction to take in.  But to sweep under the rug the vast landscape of literary fiction as a superfluous luxury is not only erroneous, but dangerous.  Fiction draws us in because we are human, because we want to relate.  And because it draws us in, it is able to delve into what connects us as human beings because we become invested in the lives of those we spend time with—in real life and in between the pages of a book.  Good fiction is functional; it begs us to think and draw parallels and understand what it means to be human.  Good fiction is informative; it shows us vast landscapes, both literal and figurative, that expand our horizons.  Good fiction is necessary; it connects us to each other across time and across place.  It reminds us that there is more that should bind us as humans than that should divide us.

 Functional, informative, necessary.  I suppose all depends really, on how you choose to define those terms.  If you boil them down to the lowest form, the most basic of terms, one might say you only need the barest of essentials.  On the one hand, perhaps one might define that as eliminating ‘superfluous fiction’.  Read only what you need to do in order to function appropriately within the construct of the job you’ve chosen to pursue.  Perhaps you only need to read science documents for your job, or perhaps read government policy.  I would agree that those are necessary skills.  On the other hand, might one not define the most necessary element of our future as the ability to read a common thread of humanity among us?  The ability to put a human face to the issues that need our problem-solvers and our critical thinkers?  This is not a luxury or a past-time for the idle; this is what we need as a society.  We need never to forget our connectedness, and fiction allows us to remember in a real and personal way.  It may, as it turns out, be exactly what we need.

Now You've Done It

February 3, 2014

I’m not a Coca-Cola consumer in general—most of my soda dollars (which are considerable) go to Pepsico.  I just like the taste better.  Oh, I’m not one of those who would rather drink water than a Diet Coke; that would be silly.  I’ll drink a Diet Coke if Diet Pepsi is not available, but on the whole, brand me Ms. Pepsi.

However, during the Super Bowl yesterday, Coca-Cola did something that gained my attention.  It gained the attention of a lot of folks, actually, because naturally it happened during one of the biggest television-viewing events of the year.  What did they do? They aired a commercial.  It was a simple, feel-good advertisement meant to celebrate all the harmony and diversity in our country.  Or, if you ask others, it was yet another example of the insidious and intentional un-doing of all that makes this a great country.

Any guesses which side of the metaphorical fence I fall on in this debate?  Because there was a debate, of sorts: an immediate flurry of social media posts of both support of and outrage at the advertisement.  The issue at hand?  The commercial showed several successive vignettes of folks singing “America the Beautiful”.  The actors in the commercial were young and old, from the city and from the country, and represented several ethnicities.  And they were singing the song in lots of different languages.  It started off in English, and ended in English as well, but in between, several other languages were represented.  Beautiful, sweet renditions of people singing about the country that they love.

But they weren’t all singing in English, which was the heart of the matter.  I saw Facebook posts which read, “You’ve done it now, Coca-Cola!” and “I guarantee you not one serviceman died in the service of his country so that you could speak another language!”, among others.  Well now, I’m not so sure about that.  Since when is freedom defined as being required to speak one language?  I’m not saying that folks who live in the United States shouldn’t learn English; I think it’s the way one learns to navigate successfully in this society.  But do I think that means they must forsake any other language they might know? Effectively separate themselves from a culture, a history, a family they also call their own?  How arrogant and single-minded to want to negate the multiplicity of culture that is what makes this country so great.

Mind you, I am not here to engage in the “Official Language” debate, or the “English Only Ballot” debate.  Those are separate conversations that involve so much.  Economics. Opportunities for upward mobility. Business.  An informed citizenry.  Even the idea of nationalism and patriotism.   These issues and more all figure into the discussion of whether or not we should call for an “Official Language” of the people, and honestly, there are good, rational points to be made on both sides of that argument.  We are not, however, discussing that issue.  We are discussing how offended we are (or are not) that Coca-Cola dared to air an advertisement where people were singing—celebrating—this beautiful country in just a handful of the languages that represent the vast multicultural landscape of its inhabitants.

I am not offended.  I don’t think one has to forego one language to embrace another.  When one speaks Spanish, for example, where is it written that it means he or she refuses to learn English? Or is somehow ungrateful to have the opportunities they have in this country or is being disrespectful to servicemen who protect the freedoms afforded us here?  This is not an either/or, black and white world we live in.  The richness of experiences, including cultural and social experiences, is what makes this country beautiful, not the absence of difference.  Not whitewashed sameness.

Coca-Cola got my attention, and the attention of a great many others, for better or worse.  And the company knew that it would, and aired the commercial anyway.  They knew they might (and in fact will) lose some customers because of it.  They decided to celebrate diversity and simplicity by highlighting one of our country’s beloved ballads, letting many voices shine, rather than let divisiveness of potential detractors sway them, and for that I have great respect.  They may not always get my soda dollars, but yesterday, they did earn my respect.

Broader Perspective

October 21, 2013

“Some pursue happiness; others create it.”  Which one are you?

Most of us, I suspect, don’t either pursue or create happiness.  Like all things, there’s a balance to be had there.  There are things I pursue which I believe might make me happy.  I pursued a career path I believed would make me happiest; I pursued a traditional family because I believed being married and having children would make me happy.  Heck, I’ve even pursued the perfect shoe, because nice shoes make me feel good about myself and how I look.  These things have, in fact, made me happy, and I continue to seek out situations and opportunities I feel will enhance my health, wellness, and general sense of contentedness.

Of course, that’s only half the equation—a piece of the balance I try to maintain in my life.  If I was only happy if I got everything I wanted at any given time, I would be a sad, sad individual.  Things do not always go my way, even when I actively work to make those things happen.  Needless to say, I don’t control all the variables in my life.  What I do control, however, is my reaction to them.  When I don’t get something I really want (a job opportunity, for example), or when something goes awry in my everyday life (the air conditioner goes on the fritz in the middle of a 105 degree July day), I often get angry or frustrated or overwhelmed or sad.  But If I let myself stay there and sink into those negative spaces, I might never recover.  I’ve seen it.  There are those who let themselves be mired in the ugliness of anger or cynicism or resentment, and they can’t seem to find their way back.  The longer you stay there in those spaces, the harder it is to come back to the possibility of seeing a broader perspective.  The interesting thing about those who dwell in those negative spaces is that they often convince themselves that they are the only ones who can see ‘reality’, and that those who are happy or content are merely too vapid or naïve to see the ‘truth’.  The truth, in actuality, is that happiness is a choice.  You can choose to see a broader perspective.  That’s not naiveté; that’s mental health.

Broader perspective?  That’s how I create happiness for myself.  When I don’t get the job I was hoping for, I have to assume that it’s for the best, and that something else I’m more suited for will turn up unexpectedly.  When my air conditioner decides to call it quits on the hottest day of the year, I can grumble and moan (and believe me, I do!), but I can also say, at least I’ve got a pool.  Even more importantly, at least I’ve got a home where my kids have a safe place to stay.  It’s an old house, and it requires repairs and TLC to keep it a home, but it is, indeed, a home.  My family is together and intact; we are healthy and we are loved.  And we are happy.  Why?  Because that’s what we choose.  That’s what we create.