She calls to the sea:
“These waves are making us clean!”
In all ways, yes, love.
T.S. Eliot’s take on change and reflection, appropriate for the new year
From “Little Gidding” by T.S. Eliot
For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.
But as the passage now presents no hinderance
To the spirit unappeased and peregrine
Between two worlds become much like each other,
So I find words I never thought to speak…
What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem is an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea’s throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
2015, Welcome.
Earlier this year, I posted this brief tidbit about recognizing the balance of “good” years and more trying ones. I don’t think any entire years are throwaway ones – good things happen in the more trying years, and hard things occur in the most prosperous ones.
I am grateful for all of the growth that has come from this challenging year, but I must admit that I am breathing a sigh of relief to bid adieu to 2014, and I am welcoming this symbolic/calendar fresh start with open arms.
And though this has been a tough year, so many good things have happened, and there have been so many joyful moments. Here are my favorite photos from 2014 – a reminder that every day is an occasion to make something great happen, and a dark and cloudy time has beauty as well.
New Years 2014
My sister and Sam, New Years 2014
She turned 2!
4th of July
New Year, New Kid, New…
When we first told Maya we were pregnant, we asked her what we should name the baby (we are not going to find out the gender.) Her immediate response was “Bambino Dingo” – to her, these were nonsensical sounds, but they were two clear-as-a-bell words, and they almost made sense! It stuck.
Bambino Dingo – due May 8, 2015
Maybe I should have had kids sooner.
Of course, I don’t really mean that, because I want the exact kids that came together in the exact moment to make exactly Maya and Bambino Dingo (I may be making a big assumption here, as I have not yet met Bambino Dingo yet, but I’m willing to bet that he/she is exactly who I want.)
But I feel like I didn’t even begin figuring out my life until I had kids. I know it’s been said before, but I DID NOT know how to appreciate my open schedule and time before. Having a kid forced me to prioritize and be more productive, and my life has improved because of that. I am more purposeful. However, I wish I had figured that out sooner. Thus, I should have had kids sooner.
I did not put off having kids until my 30’s so that I could “accomplish more” before I did so. I did not travel more or produce more, or really focus in on anything. I wish I had known better (though I’m sure someone told me.) I was busy just being and bouncing around and hanging out. And now I’m in spitting distance of 40. I thought I’d have more done? Built? Collected? Grown? Accomplished? Seen? But 40 is the new 30, right?
I spent a lot of time at the Reservoir Bar
See?
I was definitely building the blocks of me in my 20’s, but I was not yet purposeful. I was actually pretty passive. It’s a big part of my personality – maybe a little too go with the flow. But I am actively trying to change that now. I want more, and it looks like I’m going to be the one to have to make that happen. Wish I’d known that before my only free time was nap-time. On the weekends. Which is when I do the dishes.
I should have been writing…
More what? Of course it would be sweet to win the lottery, etc. (Oh, the travel!) But what I’m really thinking is that I want to do more, make more, plan more, to stop sitting around. My mind turns almost constantly with ideas and scenarios.
I hope to take the next year off with Maya and Bambino Dingo, and I am so excited, but I am afraid of me. I am afraid that without a boss and deadlines and 160 medium-sized people needing me to be accountable, I won’t be. I am much more disciplined for others than I am for myself.
So that is my challenge in 2015. Be less like me.
Just kidding.
Strive to be a more present and productive me. Plan more, do more, create more. Plus meet my new kid. That will be a cool new part of 2015 also.
A toddler learns about life and death
My mother in law’s house is in a great location – close to the park, close to town, but it’s also right next to the water plant. That means water, in the South, in the the summer. That means mosquitoes. It’s like her little sloped driveway leads to a valley which houses a protected mosquito population.
So when I go to pick Maya up at the end of the day, part of our dance is getting the car doors open and closed quickly enough to keep as many buzzers as possible out. It never works. Once Maya and I are all buckled up in the car and pulling up the driveway, we roll down all of the windows and pick up speed to hopefully cause the blood-suckers to catch a ride on the wind wave.
Inevitably, there is always at least one that manages to maintain its in-vehicle spot for the duration of the ride home. My theory is that he tucks himself in down by my feet and the pedals and gets all warm, fat, and happy feeding on my ankle flesh. I have the “itchy bites” (as Maya calls them) to prove it.
The other day, we were halfway home when I realized there was still one stowaway buzzing around in the car. I opened my window and Maya’s rear passenger window to strategically create an air stream. I thought it worked, so the windows went back up and the AC back on. But then, Maya starts crying hysterically and yelling “Mosquito!! Mosquito!!” I thought her reaction to getting bitten was a tad on the strong side for a girl who has more itchy bites on her arms than teeth in her mouth.
But then I realized that when she felt the bite on her foot, she instinctively slapped at it, and there on her perfect baby-child foot, lay a flattened and dead mosquito. This sudden awareness that she had taken life broke her poor sweet heart!
My first reaction was, “Good job, babe! You got it!” but then I thought for a bit; she was so upset, and here I was – cheering her on for flattening a bug.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I still promote the smacking and flattening and smushing of mosquitoes, cockroaches, and some other undesirables, but I became totally aware that my reaction was building a link in her between smashing and cheering.
Okay, okay, I know I’m being a little dramatic, but I have thought a lot lately about how we form kids’ attitudes and how important semantics are in how children perceive things.
So what angle do I take to begin the discussion about life and death? How do I say it’s okay when some things die, but it’s also okay to be sad about it? And while I may start with the mosquito, I’m really thinking ahead to when we will have to have the “Your dog has been sent to the farm” conversation. I don’t want to lie; I don’t want to whitewash it. But I don’t want to freak her the F out either – I mean, her heart was broken by a mosquito, and I love that it was; it shows how untainted she still is by this world.
Any advice about how to have this serious talk with a toddler?
Having a serious talk with the baby
Our Words Shape their Worlds
Often, I find myself saying, “Wow, Maya, you are so smart!” because she astounds me. The things she knows, the things she can do. I quip that I don’t know where she got it – as far as I know, neither Sean nor I were baby geniuses, the way she appears to be.
But what I am seeing is the learning process: the growth of which all humans are capable. It is one of the many joys of parenthood – to bear witness to this “miracle” of the human brain.
But by praising Maya in this way – to tell her that she is “smart”, I am implying that intelligence is a fixed asset – she is either born with it or without it – as fixed as her eye color; when in reality, intelligence is as malleable as any other muscle. I need to watch what I say to her.
Muscle training
When students/kids are learning, if we were to focus all of our praise on the process of learning: on the risk-taking, the trying, the failing, the trying again, then our kids would be come more resilient and begin to see struggle as a necessary part of growing and achieving success.
One place of learning
If we establish the belief that success is reachable, but only through hard work and trial and error, then there’s nothing our kids couldn’t do. Falling down, or not knowing the answer right away, wouldn’t cause them to quit. Making mistakes and learning from them IS how we grow. Trying is how we stretch.
Another learning environment
Here is a TED talk that illustrates some research in this idea.
Writing the Curriculum, ahem, Writing. Writing the Writing.
And here we are. The beginning of another school year. I get so nervous the night before, I can hardly sleep. Eight years into teaching and still…
But this year there is something new: I am “teaching” a Creative Writing class. I put ‘teaching’ in quotes just there because it is not the same as other classes. I am dancing (dueling?) back and forth between freedom and structure, and I am in the middle: an emotional wreck.
You wouldn’t know it in class – I seem (I think) to have it all planned out, to have a vision, but really I am sticking a toe in, withdrawing; tasting, testing, spitting it out. Questioning myself a lot.
Prompts, genres, lessons, free writing, feedback. It seems against creativity to put a framework to it, a schedule to it, but I also know that’s a lie. Discipline, learning, trying things outside of our natural tendencies – these are all good for creativity. So is a bottle of wine and some jazz on low in the evening light – but I won’t bring that into class. Ha.
I’ve brought flowers in and am putting pictures on the wall:
Maybe some beanbags? A tea station has been requested…
But how do we warm this cold, cinder-block-public-school-room with words? I’ll keep looking…
Rock Star Dreams
I had a dream last night that I met and got close to a rock star. I remember distinctly not really being into him, but feeling like I needed to make out with him because that’s what you do when you have the opportunity.
Rock stars are on everyone’s wishes-and-dreams list, right? Along with models, movie stars, etc. And there is an abstract rule that because famous people are not real threats to one’s actual relationship, it’s okay to go for it should the opportunity arise. That idea is really just a joke in my household, though my husband and I do know who is on the top of each other’s “lists”.
So, that concept in mind, when I became close with this fictional rock star in my dream (Was it DMX? Was it Henry Rollins? Sting? I’m not sure – probably not a real person at all, but some amalgamation – all I clearly remember is that he was bald), I felt that I should take advantage of this rare and coveted opportunity.
Almost like taking one for the team for all of those average, not-famous women out there – it’s right in front of me, and, at least, it would make a good story! But I was not into it.
I hung around with this guy for a couple of days; I remember riding in his fancy car; I remember wandering around his enormous house and peeking into all of the rooms, and I remember wanting to do his dishes, but I did not want to make out with him.
So, here is my interpretation:
The fancy loft: The main room was enormous: vacuous, empty, with small gold touches and uncomfortable, expensive accent furniture, but all that was being accented was the lack of invitation and warmth.
His daughter’s room: Pepto-pink, messy, full of expensive and broken toys, but empty. No daughter actually there. He didn’t know her well enough, and he tried to give her what rock star daddies are supposed to give their daughters, right? But she wasn’t there.
The sink full of dirty dishes: I just wanted to clean up for him!
I was there to supposedly be some sort of groupie – I should have been dazzled by money, cars, fancy things, but all I could focus on was that his nice house was not a home. That money did not buy his happiness and was not what I was attracted to. That his famous face was not what I desired; I just wanted to provide him with some homey comfort: do the dishes, maybe make some dinner.
Obviously, what this is telling me is that I am old and no longer cool enough to make out with rock stars.
Er – no.
I mean, clearly what all this is telling me is that what I value, what I desire, what I covet, is what I do already have: a warm home; my family; dinner together… but I sure wouldn’t kick a fancy loft out of bed for eating cookies!
My whole world. Geez, look at her cheeks – they go to the moon and back!
Family of writers?
This is a repost from my lost first attempt at blogging…someone found it out of nowhere and re-brought it to my attention. Funny how the world works…
I have always believed that I was going to be a writer. Is this, as my mother and grandmother think, because it runs in my blood? My great-grandfather was a fantastic poet, my grandmother was unpracticed talent; my mother and her two brothers are witty and eloquent, but no one was “a writer”, all were/ are just well-written. My grandmother has always enjoyed the idea that I would take this raw family talent gene somewhere. Somewhere further than the rest of them had gone with it. It’s like the elite, privileged version of the first one in the family to go to college. We all are well-educated: my grandmother got a scholarship to Duke University at a time when women only made up 30 per cent or so of college attendees. My mother went to a progressive liberal arts college, which was so radical it closed down, but she is…
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H is for Howdy, Universe
I worked out (hooray!)
And after I finished, I lay in savasana for a little while.
I tried to clear my head, as I always try, but I kept thinking about my list, my work, Maya’s new huge bonk on the head, alphabet blogging, etc.
So I decided to just strike up a conversation with the universe – at least that way I would be focused on one thing rather than juggling thought balls up and around my noggin.
“Hello, Universe. I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for the huge good fortune you have sent our way this week. We really needed it.”
“You knew that if you kept walking, if you just kept moving forward, the road, on which you stumbled, would rise to meet you again.” (Yes, in my mind, the universe speaks like a sage man on top of a high mountain.)
“I know. But still, thank you.”
“The trick is to say thank you even when things are most difficult.”
So, I am kind of joking around here with my *imaginary* conversation with the universe, but I do believe that if you are quiet, if you listen, you will hear answers.
This is literally, verbatim, the *conversation* that went on in my mind while I lay on my floor. I don’t know whether both voices are mine, or if I am picking up on cosmic signals, or what. But I do know that things are clearer when I am silent.
Maybe it’s just finding the time and space to root around in the cabinets of my mind for the right file, or maybe it’s aliens/angels/the muse speaking through my radio waves. Whatever, it works.
For the record, I also came up with two new ideas for my lessons next week (even though I was TRYING to NOT think about work).
Our conscious minds are so clogged up with multi-tasking that no one thing gets our best, full attention. Clearing out that clutter makes magic happen.
Now I have to add “meditate” to my ever-growing to-do list, sheesh! 🙂
The Story Changes 
