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I had a lovely lunch today…in my room…with my best girlfriend…getting some last minute work done…with nothing to eat because I forgot to bring a lunch. It wasn’t all that bad because I had just inhaled some Fig Newtons a few hours earlier. So we spent our thirty minutes swapping stories of what crappy moods we were both in yesterday and venting about the injustices of being thirty-ish and either unmarried or childless. (Ironically…or not so ironically…they are evoke similar emotions.)
I hate feeling this way–edgy and irritable. A look…a mishap…a dog drooling on my leg…dropping a washcloth coming out of the dryer…not finding anything decent on t.v….can send me into a tailspin from which I swear I can never recover. The truth is that when my petunias die because I failed to water them, I really want to cry. But I feel silly crying over dead petunias, so instead, I stomp around the house, madly scrub the tub, and say “what?” when I answer the telephone. (My therapist will be thrilled to know that I made this connection.)
And the mood (like the gift) goes on. I keep hoping that eventually I will learn to catch myself before the full-blown slam to the bottom. One day. In the meanwhile, I’ve issued myself a challenge. I am on a mission to find the bliss in my life…one day at a time. I hope that by changing my focus, I will more in tune with myself and not so grumpy half the time. So here goes…
~ fried sweet plantains for dinner ~ an exuberant greeting from my dogs when I came home to pick up my computer cord ~ a friend who doesn’t feel slighted when I flip through papers while listening to her ~ a one-hour Monopoly game with some 6th graders this evening ~ getting paid to play the aforementioned game ~ the smile on a student’s face when she announced that she wasn’t the last one in class today ~ free credit reports ~ my husband doing all the laundry in the house today ~ laughing with my students about how I tackled my deaf dog yesterday in the neighbor’s front yard ~
So I’ve added to my “about me” list this obsession for foreign films. It all started back in my college Spanish class when I first viewed “Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown.” This was later followed by “Run Lola Run.” The love affair was rekindled several months ago when I found a copy of “Lucia, Lucia” in Big Lots for $2. Foreign films carry a different perspective on life than American films. It’s hard to explain unless you’ve seen one. They have a way of wrapping around your brain and not letting go.
I had an idea several months ago to start a foreign film festival in my livingroom. My television loves the idea. It gives it a purpose for more than just football season (and I DO love my football!). So, today, Nadia and I parked ourselves on the couch surrounded by four dogs and read subtitles until we were cross-eyed.
We watched Tortilla Soup, Good-Bye Lenin, Sexo, Pudor y Lagrimas, and Hable con Ella. Each was good…each was unique…each left an imprint on me. My afternoon has taken me from the dinner table of a Mexican-American family to a capitalist East Berlin (in the form of Coca-Cola and Burger King) to the apartments of dysfunctional couples in Mexico city to a convalescence home in Spain.
Ah…a lovely Saturday afternoon and evening complete with a gourmet Taco Bell dinner and candles glowing along the mantle. I am happy.
Part of teaching 8th grade, I’m told, is that I am required to do a unit on the WW2 Holocaust. I put this off until the very end of the year because I had a difficult time deciding just how to present the topic in an unbiased way. The heart of my teaching method is showing my students how to find facts in emotionally charged arguments and form their opinions based on the facts.
I finally decided to let them read “The Diary of Anne Frank.” The play presents a perfect opportunity to discuss how dramatizations are adapted. We’ve watched interviews with survivors and will be reading some of Anne’s essays that are not part of the diary. Next week we will wrap it all up with a exploration of genocide around the world and more discussions about free speech.
We all really needed a break the last few days; this topic is draining. Yesterday and today I showed them the black and white “Diary of Anne Frank” movie. You know the one. I have quite a personal history with the movie beginning in the 6th grade when I saw it at school. In 8th grade, I read the play and watched the movie again. That same year, I taped it off the Disney Channel (back in the day when it was a subscription channel and they ran those free weekends for you to preview the quality programming). I LOVED that movie, and for the following year, I woke up just about every Saturday morning to watch the tape and write in my own diary. The story captivated me.
It’s fun to see that kind of love spread to another person. Five of my girls–the tough, street wise ones–spread out on the floor and violently “shhhd” everyone during the movie. They were captivated. Their mouths curved into smiles as the love story between Anne and Peter progressed. Their eyes grew wide and mouths gaped when they thought the families had been caught by the police. They laughed at Anne’s antics and screamed at her when she was mean to her mother. I think I almost saw a few tears.
The afternoon was just as much fun. It’s a large group filled with such a wide array of characters that I could never completely describe them. Like me, they are verbal…and quick…and downright funny. Here’s some of our exchanges:
During the scene of Anne and Peter’s first “date”.
“What’s he doing to her hand?”
“Um, isn’t he holding it?”
“No, he’s moving the pen across it.”
I had to get up and see just what was going on. “Oh, come on, that’s the poor boy’s move!”
Burst of laughter. “What kind of move is that?”
I look around to see a few of them experimenting with this technique and reporting to me that it didn’t work. The scene ends shortly after this. One boy exclaimed, “THAT was a date? That’s the shortest date I’ve seen.”
I couldn’t resist. “Really? And just how many dates have YOU seen?
We laughed even more just a few minutes later when just as Anne and Peter were about to kiss (all I heard today was, “Are they going to kiss?”), someone on the floor adjusted the backpack under their neck and unplugged the t.v.
On top of all this, three girls ran up to me between classes, just bursting at the seams, with comments about “To Kill a Mockingbird.” This is my all-time favorite book, and it was so much fun to get into such fascinating discussions as how much we dislike Aunt Alexandra, Atticus’ parenting styles, and the creepiness of Boo Radley wrapping a blanket around Scout during Miss Maudie’s fire.
There’s my bliss today…my hope for next week. And I so desperately need these moments in the midst of my chaos.
My school is the zoned school for our local children’s home. I actually tried to get a job there before I started teaching, but it wasn’t meant to be. Instead, I’ve worked with several of the kids in the classroom. They are interesting children from some challenging backgrounds. Some have been placed long-term by parents who could not or would not accept the responsibility of parenting. Others are there temporarily due to parental abuse or neglect or incarceration. Still more are living their lives in a group home, waiting for adoptions that may never happen because the parents wait too long to relinquish their rights.
It’s a rough life. Many of the children there have learning disabilities and emotional handicaps that impair their ability to function in society. They struggle with learning and practicing what most of us find routine and this results in a world where physical fights abound, the meal table is a battlefield, and the question, “Is it my turn to go home yet?” hover in the air. I cannot imagine the emotional pressure of living in this environment.
And yet, these children are in my mind tonight for a different reason. I know that local business and schools “adopt” the home by giving them food and toys and clothing. They wear name brand (albeit used) clothing, own Playstations and portable DVD players and MP3 players. I’ve watched groups go through and paint the walls and plant flowers in the front yard. Honestly, I was stunned to hear about all they have there…all but a chance at a regular family.
Look into their eyes and you see the longing and the desperation. It’s not an easy thing to walk in their shoes. We take for granted the little things that our parents taught us, like “cover your mouth when you cough” and “it’s not nice to stare.” The world is a little scarier when you don’t have someone there to tell you, “everyone feels this way at 13″ and “things will get better”. What do you cling to when your anchor is missing or gone?
And so they will drift. And we will throw more “things” at them because the world is imperfect and filled with opportunists and cowards. We’re too afraid of lawsuits and hurt feelings and protecting the rights of people who choose to be indifferent. And yes, I’m being judgmental because I’m sick and tired of hearing the whine, “Why didn’t anyone do anything?” The answer isn’t pretty…and we don’t like the ugly answers.
Please, hug your kids tonight. Tell them that you’re proud of the person they are and that you believe in them. There are too many children in this world who won’t have that opportunity today or tomorrow or next week. And it’s the most important “thing” we can possibly give them.
In the middle of my discussion with my therapist today, I blurted out, “I just want to enjoy my life.” He looked at me, slightly stunned (not an unusual look for him when he talks with me…I tend to be witty and charming there), and asked, “You’ve never really had the chance, have you?”
This was my turn to look stunned (not an usual look for me there). I looked around the room, searching my brain for an answer. My reply was feeble, “no.” I’ve always felt this need to push myself…a “set a goal and drain the life from you body to reach it” mentality.
When I finally made it home, I pulled out my old journals and started reading. Journals are interesting creatures. I’ve used them to vent…to sort out ideas…to record my food for the day. What struck me was how often I wrote about wanting to live and experience life…and my frustration at not doing just that.
I’ve sucked some marrow out of my life. Although few and far between, I see those moments in North American travels…front porch conversations…poetry. Yet, this isn’t enough. I still want more. I don’t have dreams of fame or fortune. I have dreams of comfort and satisfaction. Why not more?
When asked today why I don’t pursue what I want (because even though I protest, I really do know my heart-dreams), I could only say that I’m afraid of finding an empty dream in the end or finding that I wasted my time searching for something that wasn’t meant to be. I’ve forced myself to find contentment in settling for the dreams of those around me. I’m scared…there, I said it. How sad is that? Comfort is not always the easiest path…and definitely not the most satisfying.
So what next? I feel like one of those commercials where the girl steals the guy’s iPod and they leave you hanging. I admitted today (and confirmed it with my old journals) what I want out of life. Am I willing to take it to the next level? It means some changes in patterns…it means choosing to stand on what I believe…it means saying good-bye to some of my tried and true methods of skating by.
We may be moving. It scares the hell out of me to think of leaving my house…my short commute to work…a workplace where I fit in…my comfortable, quiet neighborhood…my therapist. All I see staring at me is the search for a place to live and a job and finding my way to the nearest Publix. What if? What if? What if?
Can I really surrender to the calling burning in my soul? Am I really willing to throw myself into the ideas planted in my heart? Will I do this whole-heartedly, not just looking for the easy way out–the one that sacrifices the truth within me for convenience? Light questions, huh? Time will sort these out for me…and sooner than I probably want to admit.
Daily Bliss: Sitting in silence on my back porch as the sun went down. A 10-year old bottle of Hungarian merlot. Moments alone without the t.v. or telephone. Student-written poetry. Laughing at the thought of my husband wondering why on earth people write things like this on the internet.
My dear friend Becky posted a blog that has me thinking this morning. (You can read her blog and my comments here.) I’m thinking back to the recent bomb threat and full evacuation at my school. I had no problem jumping in, corralling students, rising above the pain in my feet from walking miles in heels, and still being able to laugh in the midst of that chaos. When three hurricanes cut across my state just a few miles from where I live, I methodically dealt with FEMA and our insurance company, dragged tree limbs away from my yard, and stoically lived through 10 days in August with no electricity at my house. I’ve battled with the state mental health system to get treatment for my bipolar mother while simultaneously working through my first year of marriage, finishing my bachelor’s degree, and working full-time. Oh, I know how to deal with the crap life slings at me sometimes.
Yet, something like misreading a sign and discovering at the checkout register that I just purchased candy for $8.99 a pound (instead of $1.99 a pound), or walking in to a kitchen counter scattered with the day’s mail, or discovering a glass put away in the wrong cabinet can send me into a tailspin. I don’t quite understand this disparity.
I’m sure I’m not alone. There’s a reason we’re told “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” It’s the small stuff that can crawl under your skin and drive you into madness. So why do we let it get to us? I do believe that God is ultimately in control, and I welcome his peaceful presence in the major, ugly stretches of chaos. Those moments are when I discover truths for living. I can process the path and find meaning.
The small stuff, though, is stuff that just shouldn’t be. I should pay more attention to the signs in the store. I should be able to walk into my house after work and see a clutter-free kitchen counter. I should expect the people in my house to know where to put away the dishes. The problem, I’m beginning to see, is more in my expectations. I expect catastrophes in life. Jesus told me they’d be there. No one told me about the razor nicks and clogged toilets and knocked over plants. Just because I expect something doesn’t mean it’s going to be that way. My world is filled with more than myself, and that, I suppose, means it’s never going to be just the way I want it.
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
When did I miss the day God was bestowing upon us the ability to read minds? I’ve been trudging through a fog lately, desperately trying to figure out when reality shifted and we were all suddenly accountable for not knowing the inner workings of someone’s mind. Too few of us understand what the hell is running around in our OWN minds!
I look at the Virginia Tech shooting, the bomb threat at my school, my incommunicado relative, mandates passed on to me by state lawmakers and parents, and even my own chastisements for myself. The bells all sound the same tune: why didn’t you do something before it was too late?
You know, we all have limitations. Yet, we push and argue and berate and punish each other merely for being human. We all screw up. We all miss warning signals. We all fall short of the glory.
Sigh. I know I’m being vague. There’s just too much jumbled in my head for me to sort it all out in a short, readable post. Perhaps that’s part of my fixation on the faulty side of humanity. I’ve rushed through my week in a survival mode (which for me means staying up too late getting work done, ranting about worldly injustices, and expending too much mental energy trying to figure out what other people are thinking).
Expending all this energy on other people is a clever distraction. I don’t have to look at my own feelings and make changes in my own life this way. This steely-eyed focus on everyone else uses up all my ability (and time) for personal introspection. Introspection terrifies me sometimes because I fear the decisions I will make when I truly follow my gut…and the admission that I may have neglected to predict the future. Based on recent headlines and non-conversations within my family, I’m inclined to believe that that’s anyone’s greatest fault.
So for now, I’m going to close my eyes, sip more of the world’s best wine, and force myself to feel something. I need to feel something.
This pretty much sums up the way I’ve felt lately.
I tend to hide it well, but rumbling beneath the surface of my soul is a beast fraught with anger and fear and insecurity.
