pelicansandprose

I wrote this note to my friend, Sally, who invited me to join this writing challenge with her:

“I love this writing challenge.  This morning, I found myself composing stories in my mind as I drove down the beltway.  And then I realized that I was going through the process that Ralph Fletcher talks about—where does the story really begin?  And what is it really about?  If the story is like a river, where do I jump in?  It was cool to realize that I’m thinking like a writer (a newbie for sure, but hey, we’re doing it!!)”

I find myself in composing-mode many times during the day.  When I’m in the shower, I’m trying out stories in my mind.  When I’m driving, or when I’m doing dishes, I’m rehearsing, revising, or searching for the meaning of a memory.  Why does a particular memory feel so important?  Such little stories, but they have lasted more than 50 years in my mind.  

I feel like writing daily has opened up my mind and heart to things that have been covered for some time.  If I start to worry whether my story will mean something to anyone else, I find that my inner-censor starts to take over.  I think I am learning that if I am honest in the details of my stories and open with my true feelings, my personal story might resonate on a more universal level with someone else. That’s why I have enjoyed the commenting feature of this challenge so much.  I only know one slicer personally, but the comments I have received from strangers are so warm and supportive.  I feel connected to the other “slicers” because their stories reach the truth in my life too.   

I questioned whether I would be able to sustain writing daily since routines are hard for me, but to my great joy, this challenge has not felt like a routine.  There is no drudgery here – there is nourishment and creative energy. 

My father was the youngest in his family and grew up with his five older sisters and his mother. His name was George, but everyone called him Juddy. He was known for teasing (all in good fun) and occasionally playing a practical joke. His sisters once felt the house tremble due to a small earthquake, but they cried out, “Mother, make Juddy stop shaking the house!”

Growing up in a house full of women provided my dad a thorough education in the ways of women. The ways they could be competitive, accomplished, envious, generous, sweet, determined, strong, and passionate. What happened when two sisters were interested in the same boy. It was not easy in the 1920s and 1930s to be a family without a father in the home, and his sisters were what we might now call “Power Women.”

Later in life, my father was again surrounded by women with a wife, a son who lived far away, and three daughters. Women seemed to always enjoy my father’s company and there was always much laughter when he was around. When I was young, we happened to have choir practice in our home every Wednesday night. My sister and I helped set up the chairs and provided babysitting for a few children who came along with their parents. My mother was the choir director, but it was my dad who seemed to really look forward to Wednesday nights.

This was primarily for two reasons: Virginia and Eddie. Virginia would come each week with a joke, riddle, or outrageous story for my dad. He would have a joke for her too. They tried to one-up each other with the hilarity, delivering punchlines with just the right inflection and timing. Some weeks he could hardly eat his dinner, he was so excited to tell Virginia his joke.

Eddie was a more serious woman. She was very fashionable and loved fancy shoes. Her grooming was impeccable. My father also knew that she liked neatness in others as well. Knowing this, he hatched a plan. One night he asked my sister to get a needle and thread. He asked her to run some stitches inside his suit jacket and leave the end of the thread hanging out of his breast pocket. The spool of thread was in the inside pocket of the jacket.

After choir, my dad engaged Eddie in conversation. People often stayed to visit long after choir was over. They were talking and soon Eddie noticed the thread. “Here, George, let me get that thread for you.” She started to pull the thread. Soon she had pulled a yard of thread or more. She kept pulling! My dad started to laugh–he knew his plan had worked. He laughed so hard every time he told the story of the time he “got” Eddie.

As I lay on the floor at the close of my yoga class, the instructor said, “Place your palms up to receive the blessings of this day.”  My eyes were closed, the room was softly lit, and quiet music played in the background.  I tried to focus on my breath and find access to the blessings of the day.  However, I had had a very difficult day of meetings about our at-risk students, and I had gotten soaked in a downpour of rain.

So what were the blessings of this day?  The stories I heard today make my heart heavy.  I learned of 2 sisters who miss at least 2 days of school each week because mother is in either high or in jail; of a first grader who is afraid for his mom who went to get an abortion when she learned her baby had multiple handicaps, but then didn’t because she couldn’t pay $9000.00;   of a sixth grader who has never really known his father, a known terrorist in prison and associated with Al Qaeda.  We discussed so many students who are homeless, living in deplorable conditions, or who are disengaged, unmotivated,  and making poor choices.

As a teacher, the blessings of this day must be held in a reservoir of hope or stories such as the ones I heard today would be more than I could bear.  It is a blessing to be with these children and perhaps be the one who can provide a smile, a kind word, a bit of encouragement, or a life lesson that will help them not only survive, but be able to thrive and flourish in their lives.  It is a blessing to be a colleague with caring adults who expend time, money, emotional energy, and their teaching talents in order to provide the education and nurturing our children need.

Each child’s story contributes to the blessings of today when I consider the privilege it is to be in their presence each day. While they do struggle and we call them “at-risk,” we are also blessed to see resilience, perseverance, and grit.  So after all, I do open my hands to receive the blessings of this day, breathing in and breathing out. 

My father was a sound sleeper and could fall asleep rather quickly. He snored very loudly so the nightly challenge was to get in bed and fall asleep before he did or it might mean a long time laying there listening to him breathe. Or not breathe. Then the snoring again.

My mother, on the other hand, was a light sleeper and awakened easily. One night after I had fallen asleep, my mom heard an unfamiliar sound and awoke abruptly. As a musician, she had perfect pitch and keen ears. She listened a moment. She heard a high-pitched sound that seemed to circle the room. Around and around and around.

“Honey, wake up. There’s a bat in our room!” In a flash, my dad was up and pulled his pants and slippers on. (He would never dream of not being dressed if he were out of bed.) He carefully edged out of the bedroom leaving my mother in the bed. I imagine she pulled the sheet over her head. He returned a moment later with the broom and a shoebox.

He swung the broom at the bat. Missed. Swung again. Missed. He didn’t want to hurt it; he just wanted to knock it down to the floor. Finally, he swung and connected, sending the bat to the royal blue carpet. Quickly, my dad scooped it into the shoebox and put the lid on.

As dawn approached, he took the bat to the back porch and set it free. As he told me the story the next day, he held the shoebox and looked inside wistfully as if there were the essence of bat left behind.

Some people are unlucky in love; I’m unlucky with dogs.  Back in the days before leash laws, dogs were free to run in the neighborhoods where children were out playing.  We played during daylight hours during the school year, and often much longer during the summer time.  

There was Sojo, the Australian Sheepdog, who herded our car down the street every time we went out.  He barked and barked, getting so close to the car, my mother was terrified of hitting him.  “Go home, Sojo!” we yelled.

Then there was Jericho, the Dalmatian, who loved to tip over our trashcan and dig in the trash.  “JERICHO!” I yelled as I chased him off so I could clean up the trash.  Sometimes I would hide on the front porch hoping to scare him off before he could make trouble.

Laddie, was the ancient Collie in the neighborhood who lived on what was left of the farm next to our house.  How was I supposed to know that he had arthritis?  I was only 7.  When I tried to pet him, he let me know of his pain with a quick nip to my left wrist which drew blood.  I kept a safe distance from Laddie after that.

One summer afternoon when I was about 5 years old, I was allowed to go to the stop sign at the top of the cul-de-sac where we lived.  My mom could still see me from the front window if I didn’t go too far.  I don’t remember why I went up to the stop sign, but the next thing I knew my five-year-old legs were running as fast as they could go down the hill.  Looking over my shoulder, I saw there was a bulldog chasing me.  I didn’t know his name, but I looked back again and saw his bottom teeth jutting forward. Slobber dripped from his jowls.  I screamed and ran faster, yelling, “Mama!”

The house seemed so far away.  Could I get home before he bit me?  He nipped at my legs. “Maaaaamaa!”  The front door opened and Mama shooed me in and shut the door.   My heart pounded and my eyes filled with tears.  Not knowing the ways of dogs, I couldn’t understand why that dog didn’t like me.  

The fear has remained even though I’ve tried to be a dog owner twice.  Those are also sad stories. I guess I’m just unlucky with dogs.

Here’s a little list about going to church.  It’s a meaningful habit – sometimes driven mostly by meaning and desire; sometimes sustained by habit.

• A practice of my entire life
• Enriched by music
• Choir practice and hymns
• Challenge to be more than I think I can be
• Families together
• Babies and toddlers with Cheerios and quiet books
• Questions and answers
• Sharing celebration and adversity
• Faith and prayer
• Community and friends 
• Giving strength to others
• Taking strength from others
• Replenished
• Renewed
• Grateful 
• Belonging

Perhaps writing is another activity that can be a meaningful habit.  When the meaning part is tired or weak, the habit part can pick up the slack and help you continue.  I’m finding that this little writing time each day is helping me feel more whole.

In times of difficulty when you would think that music would help, I find it difficult to go to the piano. It’s something I don’t quite understand, but perhaps the fear of getting to emotions that are too deep keeps me from playing the music I love.  I studied piano for many years and even tried to major in it my first year of college (but that’s another story) and gained a measure of proficiency that has allowed me to play for choirs, singers, and instrumentalists, as well as just for myself.

So why can’t I play when life is hard?  Why won’t I allow myself that bit of beauty and tactile pleasure of pressing the black and white keys?

Last week, I found myself home alone and felt drawn to the piano.  I decided that I would try to play again.  I pulled out the first Prelude by J.S. Bach, a simple piece that Gounod used to accompany his “Ave Maria.”  I love the way the harmonic tension builds in this piece and then releases into what feels like peaceful acceptance.

I sat at the piano and just looked at the music for a moment. It’s the language I love to read most. My hands lifted to the keyboard and my fingers found their places on the keys.  I started to play and let the broken chords wash over me like gentle waves of ocean water.  Then as the emotion and harmonic progression grew, I felt something change in me.  I let my guard down a little and opened a window inside.  I knew that in a few measures would come my favorite part, the part where there is the assurance that you are on the road home–a homecoming to the key of C.

What I didn’t know was that when I got there, tears would be streaming down my face.

It’s 8:00 on Friday night.  It’s been a challenging week on many fronts.  I have no interest in making dinner and no interest in going out.   I open the fridge, stare a while, then close the door. I eat a few Baked Lay’s Potato Chips and open the fridge again.  

Soon bacon is sizzling in the pan and the intoxicating smell ignites a bit of appetite. I flip the bacon over, happy that I have not burned it.  While the bacon cooks, I get a fork and scramble a few eggs with a bit of milk, salt, and pepper.  On other nights, I might have added a rainbow of fresh peppers, but not tonight.  Hoping the grease won’t pop and burn my hand, I lift the bacon and place it on the paper towel to absorb the fat.

I love the sound of eggs poured into a hot pan.  It’s a unique sound that reminds me of breakfasts that my mom or my dad made for me all the years I lived at home.  I love how the eggs gradually thicken, puff up, and become light, fluffy, yellow clouds.  

As I sit down to eat my simple meal, I am grateful for the comfort 2 strips of bacon and a couple of eggs can bring.  

Words fail when trying to describe my father, but he was truly the best man I have ever known.  He provided for our family in all the important ways–we were loved immensely, we had opportunities, we were comfortable, and we were happy (mostly).  He provided wisdom, humor, support, strength, and spirit in ways I find it hard to name.  Professionally, he worked as an FBI agent and later as an investigator for several government agencies.  In his work, he witnessed the acts of criminals and the darker side of life, but he never brought that home.  If anything, he worked even harder to shield us from pain and evil.  

So many small moments could be written about my dad, each one a glimpse of his rare character.  This small moment is a defining memory for me.  It reminds me that small actions can have lasting power.

Daddy was fastidious in keeping up with the news, mail, and household bills.  He frequently wrote personal letters to family and friends. Once a check was made out to pay a bill, or a letter written to my older brother or sister, he HAD to get it in the mail.  Whether it was impatience to receive a reply, or just his dislike of leaving “loose ends,” I’m not sure, but I know that trips to the post office were frequent and important to him.

One cold night in February my father, still in his suit and tie, put on his long, black wool overcoat, and wool fedora.  He always wore a hat in the winter.  He asked if anyone was up for a walk to the mailbox.  “I’ll come!” I exclaimed.  I bundled up and we headed out into the bitter cold night.  I could see my breath as we walked to the blue mailbox about a half mile around the block.  We looked up at the stars. “Look! There’s the Big Dipper, and there’s the Little Dipper!”  Stars seemed to awaken his philosophical nature.

I can’t recall our conversation exactly, but I remember the feeling.  My dad loved to ask questions of his children, such as, “Is is better to go fishing on Sunday and think about church? Or, is it better to go to church and think about fishing?”  He liked to make us struggle with an idea and he always listened to what we had to say.  I knew I had his full attention as we walked and talked.   

Walking with my Dad that night, I think he asked me about what I wanted to become in my life.  I felt he trusted me to have hopes and dreams and he wanted to be part of making them happen.  Walking with my Dad, I felt valued.

We were about half-way there when my dad reached for my small hand with his big, warm hand.  He had large hands with thick fingers. He always said his hands were clumsy, but I thought they were the most beautiful hands I’d ever seen or felt.  The veins on his hands stood up as if proud of their work.  His pinky was crooked, and his pointer finger bore the scar of an unfortunate encounter with a lawnmower blade.  His hands were always warm.  We walked briskly together in the cold, hand-in-hand.  His big hand said, “You’re safe with me.”

“Here we are.  Pull it open.”  I reached up, and he let me put the letter in.  I listened for it to hit the pile of mail already in the box. “Now, be sure it went down.” I opened the chute and looked to see.  

I still do that.  

I’m struggling with topic today.  So many stories come to mind, but then my inner censor says, “That’s too depressing, or that’s too personal, or that’s boring.”  I know stories will come, but perhaps not today.  Perhaps today is a day for reflecting.  I’m happy to be part of this SOL challenge.  It is my first time blogging, and the first time I’ve kept a commitment to write that’s lasted more than 3 days.  So that is something to celebrate.

I’m struggling on this 5th day in a good way – I know the struggle is worth it.  It doesn’t scare me to struggle, I have struggled with much harder things than my writing and am grateful for the lessons learned from those experiences.  I know that all writers go through this process.  I’m just newer at navigating it, but I have faith in the process and know that I will be surprised at how much I learn.

As I think now of my students, I know they often struggle.  I don’t want to steal that from them, no matter how many signals they give that it’s hard.  I have one student that enters my room every day with a “pouty” face.  She wants me to know loud and clear that she doesn’t want to be there, but I notice that gradually she enters the group, sits up a little taller, takes a risk to make a comment, and grows in her confidence.  That’s why I don’t mind her pouty face.  I know the struggle will pay off.

One of the great aspects of this SOL challenge is the opportunity to do as Stephen King said, “If you want to write, Read, Read, Read.”  Reading the posts of others teaches me so much.