Gifts Given

The play at the Kitchen last night was called Milkweed, with its first ever anywhere showing. It was, as I said later, a play where I'd have to see what came back to me the next day. There were parts I knew I was missing, because it was intense, but also because I dozed a bit to begin - an emergency the night before giving me only 4 hours of sleep, the play not being one with a lot of action or humor, and a glass of wine with dinner beforehand - all told, it was a given that would happen. 

And so, no surprise that I woke with it, sat with it, and then went to my sub job with it, thinking on it. Quantum physics was in it, blurring my thoughts last night, until this morning when I was able to siphon off the meat and focus on the matter, the metaphor. 

So, yes, a play of physics and sonnets. But also, teachers and students. Timelines and time meeting in the moment. Relationships. Gifts. 

Good teachers gift a love of knowledge, an awakening to their intellect, the power of faith in self, and the possibilities and wonder in themsleves and in the world, while students gift us time, connection and the memory of our own youth and learning. We are young again when watching others grow. When a spark flares, we teachers, growing old or certainly not as young as we were once, we know of the successes and failures of life to come, of relationships built, lost and sometimes changed, the sense of eternity slowing to death. All that is kept at bay when we meet in the moment. 

I'm subbing today. In a math room, it was a review day, on graphing and equations, something I have to review anew every time, and yet, in both classes there were students willing to joke with me, to work with me, to see me as a person. Now almost 70 and not 30, time in education is even more precious. 

As the saying goes, I touch the future, but the future touches me, and that is incredible. 

Gifts Received

A Cat's View

A pessimist: Ignoring the world, firm no.

Optimist: One eye, perhaps, available but no promises.

Smart Cat

Words of Advice

On dealing with a lifelong

                                     friend

                  who doesn't seem to be 

     much

         of a friend

                               anymore.

Change What Is Possible: Your Outlook

A Wish

In our minds, our actions, our beliefs and our politics, may we find peace. Not the peace at any cost, which erodes the soul, but the kind of peace, at whatever cost, to live a true, honorable and honest life. 

Probably a Christmas decoration and found at the Salvo, for me, it's a reminder that we should live our lives so that we are one with ourselves. Hard to do, but with it, the benediction of my youth comes to mind, the comforting 

Peace Be With You

A Question and an Answer

An article in New Yorker, on Tennyson, the poet, took me to my mother today. To start, a question: the formative sound of your childhood? A paragraph of possibilities followed, none of which fit for me. Thinking through, I came to an answer. 

My mother in the kitchen with the local radio station on, doing what most in many households would be doing, listening to the voice of the morning telling of the local news and weather, insights and interesting happenings.*

Quietly and (I project) contentedly alone, she'd be making the coffee, assuring we were up, monitoring bathroom use (we only had one, so time was of the essence), making my lunch (tuna fish sandwich every day), starting breakfast (mine an Instant Breakfast whipped into a foamy shake in the blender, with a Chocks daily vitamin; theirs, eggs and bacon, toast and orange juice). The radio with my mother listening was the formative sound of my childhood.

Mom was a public health nurse for the south end of the county. She had an office, but much of her time was spent traveling to homes where she would tend to the needs of the people in our community. She came home for lunch. I picture her puttering around doing minor chores, making her lunch, and then sitting at the table eating and writing. 

Every day we'd come home from school and on the kitchen table there'd be a note in her cursive hand with a couple chores for us: start the dinner, put the dishes away, take the trash out or scraps to the compost pile. Nothing huge, nothing difficult, and yet we'd be jumping to do them just minutes before she walked in the door.

Once home, Mom would change her clothes, maybe meander the yard or work on her sewing til time to start dinner. Then she'd sit in her chair at the table, reading the local paper. Her after work quiet time (if we weren't fighting). And later, finally, at the end of the day, she'd be in bed, doing the crossword puzzle. 

The rhythms and consistencies of a day: listening, writing, reading, doing. My mom was the most formative part of my childhood. 

Funny, how a rhetorical question to begin a book review on a 19th century writer could entice my mind and take me back. 

To My Mother

*Afterword: Talking to another yesterday, we did a bit of research and found the station and the man, WHCU and Jack Deal. Injecting the right input into our screens gave us the answer. I guess Mom wasn't the only ones listening! (click on photo to enlarge.)

A Joke

 A human, a deer and I are on the trail. The human says, "It's not so bad walking." The deer replies, "It's great for me with four hooves." But I say, "What the hell! It's awful!"

Not yet 

Time to Run on the Trail

    Didn't take my phone (not so smart if I'd fallen) so here's the melting lake

The Given Day

Sometimes books are so good, I want to write about them before I even finish them. Sometimes the novel I'm reading is so intense, I can only read a bit of it at a time. And sometimes, the story is so relevant to the world today that I am in awe. 

I've read a few of Dennis Lehane's books, starting with the best seller, Small Mercies, set in Boston during the turbulent summer of '74. I so liked his style, his ability to see all sides and his knowledge of Boston and history. A senior that year, I can't say I truly knew nor understood then all that was happening in the world. The novel with Lehane's writing took what I'd gleaned over the years and made it come alive.

Now, needing a book til one of my holds came in. I went to another of his books, The Given Day. It is one of those books I described in the first paragraph. Set in, of course, Boston during the 1919 police strikes, I have been transported to the past....and the present. History does so sadly repeat itself. 

At one point, I stopped reading to write to a friend who I knew would understand. Her reply, apt: history does repeat itself, and so she doesn't read much historical fiction anymore.

But I do. I find, even through all the atrocities of the past, that there is hope. Humans, while horrid, can come to understand our faults, empathize with others and change our beliefs. It is often slow, distressing progress, with repeat offenses, but hope is there. 

History, Then and Now

 

I, Too

Subbing yesterday, I was in an English 11 classroom. They're reading and journaling on The Hunger Games, with a particular emphasis not on the book but on journaling. Using the book as a platform to personal writing, I found it totally interesting.

Leaving, I told the teacher how nice it was to be in his classroom, and that this unit made me want to be in eleventh grade again. Reading a great book, being asked thoughtful, open-ended questions to write on in a  personal and not critical analysis way, all while being given carte blanche to be as creative as I wanted with fonts, colors and artwork, I would have loved doing this. Really? It seemed the students were also  enjoying it. 

Also interesting? What was connecting this classroom to mine: Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. I, too, had it posted in my room.  It's a good reminder of what we all need to have the faith to grow and become all we can be.

Needs posted and, hopefully

Needs Met

Who Dun It?

New Yorker's Shouts and Murmurs makes sense to me about a quarter of the time. Many times the humor is beyond me or just a bit much. Today's, written by Anthony Lane, had five letter words - wordle words - to create a murder mystery. 

Lane used to be the movie critic. He was great. Funny and informative, I trusted his reviews.  Not so often in the magazine now, but when he is, I so look forward to it. Today was no exception.

Wordle Dun Do It

Corrupted

A friend put this out on Facebook and my sister sent it to me. (Left it the first time the Orange Tyrant won.) True words.

Whether it be middle schoolers or friends, in the family or in the workplace, in private relationships or in political arenas, laughter directed toward another and not with another is wrong. 

It's not humor, it's awful

Power

Spring

 

As winter wars,

the cold penetrates

the wind lashes.

Spring sits,

knowing its time

will come.

Waiting

How I Feel

Just last night a friend and I were talking about, what else but, politics, and we both agreed: it is so depressing. 

The orange idiot and his minions, there are not enough words to describe all that happens. We think this is the worst, whatever this is happening, and then, there's another something. How can we, at this point, even talk about any of it? It's all terrible and beyond the pale. We just can't.

Exhausted, overwhelmed and overstimulated. That's us. 

(But without the ability to quit, lay down and snooze, all while looking gorgeous.)

What I Am

What Is It?!?

 

 

Opening my photos today, I saw this. 

What was it? Had I been hacked? What was this terrible creature? This photo was right out of a horror movie. How could it be on my phone? 

Zooming in, I realized. Getting my skis out earlier this week, I took this photo. 

In context: It's fiber glass insulation that is falling apart, from age, and then from birds. The 'nose' is actually a nest. And so, the photo....that I'd forgotten I'd taken.

Looking at it still gives me the heebie-jeebies. Even knowing what it is, all I see is a decaying creature, but at least, intellectually, I know.

But. Still.

The tricks our minds play.

Imagination Running Wild

Magic

Is it 

possible to capture 

a moment? 

The brilliance, the 

sparkle of the 

freshly fallen 

s

   n   

       o

           w

Making new the old

Just as

morning lights  

the day

     In a Moment

Going Fishing

Yesterday, at 11 degrees with a -2 degree windchill, I decided not to run. Even a bit protected at the park, it just seemed foolish, and as the saying goes, "Mama didn't raise no fool."

Or, at least my mama didn't. At  9:59, while doing my exercises, I looked out the window and wondered at what I saw, something was there on the lake on the ice. In a spot I'd never seen before - usually they're off from Stewart Park - was an ice fishing hut. Wow. 

Hardier souls than I, I watched as one walked the lake, looking for ... whatever it is ice people look for. From the first, walking toward east shore at 10:12 til the last one, at 10:20, so far away from the hut that I took it in relation to the pile cluster, I was mesmerized. 

Finally, finishing my workout, I looked again and there they were, heading in. It was 10:35. Last I saw them they were headed up the inlet, and headed toward warmth.

I hope.

Going Home 

Failure

From The Week, Morning Edition, 1/30/26

 

 

Often found on the road of life. 

We fail, we try, we fail, and then, with reflection and gumption, we arrive. 

Success