Teaching

Whether I intended for this to happen or not, my profession has become one of my most defining characteristics, and I am not entirely sure if it's healthy -- nevertheless, I spend 8-10 (sometimes more, rarely less) hours a day playing my part.  I have been doing this in some form or fashion for the last ten years, though my elementary school teachers would tell you I have been doing is since at least the second grade.  However, officially, since I was 22, I have been teaching.  Little did I know when I began, all those days ago, standing in front of my very first group of wide-eyed-brimming-with-possibilities students how inasmuch as I wanted to help change their worlds, they would, in turn, radically and irrevocably alter mine... mostly for the better (though to be honest, I miss some of my unbridled optimism that seems to have been replaced with a stolid sort of realism).

And to divorce myself from my profession seems nigh-unto impossible.  Someone asked me over Christmas break what my dream job would be -- if I could do or be anything, what would it be?-- and I looked at him -- wordless -- blank stare -- unable to speak because I cannot see myself doing anything else...is this my dream job, the culmination of all my hopes and dreams? Not exactly.  It's more like my liver or kidney or lungs -- how could I ever hope to function in the world without being a teacher?  Even when it hurts.  Even when I fail. Even when I am exhausted and exasperated and discouraged almost beyond recognition. Good or bad. For better or worse. Sunshine and storms. (Well, you get the point, I am sure).

In theory, I could go to work by 7:45, leave by 3:45, and bide my time until summer, or winter break, or spring break.  I could teach the wrote lessons proposed by somebody else, fill out my paperwork, comply in every technical manner, cross every t -- dot every i -- could be a fairly easy, pretty sweet gig if I did -- if I could. 

But I cannot.

It just isn't in me.

And, though the thought of a job I could leave at the office sounds appealing at times -- I am quite certain, in a regular 9-5,  my soul might shrivel up into an unrecognizable shade, barely resembling what once composed me.

And to the outside observer, my life might seem really small. At times, it feels really small. But, in the course of almost any given day, I bear witness to a large scope of what it means to be human. The joy, the pain, the hunger, the passion, the tedium, the excitement of discovery, the disappointment with yourself and others, the sense of accomplishment, and even (or especially) the struggle to just get by some days.  And, even on those days when it's me who's struggling just to get by, I can't imagine doing anything else, and I wouldn't trade it. 

In progress...

This is a poem in progress, but part of my Lenten practice this year is to write something every day. Could be poetry, could be a letter, could be 'most anything. I am working on a Lenten poem, too, but here's what's been bouncing around in my head since I read a blog post the other day (by Donald Miller and from which I borrowed heavily).

I was told,

once,

the world

had been missing me

that

insomuch as

the world is a 

gift 

to me--

(rather surprisingly)

I am a gift 

to the world--

an ineffable verity

long forgotten

in the days since:

all I saw was 

complete loveliness

all I heard was

replete symphony

all I felt was

hunger

or pain

or pleasure...

you know, the real

elements

of life:

pure and unadulterated--

the raw honey 

poets try to hawk

on street corners

and farmers markets

and the side of

some rural highway

Rewriting my Grandfather's Obituary...

It seems trite to say that losing a loved one is difficult... even with the hope of heaven, it still hurts, deeply.  Anyone who says differently is not being honest with you and/or with himself/herself.  I find a certain measure of catharsis in writing, so that's what I'm doing.  Read it if you'd like.  I suppose this is really more for me than anybody else.  The newspaper in McAllen had a very nice, very standard obituary for my Grandpa.  However, I'd like to think I could write a better -- truer -- version.  Here's my attempt:

Irvin E. May went home to be with the Lord on January 27, 2013.  He was 89.  He lived a full life in those 89 years.  Born on a ranch in Wyoming, Irving worked the cattle, loved the land, and made his home.  When duty called in WW II, he answered it humbly yet bravely, and he served in the Army in the South Pacific.  After returning home, he met and fell in love with Mildred, the woman who would marry him and be his companion through the joys and sorrows of the following 64 years. Life's adventures took them from a ranch in Wyoming to a home in McAllen, Texas.  Always ready to serve his community, Irvin was a member of the American Legion, a little league baseball coach, a Royal Ambassador leader, and a 3rd Grade Sunday school teacher.

Irvin's influence does not stop there.  He helped raise two sons, Patrick and Ronald, and had tremendous impact on the lives of his three grandchildren, Ronnie, Bonnie, and Leesa, and his great-grandson .  He provided everyone he met with practical examples of living simply and selflessly.  Never found without a smile and a kind word, Irvin moved throughout his days lightening the load of those who were heavy burdened and encouraging those whose troubles threatened to overwhelm.  He delighted in listening to others, and when he spoke, it was with a combination of humility and authority and wisdom.  However, no game was ever too silly to play with his grandchildren -- he spent many hours drinking tea out of a plastic tea set or pretending to be in school along side long-suffering stuffed bears and dolls -- and he laughed and smiled all the while.

Perhaps one of his greatest legacies is his propensity for smiling and finding the bright spot in any situation.  Just ask anyone who spent any time around him; he never had a harsh, cross, or unkind word to say.  If something did not go his way, he would smile, accept it gracefully, and then find a way to make the best of it.  Though his family members mourn his passing, they are so very thankful for Irvin's life and the impact he had upon everyone he encountered. 

Readability: the dietetics of words

you read me 

like a book

cover to cover

voraciously seeking

my

deeper meaning

...inferencing my tone

and theme

... developing  my

character

... puzzling out the precepts of my plot

or 

like a newspaper

hungrily gleaning

whatever truth you can find

amid the posturing

and etiquette 

and politeness

of my rigid columns

and perfected typeface 

and marginalized existence

or

like the back of the cereal box

--trying to ascertain my

nutritional value...

asking yourself if my

sweetness

is all natural

or, rather,

(as so often the case in this world)

artificially

constructed with 

such attention

to detail

and

complexity

in an attempt to

recreate 

simplicity

--questioning

whether I 

really contain 

the ingredients

you want

and whether or not

what 

you want 

is 

what 

you 

need. 

or

like a poem

--focusing on finding

the rhythm

(of my heart,

of my days,

of my mind)

intermittent iambs?

troubled trochees?

doubtful dactyls?

sporadic spondees?

airy anapests?

--lingering over words

and wondering

how they 

made

their way

into my

composition

--keeping your dictionary

at hand

for those words

in my stanzas

with which you 

are not

familiar

(though they be

few

and far between)

or

like a prayer

trembling on your 

lips

half hope

half fear

all 

benediction

Commonplace Environment -- Inappropriate Hour

What makes something (or someone, for that matter) beautiful? Worthy of note? Worth more than a second glance?

Maybe because it's January, and I always seem a bit more contemplative and melancholy in January, or maybe it's because it's gray and rainy and cold everywhere I seem to go these days (Austin was all gray and rain until I left on Saturday, Lubbock was mostly sunshine until I got here on Sunday...).  Regardless of reason, I've found myself concentrating on the rather abstract construction of beauty.

It doesn't help matters that I am gearing up for a unit of British Romanticism, and we're reading Frankenstein, Shelley, Byron, and Keats (especially Keats, right, when he posits "Beauty is truth, truth beauty" ?) Also, for another course, I am about to teach The Tempest, and goodness knows it makes much ado about beauty.

And then, a few days ago, for the first time in a very long time, I was called beautiful.  And, being the kind of woman I am, I cannot let well enough alone. I cannot take the compliment to heart and go along my merry way.  Oh no, I have to take time to stop and think about the true nature and construction of beauty.

I spent my winter break in the Texas hill country, so I was surrounded by beauty of the more obvious kind.  The area from just north of Austin to just south of San Antonio provides some of the most aesthetically appealing landscape you'll find anywhere.  Downtown Austin is one of the loveliest downtown areas I've ever wandered (and I've whiled away some deliciously lonely hours in many-a-downtown scene). So much beauty in one locale; I had to catch my breath several times (despite the rain and the cold).

However, I must admit, I was thrown a little off balance by the way people around me -- the sea of nameless faces rushing here and there -- did not seem to see the same things I saw.  "Of course," I reminded myself, "they see this all of the time."  And, there-in lies the rub, right?  However one defines or constructs beauty, being in constant contact, having consistent access to the beauty, lessens its shine, if we're not careful. So, for these people, rushing around downtown, the environment had become commonplace and the hour inappropriate for beauty.

I do not pretend to have all the answers, but I try to be aware of small moments of great beauty in my daily life. Some people might say that's difficult to do, living in Lubbock, Texas.  However, I would beg to differ.  There are so many beautiful sights, sounds, and people.  Especially the people.

So, my challenge to you (whoever you are, reading this) and more specifically to myself, is to actively acknowledge those moments of beauty, and to seek to be more perceptive of them.  To appreciate and recognize beauty and talent and joy in the most unexpected context.  I know my life will be fuller and richer for it.

Un espoir merveilleux

I keep thinking about 

your yellow gardening hat

and the way you used to tip 

the olive green watering can over

ever-so-slightly 

so the water would 

splash my head --

to help me grow,

you said.

And I can almost hear

your sweet, strong voice

say my name when I walked

 into your room and surprised you

even though

I think you always expected me,

somehow --

I hear your delight, 

even now.

Oh, I haven't had a tea party in ages

but I remember how 

to make a proper pot

and how to hold it 

as I pour

and how you

take [took] your tea --

and not just becase

you take [took] it like me.  

Firmament

I never really knew
 there were
so many shades of blue
(and degrees of separation
from you)
But
I have fallen
(or should I say risen?)
 in love
with these  wide skies
painted
mano-a-monochromatically
at midday
and reinvented each evening
 in hues
so variant and brilliant
and matchless
I stand
speechless 

in the best of ways
and humbled at the
absolute extravagance
(and bereft
because
it too will leave)

Still I stand
firmly rooted in
this transient
red dirt
having
never known

there were
so many shades of blue