tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25255173097679796652024-03-13T18:34:56.727-04:00Mirth, Melancholy, and the MundaneTrista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.comBlogger91125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-13186222904445622862022-06-17T20:54:00.003-04:002022-06-17T20:54:41.414-04:00"I appreciate you..."<p>I'm always fascinated with the ways that people can lift up other people. We live in a world that is often a little too corrosive and vindictive and sometimes the use of the world 'love' can be a little too widespread. I mean, I love tacos, too, but that changes the word itself in some ways. I wish we had more words that mean something similar so I can talk about my mother in a different way than I talk about tacos. </p><p>But this isn't a blog about that....or maybe it is.</p><p>There are lots of ways we can talk about and to others that show we see them for who they are and that we accept them just as they are. This seems a remarkably important topic this month. Happy Pride for those who celebrate!</p><p>This is a blog about the ways which we can acknowledge the joy we find in the company of others. We don't often just say, "Hey, I like you" - though maybe we should. I have so many people in my life that mean different things to me...and recently, I gathered some of them together and connected some overlapping threads that I thought needed to be connected. During this time, one of them said something that she has said before and it struck me even more than it had because of the situation during which it was said. </p><p>I appreciate you.</p><p>It seems so simple....but the more I think about it, the more I see how many layers it has. Not in any kind of negative way, but it has layers. It suggests acceptance of who you are - faults and strengths alike. It suggests acceptance of the entire person. I don't know that it is better than 'love', but it feels different. Maybe it's because it is less common. Maybe it's because 'love' is used in so many different ways. Maybe it was because it followed the same person saying, "I like the humans you collect."</p><p>I do, too.</p><p>This is a short blog...but I have decided I can't worry about length. I just need to say what I have to say and send it off into the world. That is the only way I'm going to be more frequent with these blogs.</p><p>I have things to say. I don't have to take a long time to say them.</p><p>Also, I appreciate you.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEickhvnp2LnWcdIykfJknlU7mtAR3DqvyCmyjwT2QI1rr4CwDy1Nzxr3zDOQA3S1MOhbPst7FX4vPtcoCw_ZTY7QFp3g9bCvhxnqc7fnbe-K6RMEpbjINkGzFt3VBjtp75xRCtVjqr4Rss8yZQpaypDPI_lons1eZHGC8Q_DymlhN_NZjN0fXCkcCyK/s4032/PXL_20220609_181435847.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEickhvnp2LnWcdIykfJknlU7mtAR3DqvyCmyjwT2QI1rr4CwDy1Nzxr3zDOQA3S1MOhbPst7FX4vPtcoCw_ZTY7QFp3g9bCvhxnqc7fnbe-K6RMEpbjINkGzFt3VBjtp75xRCtVjqr4Rss8yZQpaypDPI_lons1eZHGC8Q_DymlhN_NZjN0fXCkcCyK/w300-h400/PXL_20220609_181435847.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-67175142479166728062022-05-31T14:46:00.005-04:002022-05-31T14:46:47.006-04:00"Call me a hippie, or whatever..."<p>Hey, I'm back.</p><p>This is the first time I have put words on this screen for this blog since April 2020. I keep thinking I should write in it, but then I don't. Sometimes, I don't know what to write. Sometimes, I don't have the energy. Other times, it doesn't even cross my mind. But I put it out into the universe that I was going to bring it back. So, here we are. </p><p>There are a lot of terrible things going on in the world and a lot of hard conversations that don't make much sense but are driving us anyway. Conversations about gun control and war, about race and the state of the earth, about illness and wages. So many painful events leaving people feeling lost and hopeless and afraid.</p><p>But I don't want to talk about those things - at least not directly. I likely will, but right now I think I'd rather have my first blog be about something more positive. I went to the doctor recently for a physical. I've only seen this doctor three times and I've really appreciated her every time. Two were physicals and one was to talk about my medication. All three times I felt listened to and that we were on the same team. That's a pretty incredible feeling. </p><p>When I went to talk to her about my medication, she mentioned that I likely had something that she has seen in a lot of her patients - something called an <a href="https://www.hopkinsmedicine.org/health/conditions-and-diseases/adjustment-disorders#:~:text=An%20adjustment%20disorder%20is%20an,three%20months%20of%20it%20happening." target="_blank">adjustment disorder</a>. She put a note of it in my file and gave me some suggestions on what I could be doing. She thought maybe it was just the weather or just a temporary thing based on the fact that the entire world seems to be <i>exhausted.</i></p><p>Shortly after that visit, I got COVID and all attempts to do anything for my brain noodles went right out the window. The semester ended and I managed to go for an amazing walk the other day. I've started counting calories, and I lost 6 pounds in the first week (don't panic - a good chunk of that was probably water weight). She told me she was super proud of me and encouraged me to keep it up.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOH7OAy0PAJCpsQ9UiSqIR_RIjvo-PsKA37DJF1W-Vi7kqlHZZXuaHpnFIfmp9xFTmqTrhcfoNHXXGz7-YOcU1KksJNlNACoccnB_8zwZ-UeNG5lowmCxEfpdyTZTeEuKSOC-RhtFjkonp6FaAAlgbtyxQOm3cYJrP40f_Hikr9H9n_cy2XAhbNzGZ/s806/hippie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="806" data-original-width="731" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOH7OAy0PAJCpsQ9UiSqIR_RIjvo-PsKA37DJF1W-Vi7kqlHZZXuaHpnFIfmp9xFTmqTrhcfoNHXXGz7-YOcU1KksJNlNACoccnB_8zwZ-UeNG5lowmCxEfpdyTZTeEuKSOC-RhtFjkonp6FaAAlgbtyxQOm3cYJrP40f_Hikr9H9n_cy2XAhbNzGZ/s320/hippie.jpg" width="290" /></a></div>She is a huge proponent of mindfulness, she said. We can exercise and eat right and we should do those things, but we should also make sure that we are taking the time to breathe and take in the world around us with more attentiveness. We should learn to listen to our minds and our bodies and take the time to practice meditation, or yoga, or just mindful breathing. And she uttered the phrase that is the title of today's blog and the thing that has been rolling around inside my head like so many marbles for the better part of a week.<p></p><p>She is so incredibly right and I am so thankful to have a medical doctor who not only endorses these kinds of things, but actively encourages them. So, while I may not have a doctorate in something that gives me any kind of authority, she kind of does. That gives me the clout I need to pass these suggestions on to you.</p><p>Okay, not really.</p><p>But I want to encourage you to 'be a hippie or whatever' and take the time to do the things that help ground you to the present and remind you that you are alive and that is an amazing thing to be - despite all the ugliness in the world. So, please, take some time for yourself. <br /></p><p>You absolutely deserve it. You crazy hippy, you.</p><p>Side note...I just realized I'm wearing a tie -dyed tank top that I bought in Woodstock, NY last summer. Serendipity.</p>Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-84312828452229377302020-04-15T18:19:00.001-04:002020-04-15T18:19:37.886-04:00Going Squirrelly<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BRKO5RZkYP8/XpeDimPQC5I/AAAAAAAASv4/Gj5U6KF3mu8-r4EJqFifHmtgcRO3xPtMACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/tufted.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BRKO5RZkYP8/XpeDimPQC5I/AAAAAAAASv4/Gj5U6KF3mu8-r4EJqFifHmtgcRO3xPtMACLcBGAsYHQ/s200/tufted.jpg" width="200" /></a>I've been spending most days by myself. JDB is an essential employee who works for a hospital, so he's either there or at the lab during the week. I generally spend my days working in front of the large bay windows in the living room. Sometimes, there are cats sleeping in various places around me and sometime in the late morning, I turn on the TV just for the noise (and the heat the TV produces, but this chilly house is a story for another time).<br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2dAT9HrPuVA/XpeGNnvi2rI/AAAAAAAASwM/Xtfo9TuFp9oa_2ylGQsYDQJtM-k_LFJTACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/IMG_2321.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2dAT9HrPuVA/XpeGNnvi2rI/AAAAAAAASwM/Xtfo9TuFp9oa_2ylGQsYDQJtM-k_LFJTACLcBGAsYHQ/s200/IMG_2321.JPG" width="200" /></a>I have two bird feeders and a suet feeder outside these windows and I can pretty much watch the comings and goings of many feathered <br />
friends. The most common visitors are downy and red-bellied<br />
woodpeckers, tufted titmice (titmouses?), chickadees, finches, cardinals, juncos, house wrens, and the occasional blue jay.<br />
<br />
It is marvelous; I find birds to be immensely fascinating.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BQwrKKNs7dY/XpeGUTLejjI/AAAAAAAASwc/69S4gLiQJdEf_EQLEFBzGz5WPDL01j2FACEwYBhgLKs0DAMBZVoC_4oBNHQ9NlSlJNLFEBBmxik4T9QXuYwQqrpXLPuENvR5gGmand9OOMBc7XuR9oej5QPCa6FGdGsMaxYSx24JY5XDfxtXMuRZtr_ml2AYEhHWgrX3mvK6ekyDz6tFrmUJeeGIuwqfOmp3SErH7W1DGeWH_iXnsQjWXVO9xWvCh_WMJr5MbIDAvxRjF1cT2u_ElAhvWL1aQM8nqB1TObvf9yfMVvBR73H5gg5ZllsSN9vxNZrr3YCnjVk05ql4UvzlqBRrBVO4s3yUlerCiDZpfLuhclPLnbPoIvYbWL0cxAqIyTTpzRm4fWOJPuVCVRbyhGT_WCfETWwxSUDNnChMHOVt4MUCtmavPS1FA67Jz27FQJc4fhr7o_Ti0GwQefI7rJHKSV4VMFIWXUWuA5Vbb1gNQHEarsoz_wAQURwHtCTdLzI5mJ43v99-AiVb08btKPFMuRmOaQ3c1D7HJna5b573TK7UkmbiqebvqZnbTqiII3zbYprK9Hm7z4LijJ80An3JGw9gvFmTolocWoJ693HWstVakXBAwiqD66EimytAJG8a7DgayrcyHlcjaPEvIYTlQtUnR85KZGjFXcUoUDs89iwRyrbgw_ZHe9AU/s1600/IMG_2329.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BQwrKKNs7dY/XpeGUTLejjI/AAAAAAAASwc/69S4gLiQJdEf_EQLEFBzGz5WPDL01j2FACEwYBhgLKs0DAMBZVoC_4oBNHQ9NlSlJNLFEBBmxik4T9QXuYwQqrpXLPuENvR5gGmand9OOMBc7XuR9oej5QPCa6FGdGsMaxYSx24JY5XDfxtXMuRZtr_ml2AYEhHWgrX3mvK6ekyDz6tFrmUJeeGIuwqfOmp3SErH7W1DGeWH_iXnsQjWXVO9xWvCh_WMJr5MbIDAvxRjF1cT2u_ElAhvWL1aQM8nqB1TObvf9yfMVvBR73H5gg5ZllsSN9vxNZrr3YCnjVk05ql4UvzlqBRrBVO4s3yUlerCiDZpfLuhclPLnbPoIvYbWL0cxAqIyTTpzRm4fWOJPuVCVRbyhGT_WCfETWwxSUDNnChMHOVt4MUCtmavPS1FA67Jz27FQJc4fhr7o_Ti0GwQefI7rJHKSV4VMFIWXUWuA5Vbb1gNQHEarsoz_wAQURwHtCTdLzI5mJ43v99-AiVb08btKPFMuRmOaQ3c1D7HJna5b573TK7UkmbiqebvqZnbTqiII3zbYprK9Hm7z4LijJ80An3JGw9gvFmTolocWoJ693HWstVakXBAwiqD66EimytAJG8a7DgayrcyHlcjaPEvIYTlQtUnR85KZGjFXcUoUDs89iwRyrbgw_ZHe9AU/s200/IMG_2329.JPG" width="200" /></a>Not everyone who comes up on the porch is feathered, however, and the other visitors are fascinating, too, though not for the same reasons. <br />
<br />
I want to talk about squirrels.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JWzVNMxy1ho/XpeGFjcdjPI/AAAAAAAASwE/nF5h6OEoWF4SdnbMukACGheyBXdXHwHswCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/IMG_2361.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JWzVNMxy1ho/XpeGFjcdjPI/AAAAAAAASwE/nF5h6OEoWF4SdnbMukACGheyBXdXHwHswCLcBGAsYHQ/s200/IMG_2361.JPG" width="200" /></a>Much of the time, they seemed okay with just eating what had fallen onto the mat under the feeder; but, increasingly, they kept trying to get onto the one birdfeeder and so we hung a large windchime in between the porch upright and the feeder. Not to be dissuaded, they would jump on top of it and then look around panicked when it began to make SO MUCH NOISE and spin around on them. Occasionally, they would still manage to get over to the feeder, and I kind of had to give it to them at that point, honestly.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t4T0V9G3Sjk/XpeIIrqWW9I/AAAAAAAASxY/St2kLQ6TbeYkJUr02kCyaWBCA_arpX64gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/IMG_20200413_152823.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t4T0V9G3Sjk/XpeIIrqWW9I/AAAAAAAASxY/St2kLQ6TbeYkJUr02kCyaWBCA_arpX64gCLcBGAsYHQ/s200/IMG_20200413_152823.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--7LnpRVlpqI/XpeH4wfQIMI/AAAAAAAASxM/TtLtUR36tG8XdfonU0MTucsglqeJ_jvAwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/MVIMG_20200413_161756.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--7LnpRVlpqI/XpeH4wfQIMI/AAAAAAAASxM/TtLtUR36tG8XdfonU0MTucsglqeJ_jvAwCLcBGAsYHQ/s200/MVIMG_20200413_161756.jpg" width="150" /></a>But I did get them some of their own food in the hopes of keeping them from feeling quite so captivated by the feeder. So, far it seems to be working, and has provided it's own sort of entertainment, to boot. To watch them try to sit on the corn and eat from it without it spinning them off is...well, I don't know. But it is fun. And the thing that is best about them?<br />
<br />
No matter how silly they look or how many times they are defeated, they keep trying.<br />
<br />Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-75798048331233122162020-04-06T21:04:00.001-04:002020-04-06T21:04:16.496-04:00The Little Things<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vZhNcIwTzmI/XovRPeGzAPI/AAAAAAAASjs/0AREOEA7fSUAPi7_aEvrBa6n90edumi8wCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/daffodil.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="545" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vZhNcIwTzmI/XovRPeGzAPI/AAAAAAAASjs/0AREOEA7fSUAPi7_aEvrBa6n90edumi8wCLcBGAsYHQ/s200/daffodil.JPG" width="150" /></a>I went for a walk today.<br />
<br />
The sun was out, the weather was fairly warm and the sky was blue. I couldn't NOT go and get some fresh air.<br />
<br />
It was a very brown sort of day - last year's leaves still covered everything in the woods, there were no leaves yet and there were large swaths of mud in places due to recent rains and the heavy traffic of deer running their paths. But it is also so clearly spring. Daffodils are blooming. The pussy willows blow fuzzily in the breeze. The air was full of birdsong. As I walked, stepping over deadfall and trying to avoid thorns of berry bushes, I turned my head constantly to follow sound or look for the source of movement out of the corner of my eye.<br />
<br />
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Between two trees, a pair of wings landed and basked in the sun. Squirrels ran willy-nilly over and under branches, chirping if I somehow got too close. A woodpecker lazily tapped its way down a tree trunk, exploring what mysteries might be resting within. It was a good walk and it felt amazing to be outside in the fresh air.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aoTl0rm-0DY/XovQjBtG0OI/AAAAAAAASjk/RHkLnM8FtFcve47204Y8PQb4VWmIFlRrQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/wren.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="772" data-original-width="678" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aoTl0rm-0DY/XovQjBtG0OI/AAAAAAAASjk/RHkLnM8FtFcve47204Y8PQb4VWmIFlRrQCLcBGAsYHQ/s200/wren.JPG" width="175" /></a>I was sitting inside later, somewhat mindlessly watching a squirrel forging around under the birdfeeder when I heard a thump and, with my heart in my throat, I peeked out and there was a tiny bird beneath the window, wings a little splayed out. I sighed and watched as the startled squirrel snuck up on it and smelled it, as if trying to figure out if it was something that would eat him or could be eaten. Determining it was neither, it went back to foraging. I did nothing for a few minutes more, just watching and waiting to see what might happen. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and went out there, the squirrel bustling off and leaving me with what was clearly a house wren. I sat down next to it and could see it was still breathing. I reached out and gently brushed its feather on its chest and tried to see if it looked hurt. I don't know what I would have done if it did look hurt, but I couldn't help trying to figure it out. I decided it shouldn't be on the porch, so I went to try and gently pick it up when it flew up and landed on a rafter, perched sort of upside down. It has since flown away.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, the little things aren't so little, you know?<br />
Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-89008799207176037602020-03-31T20:45:00.001-04:002020-03-31T20:45:47.595-04:00Silver LiningsIn times of great strife and unrest, there are always silver linings that can remind us that we are not really alone. And that we can handle what life throws at us.<br />
<br />
Because I'm not traveling to Texas for work tomorrow (because of the virus), I actually have some time in my teaching schedule that I can use to make up the week we gave up to prepare our classes for the move to online (because of the virus).<br />
<br />
Because my husband can sometimes work from home, he's been able to support and help me with some of my issues with teaching online - both from a technology perspective as well as a philosophical one. He's always been a sounding board, but now he can help me in real time. We are both able to support one another as we figure out this uncharted territory. It makes the days that I'm alone a little easier.<br />
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Because this struck in early spring, there has been so much wildlife activity outside my window. My <br />
home office is right in front of our big living room windows that look out on the yard and woods beyond. Yesterday I saw a red-tailed hawk, a fox, numerous deer, countless birds at the feeders, our porch squirrels, and a flock of turkeys.<br />
<br />
Because we are home more often, we are getting to see some of Ellie's antics. She is the cat we rescued over a year ago who still flinches when we go to pet her and will not rest easy if we are in the same room as her. But these days she seems to be coming out more into the rooms where we are. Just today we got to see her <br />
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wrestling a little with Mattie, the fearless furball princess.<br />
<br />
Because we are all worried about each other, we are more apt to express words of love and support. Reaching out, checking in. Sharing stories and sending virtual hugs. These are all things that mean this is really about physical distancing, not social. We need more social than ever before.<br />
<br />
Because this is truly a singular event in our lifetimes, I have started a journaling project with Honors students at FLCC. This Living History project will give students an outlet to explore their lives in the context of these moments and, as a result, we will have many voices of the pandemic in the FLCC archives. History is truly alive when it is told in the voices of those who were there.<br />
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Because so many of us are home so much more than we have been in the past, we are spending more time with our immediate families. Dinners being eaten together, school work being figured out together, time spent in one another's company. We are baking bread and trying new recipes. I don't have children, but I see so many posts on social media of these moments and they are truly heartwarming. We are also spending more time with our pets - even if its while they are interrupting our meetings and sticking their faces in our cameras. There is more laughter.<br />
<br />
Amidst the fear and the worry and the sadness and the changes. It will not all be laughter as the days grow into weeks. It will not be easy or happy. But it will have silver linings.<br />
<br />
<br />Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-20122453209380061732020-03-25T21:02:00.001-04:002020-03-25T21:04:34.025-04:00Flashes of NormalToday, I sat on the front stoop of my parents' house as they stood inside. We had a conversation about how strange all of this was and about what various public figures were saying about it. It was the closest I felt comfortable being to them. I had brought over some needed supplies for them so they would not have to go out. In return, I picked up a number of things - perhaps the most important being homemade chocolate chip cookies. Not for any real reason other than there is little that can top my mother's homemade baked goods.<br />
<br />
Between his heart, the diabetes, and his age, my father has a trifecta of risk factors and we are taking no chances.<br />
<br />
This is compounded by the fact that my husband works in health care...which means he is an essential employee by government standards and is reporting to work several days a week. We have no way of knowing if he has been exposed. Or if I have in the errands I have run or the chiropractor appointment I went to today.<br />
<br />
None of us know.<br />
<br />
My worries and fears are no different than yours, really. We are all wondering if we've been exposed, if (or when) we will get sick, how badly we will get it, and the answer to the same questions for all of those we love.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6U095gcltZ4/Xnv_ekPcJaI/AAAAAAAASO8/SQzE8Ri_jesjNOrdMFgeNCdqSNKK0Y3hQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/cookies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1021" data-original-width="1280" height="254" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6U095gcltZ4/Xnv_ekPcJaI/AAAAAAAASO8/SQzE8Ri_jesjNOrdMFgeNCdqSNKK0Y3hQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/cookies.jpg" width="320" /></a>So many little things are different. Door guards in the form of health care workers who took my name, phone number, and temperature at the hospital. From behind masks, their muffled voices asked me a series of questions before I was allowed to go to my appointment. There were only three chairs in the waiting room, set equidistant apart. My chiropractor wore gloves and we had to forego the heating pad that loosened my bones before he did his adjustment. As I sit here typing this blog, I'm in a different kind of pain than normal. Sore. Feeling the effects of difference.<br />
<br />
But some things were the same. He and I gave each other a hard time about things, as we always do. The secretary was her normal smiling self as she greeted me by name. So many of us are doing the best we can to make the best of it. I will not discount the importance of sitting on the stoop in the sun and talking to my parents. I have that much, and so much more, to be happy about.<br />
<br />
Like chocolate chip cookies.Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-80629663031777133702020-03-21T20:42:00.000-04:002020-03-21T20:42:24.705-04:00Practice HumanityI have not written a blog in four years.<br />
<br />
Many things have happened in that time. We moved. We rescued pets and let other ones go. I've said hello and then goodbye to many students. I've had a lot of challenges and a lot of celebrations. I could have written about any of them...and may, still.<br />
<br />
But it was none of those things that got me to come back, as it were. It is a combination of three things.<br />
<br />
The first is a student-turned-friend who has their own blog. Yesterday, they said to me, "Never stop writing!" and it struck a chord.<br />
<br />
The second is an invitation I am shortly going to be sending out to all the students who have chosen Honors Studies or who are in an Honors class this semester - an invitation to journal their experiences during the third reason. It seems odd to invite others to do something that I am not doing myself...so I am going to do a version of it.<br />
<br />
The third reason, as you might imagine, is the pandemic.<br />
<br />
There are so many things I could talk about and probably will as the more-uncertain-than-ever future unfolds. We don't know how long we will be asked to shelter in place. We don't know how many will grow sick, how many we will lose. We took too long to mobilize, but now that we finally are, things are moving so quickly. I'm grieving, it is true, but that's not what I want to talk about here. I'm angry and sad and uplifted all at once. I'm anxious and scared. But what I would rather talk about is something that the governor of New York said today. This is not about politics or how I see him now or in the past. But he said something that is really important that we all remember in times like these.<br />
<br />
Except who am I kidding - there have not been times like these in my lifetime, in the lifetime of my parents. This is uncharted territory...but his words ring true nonetheless. In the face of the hoarding and the con artists, the ones spreading false information and the ones trying to capitalize off the lack of others - in the face of all of that, his words ring true.<br />
<br />
Practice humanity, he said.<br />
<br />
Practice kindness, practice compassion, practice gentility, practice patience.<br />
<br />
We may not be able to greet others with a handshake or a hug. We may have to resort to greetings via technology or through a window... but we have the chance to make this easier on us all. We have the power to make things harder for our fellow humans or to make it easier.<br />
<br />
Practice humanity.<br />
<br />
We can't return to normal after this, because 'normal' is what got us here in the first place. But maybe, we can learn something from everything we are going through. The only way to get better is to practice.<br />
<br />
Practice makes perfect.<br />
<br />
Practice humanity.<br />
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<br />Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-10877453216397952662016-06-14T16:18:00.001-04:002016-06-14T16:18:48.752-04:00Uniting, Not Silencing...<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000;">It was a gay club.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000;">It was an American club.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000;">It was a human club.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000;">These are not competing statements; or, rather, they should
not be. They are each true and they each
carry weight that needs to be acknowledged and respected.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000;">First, and perhaps foremost, the events in Orlando hold
special significance to an often persecuted group – a community that often
struggles with acceptance from the world around them, including their families
and friends. It was a direct attack on a
group of people who – despite recent legal advancements and social acceptance –
struggle every single day to feel safe and accepted. A group that cannot show affection for a
loved one in public for fear of becoming a target. A group that loses so many of its members to
violence and to suicide. Victims of
bullies and hate-mongers, conservatives and busy-bodies, people who use their God
as a reason to judge and degrade. This
group has a claim on the violence that erupted in Orlando and they have a right
to cry out in anguish and fear and anger.
In a sacred place where they should have been safe to be themselves,
safe and comfortable and secure in their own skin, free to love and be loved,
they were gunned down. So yes, they will
raise their fists and plant their rainbow flags and demand answers. That is their right, because it is THEIR
club.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000;">But that same event in Orlando holds special significance to
Americans. It is the worst mass shooting
to take place on American soil. I do not
say that lightly, because although I acknowledge the atrocity of Wounded Knee
(which I have seen connected to Orlando as a correction), that moment in
history was a whole other ugly and violent beast. It did not technically happen on United
States soil and it was not a lone shooter.
It was something else – something equally horrifying and something that
deserves acknowledgement as a chapter in our history of which we should be
ashamed and aware. But this shooting –
this moment in Orlando – belongs in a different category. The category of events where one single
American decided that others must die for reasons that are beyond the
understanding of good-hearted people.
Those who died were Americans.
They were doing what Americans do – celebrating time away from work,
listening to music, dancing, and fellowshipping with others. They were enjoying a night out on the town,
letting go of obligations and responsibilities.
They were spending hard earned money, laughing and dancing and being
alive. And they were gunned down. Torn from life, torn from those who loved
them, robbed of what is promised every American – life, liberty, and the
pursuit of happiness. And so, yes, I
will cry and raise the stars and stripes and plant it next to their rainbow
flag. I will demand answers. That is my right, because as an American, it
is OUR club.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000;">And that same event in Orlando holds special significance to
humans around the world in our global community. The same people who wept for the bombings in
Paris will now weep for the shooting in Orlando. They will shine the lights on their
buildings, hold their signs, and pray that we, as a race of beings, can find a
way to stop killing each other, stop hating each other, stop blaming everyone
else for whatever ails us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000;">That same event in Orlando holds significance for Muslims,
American and foreign. It holds
significance for the Latino community because of the special event at Pulse
that night. It holds special
significance for the first responders and investigators who tried to do their
work while blocking out the desperate, unrelenting sounds of cell phones that
would never be answered. It holds special significance for those who are still
– and always will be – reeling from Sandy Hook, from Virginia Tech, from the
theater in Colorado, from the church in South Carolina. It holds significance for those who will
never hear the voices of their loved ones or erase the images of violence and
destruction from their minds. It holds
significance for the people of Orlando, who now join the ranks of cities and
communities that have seen the blood and tears run in their streets and feel
helpless to respond, react, or recover.
It matters to all of us, for a thousand reasons, some of which we cannot
voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000;">We do not need to take away from one another’s claims to
plant our flags with theirs. We do not
need to erase one community when we declare membership in another. By saying, it’s an AMERICAN club, we should
not say it is NOT a gay club. It is
both. The intent is admirable – to claim
the LGBQT+ community as part of US….but we cannot do so in a way that silences
the unique struggle that this particular community goes through every single
day in a thousand ways, each more painful than the last. They are our brothers and sisters, but their
struggle is one that we can only imagine and while we can unite, we cannot
silence even as we try to combat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000;">It is a significant event for all of these people, for all
of these communities, for all of these reasons.
Not one should silence the others. Not one needs to be or should be
forgotten. They all wish for the same
thing – an end to the violence, an end to the hatred, an end to the suffering. Let our flags fly together and let our voices
unite. Protect the LGBTQ+ community,
protect Americans, protect humans. <o:p></o:p>Protect us all, and let us all be who we are. Let voices be heard. Tolerance is not enough - we must listen, respect, accept, and love. Love.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></div>
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<img src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/d3/44/54/d34454927a7af6c76d8edf8099b2e9ce.jpg" /></div>
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Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-65865878073097667022016-02-02T22:41:00.002-05:002016-02-02T22:54:07.716-05:00Trailhead This Way<div class="MsoNormal">
On Friday, January 22<sup>nd</sup>, I went to my parents’
house to have lunch with them and help work on a rather annoying jigsaw puzzle
that I had picked out for them to do when they finished the last one. After lunch and some time at the puzzle, dad
asked if I wanted to go on walkabout. I
love walking in their woods even in the winter, so I said sure. I borrowed some boots and a warmer coat from
my mom, adjusted my hat and scarf and off we went into the wilderness. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were almost back at the house sometime later when my dad,
who was surveying the brambles down in a gully asked me if I ever thought about
that time we got lost at Limekiln Lake. My mind immediately went back to that afternoon
in 2014…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uNvgfUvlDlY/VrF08tqNR6I/AAAAAAAAAs0/16JUsGOlXrk/s1600/DSCF6926.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uNvgfUvlDlY/VrF08tqNR6I/AAAAAAAAAs0/16JUsGOlXrk/s200/DSCF6926.JPG" width="150" /></a><i>…it was a gloomy, wet sort of day even though it was July. I was up camping in the Adirondacks with my
parents and my aunt and uncle. Dad and I
decided we were going to go on a hike.
We had a map, walking sticks, some granola bars, and we dressed in layers
so we could adjust to any changes in temperature. We had on good shoes and yet for some reason,
we did not bring any water. Nor did we
have a compass or even my cell phone (since there was no signal up there
anyway). It was a good hike – there was
lots of cool things to see. I took lots
of pictures as I trudged behind my dad. It’s one of my favorite things to do, really –
camp with my parents and hike with my dad while there. The trail seemed a little sketchy in places,
but we kept relocating the markers and so were more or less doing alright. I didn’t think too much of one of the bridges
being under six inches of water and was more fascinated at the amount of tannin
in the water that was making it turn a fascinating shade of orange which made
my feet look funny. I had taken my
sneakers off to cross and rolled up my pant legs in an effort to keep them dry.
This would become more significant later.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yep,” I said. He
started walking back towards the house again and I took up my usual spot behind
him. He was quiet for a moment and then
said, “That was scary. I have dreams
about it sometimes still.” We trudged
through the snow up the rest of the embankment towards the lawn and the house
beyond with its burning fire and cozy jigsaw puzzle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Every once and a while we would stop to figure out where we were on the
map and everything seemed to be going well.
Except that we eventually would come to realize that the map and the
trails marked on it did not seem to match the trail that we were actually
walking. It was becoming harder and
harder to find the trail markers – though we never completely lost them for
long. What should have been a forty five
minute walked turned into an hour, and then two, and then three. We shared a granola bar and the talk that had
sporadically drifted in and out of our hike stopped almost completely. We unconsciously took turns going first,
trudging through heavy flora that was thick with rain and mud. Sneakers and pants could not be kept dry and
were drenched up past the knees. I
stopped taking pictures. We kept
checking the map. We heard dogs in the
distance, but they never seemed to get any closer and we dared not stray off
the path we seemed to be on. It felt
like dusk was coming.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t really reply that I can recall, or if I did it was
some sort of offhand comment about how it had certainly been memorable. But his comment started line of thinking that
I’ve been mulling over since. At the
time we were hiking, I knew that this was not how the hike was supposed to go
and I knew that the map and the trail were not aligning in a way that made any
sense. I had heard stories of people becoming
lost in the Adirondack Wilderness, so it wasn’t as if the enormity of the
situation was lost on me then. I knew
that our growing silence meant that we were focusing on putting one foot in front
of the other and getting to more familiar ground. But there was something else going on as well…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2r3WJX1Kjoo/VrF1LQUYO4I/AAAAAAAAAtE/ol1DfOdZgGw/s1600/DSCF6968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2r3WJX1Kjoo/VrF1LQUYO4I/AAAAAAAAAtE/ol1DfOdZgGw/s200/DSCF6968.JPG" width="200" /></a><i>When we finally came out of the vast wilderness that is Adirondack
State Park in a completely different part of the campground from where we had
gone in, the normalcy of camping seemed to come rushing back. It was almost culture shock. We were filthy, soaked, exhausted, and an
evening chill was starting to set in. My
legs ached from pushing through ferns and branches and ankle deep mud. I kept alternating between warmth from
exertion and cool from the sweat drying and the cool breeze kicking up. We walked slowly back to our own campground
to find my mother, my uncle, and my aunt all somewhat frantic. They had already been to the ranger and were
trying to figure out what to do. My dad’s
brother had driven around the campground a few times hoping to see us on some
path or coming out of the woods somewhere.
We had been gone a long time.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know my dad well enough that his comment about dreams and
actually saying that the hike was scary was no small thing. This is a man who had been a soldier. It took a lot for him to admit fear because
it was always easier to keep it inside and do what needed to be done. What I don’t think dad realizes is that while
I respect the enormity of what we experienced, there was only one thing that
caused me fear that entire afternoon.
The only thing that kept crossing my mind had nothing to do with not
finding our way out or that we wouldn’t reach civilization again. My only concern was that we would not make it
back out before dad became sick. He’s
diabetic, see, and that much physical exertion with little more than a couple
of granola bars was the only thing that I felt was out of our control.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Correction. It was
the only thing that I ever felt out was out of dad’s control. I trudged on step after step and only two
things ran through my head beyond how tired I was and how much my back was
upset with me…. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hEhEZYWD9nk/VrF1I-af0dI/AAAAAAAAAtA/ABvKJBTEXrQ/s1600/DSCF6961.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hEhEZYWD9nk/VrF1I-af0dI/AAAAAAAAAtA/ABvKJBTEXrQ/s200/DSCF6961.JPG" width="200" /></a><i>My legs hurt. My back
hurts. I’m tired. Watch your step. Don’t be a klutz, this is not the place for
an injury. I’m tired. Please don’t let
the diabetes cause a problem out here.
My legs hurt. My feet are wet and
cold. I’m tired. </i><i>Don’t be a klutz. </i><i>Please don’t let the diabetes cause a problem
out here. Please don’t let the diabetes cause a problem out here. Please don’t
let the diabetes cause a problem out here. Please don’t let the diabetes cause
a problem out here.</i><i> </i><i>Please don’t. <o:p></o:p></i><i>Please don’t. </i><i>Please don’t. </i><i>Please don’t. </i><i>Please don’t. </i><i>Please don’t. </i><i>Please don’t.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You see, I knew we would get back to the campground. I knew it would be okay. I never had a single doubt that it was just a
matter of time. I didn’t have to worry
or be afraid. <span style="text-align: center;">I was with my dad.</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">I was with my dad.</span></div>
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Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-75326798554685929962015-12-10T15:19:00.001-05:002015-12-10T15:19:03.816-05:00The Fourth House...<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;">I love my job. There
are aspects that I could do without, of course; and even the best of jobs has
the worst of days. Sometimes it is
frustrating, often it is stressful, it is almost never completed, and it is
always tiring. All in all, however, I
truly enjoy teaching classes, connecting with students, and generally trying to
make the world a better place in my own small corner of it. I may not like starting my day when it is
dark and ending when it is dark, but the exhilaration – or ‘teacher’s high’ – after
that last class is undeniable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;">This is not a blog about my job, though.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;">Some time ago, I made the choice to live in the moment as
much as I could. I’ve refined it to live
in the day. By this I mean that if there
is something undesirable coming towards me, I will simply enjoy all the
desirable moments in between. By not
letting these dreaded moments rule my life, I’ve come to enjoy the intervening
moments all that much more and the interruption of undesired necessity is that
much easier to endure. This means that
every evening spent at home I am really, truly, at home. I’m not thinking about the dentist or that
visit from the realtor, or the nine thousand errands I have to run. I may be grading or thinking about the next
school day, but only in terms of preparation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;">But this is not a blog about changing my daily perspective.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7ebnDg8OUAw/VmneCV6n7cI/AAAAAAAAAsc/kgVVk2uE_Hs/s1600/house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7ebnDg8OUAw/VmneCV6n7cI/AAAAAAAAAsc/kgVVk2uE_Hs/s320/house.jpg" width="240" /></span></a><span style="color: #351c75;">I only want it understood that the following is not about
finally getting free of a job that I don’t like or simply the relief that comes
from leaving a necessary, but unwelcome, place. It’s not about letting go of dread or not
taking the moments of my life for granted.
I have a very good life and my workplace is filled with some of the
funniest, kindest, and supportive people I know. No, this blog is not about letting go of
worry or about getting away from something, but rather it is very much about
returning to something.</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;">One of the best parts of my day is the moment I get close
enough to my driveway to see that my husband’s car is already there (and not
because it is a nice car, though he’d tell you that it is if you asked
him). That car sitting there means that
there are lights on inside, there’s a hug waiting for me, and there’s someone
to talk to. Sometimes it even means that
dinner will already be cooking. It’s
walking in the door and instantly feeling that I’m home.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;">Home is where I am a side of me that I only touch on at work. It’s when I relax and can be silly, I can
wear my frumpiest clothes and feel like the most beautiful woman on the
planet. I can make immature jokes and
act like an idiot and it will be met in kind and with laughter. I spend most of my evenings being reminded
that I can be silly and that life is too short to be too serious for too long and
too full of love to be wallowing in fear or worry about the wider world. That part of me is always there, but there’s
something about him that makes it that much more likely to thrive. Our lives are not complicated or enriched by
children – though we have three cats and a dog that keep us on our toes in
various ways. For a large part of our
existence these days, it is just him and I.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;">Him and I.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;">We’ve had some upheavals of late and though they don’t
really belong here, it is enough to say that we’ve both made colossal mistakes,
we’ve both found our worlds suddenly a little smaller, and we both rediscovered
what it means to be in love. My world is
both bigger and smaller, both deeper and lighter, both sillier and more
emotional. I have new dreams and plans
to get there. Not worrying about the
future has gotten so much easier because my present feels content and
reinforced. This is where I want to be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;">Here. With him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;">He is the light to my darkness – laughing when I try so hard
to be serious. He is the dark to my
lightness – keeping my idealism closer to earth with a healthy dose of realism. He is the confidence to my insecurities. His height gives him a perspective that I don’t
have and yet he doesn’t look over me or overlook me. We work together well and though we have our
troubles, like all couples, we are suddenly becoming much more adept at working
through them together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;">Together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;">A thousand clichés talk about marrying one’s best friend and
the importance communication, and a thousand clichés can’t be wholly
wrong. I am more content now than I have
been in a long time, though I see the world around us and worry that the End Times are upon us. I am content because my immediate world is beautiful in all its oddity. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oV9zIzzBdoI/Vmnda_jIEhI/AAAAAAAAAsQ/09YQjiROiuI/s1600/Founder%2527s%2BDay%2BPicnic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oV9zIzzBdoI/Vmnda_jIEhI/AAAAAAAAAsQ/09YQjiROiuI/s320/Founder%2527s%2BDay%2BPicnic.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="color: #351c75;">One of the greatest
feelings in the world is my hand in his.
Or the warmth of him next to me as I lie awake at night and slowly will
my aching back to ease up enough for sleep.
There is something comforting about the warm weight of a loved one
nearby – be it cat or dog or human. My
house is one full of love and it’s a love that extends to the houses of my
parents and my siblings. The world spins
around us, and yet I have so much love in my life to support me as I try not to
let the emotions and the craziness crush me.
I’m not afraid or ashamed to talk about the love I have for my parents,
my siblings, my sibling’s spouses and children.
I am proud and humbled that there are three houses I can go to that are
filled with love and where I am accepted for who I am – for all my quirks and
mistakes, my talents and abilities. I am
loved for who I am. And, at the end of
the day, the fourth house is the one I call home. It is my home and my heart, my soul and my
life because he is there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;">Him and I.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;">Home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;">Together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #351c75;">Us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span>
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Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-78409686514138169482015-11-19T20:36:00.001-05:002015-11-19T21:08:05.326-05:00My hands are small, I know..."The opposite of love is not hate, it is indifference" - Elie Wiesel<br />
<br />
This quote has been moving slowly around in my head and in my heart over the last week or so. It is that much more poignant that it came from a man who somehow, miraculously, survived the devastation the Third Reich visited upon its own citizens in World War II. The senseless acts in Paris and other places around the world seem a relentless barrage of darkness that threatens whatever light we live by in the micro-worlds around us. I am an empath, and so my own heart keenly feels these things - I've often been told that I become too invested emotionally and so each tear is a floodgate to emotional wreckage. In talking to a (male) friend, JDB recently said - as the only words of explanation he could offer - <i>she feels things</i>. I can't help it and it often puts me in awkward and painful situations. I seem to collect the injured around me and I desperately want to heal them all. I rarely can. Even less so when it is the world itself I want to heal.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-f9FFJc_Fklk/Vk52e-XxV6I/AAAAAAAAAqw/IfUFBZiDOEk/s1600/IMG_3426.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-f9FFJc_Fklk/Vk52e-XxV6I/AAAAAAAAAqw/IfUFBZiDOEk/s200/IMG_3426.JPG" width="150" /></a>It did not help that the events in Paris unfolded while I was sitting alone in a hotel room hundreds of miles from home. I did what I could to avoid traveling down a stream of tears until I at least had my standard support network in place - my family, my husband, my friends, my cats. Even the dog. But still - the buildings lit in familiar colors for another country's flag were a monument not easily overlooked as I walked the streets of a city that I did not know. So, my heart ached, and still aches - here in the safety of home - for those put in harms way, those who paid a price they did not ask to pay, for those who are reeling to find answers when there are none. And part of me finds that my support network is reverberating with hatred, fear, indifference, and paranoia. I am reminded, at each visit, of the opening stanza of a Yeats poem that just two weeks ago my students presented. Never have the words felt so real to me.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Turning and turning in the widening gyre</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The best lack all conviction, while the worst</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Are full of passionate intensity.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Build walls, close the doors, throw them all away because a few might be poisoned. I've heard the refugees compared to the Jewish population under Hitler's regime. I've heard them compared to food. Food. We are at a place where we are comparing the terror, desperation, and helplessness of human beings to grapes and M&Ms. I've heard people who feel otherwise being called bleeding hearts, being berated and insulted, simply because we do not blame the Syrian refugees for these acts of violence. This issue is dividing the world and yet the very country that exploded in blood and broken glass has vowed that it will welcome the refugees in direct defiance. It remembers the words placed on the base of her gift to us - <i>La Liberté éclairant le monde</i>. Liberty enlightening the world.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://endigar.files.wordpress.com/2015/06/new-york-city-tours-statue-of-liberty-night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="164" src="https://endigar.files.wordpress.com/2015/06/new-york-city-tours-statue-of-liberty-night.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Give me your tired, your poor,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It always comes back to light, doesn't it? Paris went dark and the world lit up in solidarity. A thousand points of light and love dotted the globe before it turned to glaring spotlights on the innocent. But that early light brings me hope; it always does. Those early lights - which symbolize the world's ability to set aside differences for one brief moment - are why I will never give up. In each chapter of darkness, there are always points of light and I will always look for those. There is always good to be found in the world. There is always hope. And if each of us believes that we can change the world, we can.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My hands are small. I cannot heal the world alone, but I can hold your hand. And yours. And you can hold the hand of the next person, and they the next. In the end, only kindness matters and we - each of us - has the power to spread that kindness if we can but push through the hate and the indifference. I know this echoes of cliche and naivete, but I will not bow down. I will not give up. The minute I give up hope and give in to the madness of the world is another step towards the failure of the world to rise above. Another light that has gone out. We must have our own passionate intensity.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We can do this. Spread light. Give love. Start small. Take my hand.<br />
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Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-77477929416563785312015-10-20T22:25:00.001-04:002015-10-20T22:25:55.328-04:00Flocks of Wonder....<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: purple;">We are slowly approaching gift-giving season and so, much
too early, Christmas ads are starting and people are beginning to watch the
skies for snow. It doesn’t help that I
myself am in the midst of my family’s ‘birthday season’ – where we have at
least one birthday per month from August to December (three in November). This is not a blog about gift giving occasions,
per se, but something that is known, I think, only to a few. It is more about a different spirit of random
giving that is perhaps unintended, but appreciated deeply nevertheless. Whatever reason it happens, it is no doubt
that the benefits are tenfold, though I’m not sure the giver has any idea what
he has wrought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: purple;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: purple;">Before I explain the above, I have to first build something
of a context so it can be better understood by the uninitiated. There is a student at the college where I
work who is a relatively quiet and unassuming sort of fellow for the most
part. I’ve seen him come out of his
shell a little bit when I’ve had him in some of my more specialized classes. These are the classes about Alice and Harry and
Frodo; classes that attract the misfits and the geeks. I use those words with all the affection in
the world – for I am a misfit myself. It
is no accident that one of my favorite characters in animated holiday specials
is King Moon Racer, the winged lion who rules over the Island of Misfit
toys. These classes – and the kind of
learner they attract – are a joy to teach because they have a presentation
component wherein all the students invent and develop their own topics and
spend the semester working on them so they are prepared to present the results
to their classmates at the close of the course.
This is my favorite time because students like this one have the
opportunity to show, sometimes rather awkwardly, the deep and creative minds
that have often hidden behind silence for the bulk of the semester. Again, all of this is only to give a picture
of the way that I know this student and to drive home the beauty of the story I
am going to tell of what he does outside the classroom. You see, he likes to make paper cranes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: purple;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: purple;">This in itself is a lovely little skill and something I
cannot do, but what really amazes me is what he does after he makes them. I, and others, have found them scattered
around the school in the strangest of places, often made possible by the fact
that he is rather tall. He puts them
atop vending machines, exit signs, doorframes, ceiling mounted speakers, clocks,
and, basically, anything else that is up high and has a small ledge on it. He has put them on books in the library
stacks – though I’m told that it is only the Harry Potter books that have been craned,
so to speak. He has put them, nested on
a piece of paper, in the bins outside my door.
Every time I think that he is no longer doing it, I find another one or
hear about someone else finding one.
Those of us who are always half-looking feel blessed when our furtive
and ever-hopeful glances are rewarded with a tiny crane in pink or blue, yellow
or decorated. I have amassed a small collection
of them and it’s like seeing a rainbow or finding a four-leaf clover. They never fail to make me happy. My hummingbird friend also has several of
them and loves them as much as I do.
When I told my mother about them, she asked if I would give her one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: purple;">Just the other day, my hummingbird friend smiled the cutest
little giggling smile when I approached her at the copier. When I tilted my head in question, she
pointed to the exit sign above the nearby drinking fountain and said ‘look!’
with a voice full of delight and wonder.
I have much the same reaction and I was not the least bit surprised when
she asked a student, but a moment later, to fetch the crane that was sitting on
high, waiting. I know that she added it
to the growing collection she already has; I would have done the same had I
seen it first. That is the magic of the
cranes – we collect them as if brownies or fairies came in the blink of an eye
and left gifts for the worthy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: purple;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: purple;">These cranes must not take him much time to make; in fact, I
know they don’t because he used to make them in class when class discussion
spun into intellectual excited chaos around him. He must know I love them or he wouldn’t leave
them around my door from time to time.
He must know that others gather them because every time he places one, I’m
sure it doesn’t take long for them to be claimed by someone with a watchful eye
and a thoughtful glance. I wonder if he sees
it as a game. I wonder if he notes how
long it takes each one to find a new home.
I’ve never asked him. We have
never spoken about the giving of the cranes.
Even though I know who does it, it feels like an almost mystical event
to find one and every time I consider asking him about them, I come to the
realization that I just don’t want to know.
Let him keep hiding them out in the open until he no longer roams our
halls and, for the rest of us - let his magic continue lift our hearts and
remind us what wonder is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-21715004323187040262015-09-24T21:24:00.000-04:002015-09-24T21:29:53.594-04:00Just Breathe...<i><span style="color: #274e13;">The following is a transcript of some free writing I did this afternoon. I don't often hand write things because I find that my hand cannot keep up with my brain in any meaningful, legible way. There are times, however, where I make an exception for some reason. Today was one of those times...I did not overthink it much, I did not take the time to edit or craft it. I just put it from paper to screen.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #274e13;"><br /></span></i>
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<span style="color: #274e13;">I'm sitting in the Arboretum as I write this. It is probably my favorite place to be of late, especially near to home. My summer was full of turmoil - much of it of my own making - and I often retreated here for solace and to escape the noise of the whirlwind around me. Numerous visits for several months brought me from late spring through summer and now into fall. This has afforded me the opportunity to see the change from the growth of spring to the vibrancy of summer and now the slow decay of autumn as Mother Earth prepares herself for the long winter to come. It is hard to stay lost in man-made desperation and chaos when each step rattles the world -- a chipmunk darts across the path ahead, while a turtle slips into the waters to one side and something rustles in the dry leaves on the other. There is silence, but it is folded into the scurrying of unseen creatures, the call of the bullfrog, the song of hidden birds. From visit to visit, the swamp would rise and fall according to the will of the rain, and a single leaf falls or countless cascade around me at the will of the wind. Not a single care I bring with me can stop this ebb and flow of nature's endless cycle. I have watched the brook near to bursting from spring's powerful torrents and cautiously stepped around fallen logs and bending branches which were not there the walk before. I have startled wildlife, sat in the sunlight, been drench in a sudden downpour. I have wiped sweat from my eyes as I peered into a tree where two herons perched and crept as quiet as may be towards sunbathing turtles, hoping to capture them in frozen image before they slipped away. I have peered fruitlessly into the trees trying to see what rustled in the undergrowth or hopped from branch to branch. I have had camera on hand in exactly the right moment to capture snakes, crawdads, a rainbow of birds and flowers, dragonflies and bees, a fawn and a snapping turtle. All allowed me to step into their world and, for a time, live there in respectful distance, my errands no less important than theirs. My survival differently but equally dependent on what I found there. </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QtAy6DewepU/VgSeBELGoYI/AAAAAAAAAo0/dYyTWF41d3w/s1600/DSCF7389.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QtAy6DewepU/VgSeBELGoYI/AAAAAAAAAo0/dYyTWF41d3w/s200/DSCF7389.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="color: #274e13;">I have sat for hours on the board walk, on a log, on a patch of leaves, on a grassy hill above the wetlands, searching for peace and coming closer to it than I dared hope. Immersing myself in nature is profoundly moving in seemingly contradictory ways - I feel at once alone and yet in tune with the vibrant life around me. I feel insignificant but somehow an intricate part of something powerful at the same time. I am equally enamored of a bug skimming the surface of the water as I am of the trees pushing their way towards the bluest of skies. Each remind me of the strength and grace that nature gives both her largest and smallest creatures. Each intricate leaf, each unnamed plant, each unrecognized flower, each sound I cannot place is part of me and I of it. I owe my soul and my heart to the hours I've spent listening to my own footsteps, hearing my own heartbeat, feeling the air fill my own lungs, and taking in each minute beautiful detail of the world with my own eyes. This is peace - I come seeking it, outwardly, and find it within. Tranquility in endless movement and chaotic rhythms. Finding beauty in a submerged log, a fallen leaf, browned grasses pushing through a stump half drowning in swampy waters. No matter what ails me, what troubles I found or made, life will go on. Birth from death, renewal from decay, the promise of a greater tomorrow. And even in the crumpled leaf and the broken twig, there is hope and beauty and promise. Serenity.</span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QBuQls3SvcA/VgShLJhcTvI/AAAAAAAAApM/c2s300_bQTY/s1600/DSCF7355.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QBuQls3SvcA/VgShLJhcTvI/AAAAAAAAApM/c2s300_bQTY/s200/DSCF7355.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
<i><span style="color: #274e13;">There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, <br />There is a rapture on the lonely shore, <br />There is society, where none intrudes, <br />By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: <br />I love not Man the less, but Nature more.<br />—Lord Byron, “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage”</span></i>Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-81282540053046728352015-09-18T19:43:00.000-04:002015-09-18T19:43:23.190-04:00Walk Right In, Sit Right Down...<span style="color: purple;"><i>Today, on this 18th day of September, I am resurrecting my blog. I am doing so because I miss writing because I don’t do it enough. I am doing so because I feel that it would make me a more genuine teacher of writing if I practice the craft I teach. I am doing so because this is the area of writing in which I feel I am best. I don’t think I will ever be a writer of fiction; I don’t have the stamina or the detailed mind for it. I fear my stories are in a permanent state of stasis. But this, this I can do. So, I will, and I will simply by diving right in...</i><br /><br />Last night my friend the dragon, who has had pretty serious battles with depression was talking to me about how he was acutely aware of his mood and he felt the need to go read or watch anime or otherwise be away from people. Because of this, he was forcing himself to be in a place where he had to interact with others. When he explained why, it made a good deal of sense to me. He knew that if he gave into that need to be alone, it would lead down a path whose destination he already knew and to which he did not want to go. I made a point of talking to him for the rest of the evening about my own recent internal battles and how I felt I was better learning what it meant to have healthy friendships on which I did not feel wholly dependent for my own validation. Towards the end of the evening, I asked him how he was feeling. His response was that he felt much better – that the online group activity in which he was engaged and the steady conversation he and I had been having had pulled him back from walking down that road of isolation. I went to bed that night feeling like I had done some real good in the world – it wasn’t so drastic as having saved someone’s life, but I was able to figure out what someone else needed and was then able to provide it. And it worked.<br /><br />Fast forward to today and once I was done with my classes, I found myself embroiled in trip plans that involved a travel agent, the chair of a committee that grants funds for professional development, and the coordinator of a conference I’m attempting to go to in November. It was aggravating, time-consuming, and ultimately is still unresolved completely. Added to that, my lunch plans fell through because my companion’s own schedule had become ridiculously complicated and so I could feel a desire to just go off and buy lunch somewhere and sit alone until meetings called me back a few hours later.<br /><br />And then I remembered my friend from the night before. <br /><br />Before I continue, I should point out that I am not normally one to run at a problem. I dislike conflict of any kind, so I’m much more likely to retreat, even if there is no real conflict and I’m just running away from the world. It does not help that I am an introvert, so sometimes running away seems like the only sane option. If there is no one around, you can’t be let down and you can’t get tired of interacting with the world. You just ARE in those moments, but not in a Zen sort of way.<br /><br />I thought about how my dragon friend forced himself to socialize because he knew where isolating himself would lead him and he did not want to go there. I thought to myself, I wonder if that would work for me. Would forcing myself to come out of the Flight of the Introvert actually help? I mean, it wasn’t like I was depressed or otherwise in a dampening mood – I just didn’t want to be around people. This would be a problem, however, if I embraced it and then had to go actually run a meeting later that afternoon. So, I decided I’d give Dragon’s idea a try.<br /><br />When a former student stopped by after her class, I took the plunge. I wonder if she realized the words sort of tumbled out rather abruptly; “What are you doing? Do you want to go to Wegman’s for lunch with me?” After that, it was easier and it was not long before I felt the need for isolation subside. It was as if a switch had been flipped in my head or heart or something and I could face the world again. This is especially significant because I call this friend Switch for unrelated reasons, but the name seemed even more fitting today. After we ate and I took her back to campus, I went for a walk in my Arboretum (perhaps I will blog about that next) to temper the surge of energy I felt from conquering what I knew was not a good state of mind in which to be. Life was good.<br /><br />I came out of the Arboretum ready to sit in one meeting and run another one and I’m not sure I could have said the same if I hadn’t made myself take a leap of faith off not a cliff, but at least a small hill. And you know what? It was worth it. <br /><br /> “The further you get away from yourself, the more challenging it is. Not to be in your comfort zone is great fun” – Benedict Cumberbatch</span>Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-37374629070701834062014-08-31T20:33:00.002-04:002014-08-31T20:33:22.475-04:00Not angry, but passionate...<br /><br /><i>The following is a compilation (with some editing) of a few Facebook posts made in response to a comment made about community colleges. In the end , I don’t think the poster meant anything negative in what he said, but it got me thinking and feeling like I needed to respond. It also touched a nerve of a former student who worked very hard to earn her degree and who took a little umbrage at the possible implications of what was said. The first comment was that community college is “thirteenth grade” – which is a long-standing term that, as you will see, is not a positive one. I responded with an adamant no, which prompted the following phrases:</i><ul>
<li><i>It is the middle ground of teaching between high school and large universities across the nation.</i></li>
<li><i>They give you a drastically larger amount of leeway in community college.</i></li>
<li><i>It is essentially an extension of high school. </i></li>
<li><i>You can take community college courses in high school</i></li>
<li><i>It is the 13th grade. It's a stepping stone.</i></li>
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So, this is my reply…<br /><br />First, let me say that I've been teaching at a CC for 10 years, meaning I’ve stood in front of around 140 classes full of something close to 1,900 students. I think it’s important to know where I’m coming from so that you can understand that I’m speaking from experience and observation and a fair number of conversations with and about students. With all of that floating around for close to a quarter of my life, I am confident saying that I don't think you are right - at least not for every student. <br /> <br /> Students come to a community college for countless reasons and while some of them are of the stepping stone variety, I don’t think it’s fair or accurate to say that it’s a middle ground that is just an extension of high school. The four year schools clearly don’t look at them that way. For instance, if Johnny Student gets his Associates at a community college and has been attentive to his courses and educational path along the way, then he will transfer as a junior. It's not really less than the four-year at all if that student is using it to completely replace the first two years of a four year degree and that four year institution fully accepts their work at the CC as equivalent to two years in house. If the classes were just an extension of high school, those large universities you mentioned wouldn't take the transfers - they wouldn't deem the courses good enough for credit at their institutions. Not all of the courses or all of the universities, of course, but enough of them to imply that the four years aren't particularly worried about that leeway you seem to think exists in the community college classroom.<br /><br />That said, I'm certainly not going to deny that for some students, it is most definitely used as a way to get more ready for a four year; however, making a blanket statement about what purpose it serves for ALL students is inaccurate and rapidly becoming more so. Historically, community colleges often served that role and only that role, no doubt. The fact that they were (and in some places in the country still are) called junior colleges is a testament to that. That, however, is hardly the role of the CC in today’s world of strapped economies, increasing costs of college, and the decreasing number of available jobs for new graduates or long-time workers. This shifting landscape has completely altered the role and purpose of the community college in the world of education. It’s not just one thing anymore and it doesn't serve just one kind of student. <br /> <br /> For some of our students, it better prepares them for the university experience, as you said. For others, though, it's just plain cheaper or close to home. They've worked at a company for decades, but are laid off and their only option for job re-training of any kind is the local CC because they have a family and can’t uproot. For others, it's that the CC has a fantastic program that is just what they want. Maybe they want to go into Music Recording or Conservation or even go somewhere that has an award-winning Woodsmen’s Team or a burgeoning Viticulture program. For still more, it makes it easier to get into the four year because they've already proven themselves at a significantly lower cost. If Jane Student enters into a joint admissions program, she will gain automatic entry into SUNY Geneseo if she successfully completes two years at FLCC. One is much easier to get into, but the other accepts those two years as good enough. Others go to a CC because they are entering a field where two years is enough to move forward in a career. You just can’t label or pigeonhole all the myriad of reasons a student chooses a community college. It’s not just the traditional aged high school graduate anymore, with or without college credit going in.<br /> <br /> This leads to another thing that you said that’s true, but not the whole picture. You most certainly can take CC courses while in high school, but you can also take Syracuse University classes (through SUPA). Additionally, Advanced Placement classes and exams in high school will give you college credit as well - regardless of whether your destination is a four year or two year. They aren't college classes, per se, but they are college credit that will 'take the place' of a class in college, so the end result is similar.<br /> <br /> In the end, it may just be that we disagree simply on a semantics level or on a level of scope, but I firmly believe that referring to CC in one way for all students is limiting. If you believed I was offended, perhaps you were right. Perhaps I sensed judgment because I've faced that judgment before. If you knew anything about the history of the community college struggle for legitimacy and respect, you would know that the 13th grade phrase has been used for a terribly long time as a derisive, dismissive, and demeaning way to refer to CC. Those who work there and have given their hearts to the mission of the community college tend to feel the need to chime in when it gets used.<div>
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I fell into the CC world by accident. It never occurred to me to attend one when I graduated for just the kind of reasons you listed – I had 17 credits of AP, a couple of scholarships, and had eyes on my Masters. I went straight to the four year and spent twelve and a half years earning a Bachelor’s, then a Master’s, and finally a Doctorate. Looking up the job availability at a community college was a moment of inspiration and when I got the job, I was thrilled and excited. It has only gotten better since then. I sometimes get asked, in a tone of disbelief and even judgment, why I don’t teach at a four-year since I could make more money and publish and a variety of other opportunities if I did. The one thing I would lose, however, is the focus on the student. All the students – no matter why they are there, what their abilities and limitations are, or where they go once they are done. That’s what matters…that’s what will always matter.</div>
Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-8188734861731026102014-08-10T22:45:00.000-04:002014-08-10T22:45:28.310-04:00Trying not to dwell...<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I spent about 15 minutes on this...I did not over think it or shape it or do much with it except let it out. I suspect I will regret that later and perhaps rework it...but not right now.</i></div>
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A shadowy presence in my mind, lurking<o:p></o:p></div>
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Blotted out most of the time when I’m occupied<o:p></o:p></div>
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Time with friends, errands to run, chores to do<o:p></o:p></div>
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But then, under the glow of a supermoon<o:p></o:p></div>
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And the quiet hum of tires on the ethereal highway,<o:p></o:p></div>
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It comes back to me in a wave of melancholy<o:p></o:p></div>
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It does that sometimes, less often than the pain<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sometimes it comes as anger, but not tonight<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tonight it came out of nowhere dressed in sadness <o:p></o:p></div>
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Like a shadow in the night, a cloud in the sky<o:p></o:p></div>
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It came and I was reminded not just that I hurt<o:p></o:p></div>
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But it softly reminded me how and why I am broken<o:p></o:p></div>
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Not in a way that stops me from loving life<o:p></o:p></div>
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Not in a way that shatters dreams or saps hope<o:p></o:p></div>
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Not in a way that leaves me crippled and lost<o:p></o:p></div>
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But just a little less than whole, a little bit flawed<o:p></o:p></div>
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Just little broken like a chip in a glass figurine<o:p></o:p></div>
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A rough edge that time smoothed out but did not erase<o:p></o:p></div>
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This time it comes to me in numbers that prick my eyes<o:p></o:p></div>
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And roll through my mind like an insidious code<o:p></o:p></div>
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The 11<sup>th</sup> day of the 8<sup>th</sup> month<o:p></o:p></div>
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The 38<sup>th</sup> minute of the sixth hour after noon.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The temperature was 78 degrees.<o:p></o:p></div>
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His speed was over 50, mine was less than 5<o:p></o:p></div>
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A quarter percent of his blood was alcohol.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was the tenth day after I bought the car<o:p></o:p></div>
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The first car I’d ever owned<o:p></o:p></div>
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The third month I’d had my license.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now I spend forty dollars to have my bones cracked<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hoping it will hold for four weeks until I return<o:p></o:p></div>
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I had five shots driven into my spine for no relief.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was twenty three and it has now been 19 years<o:p></o:p></div>
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I cannot remember and I cannot forget<o:p></o:p></div>
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But don’t mourn for me – the shadow will pass<o:p></o:p></div>
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The chip will remain, but I’m not really broken<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I smile I mean it, when I laugh I feel it<o:p></o:p></div>
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The moon is beautiful tonight and I am alive.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Alive.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-12607058959124368052014-07-18T13:58:00.001-04:002014-07-18T14:01:12.169-04:00Pressed between the pages....Lately I have been going through boxes in my attic that are full of things that I've carried from place to place over the span of my life. They are mementos of times gone by and include everything from greeting cards and scrawly art projects to tiny clothing I once wore and ticket stubs with fading ink. Next to the tub from which I am pulling things is an empty one where I put things I want to keep holding on to. Some things go in there automatically - tiny shoes, my first doll, cards and letters from grandparents who are no longer here with us. Some things I dwell on...touching the past in a tangible way and reveling in the memories once more. Not all the memories are good, but they are all significant in some meaningful way and are part of the mosaic of who I am. Products of my past.<div><br></div><div>A sampling...<div><br></div><div>A card given to my grandfather from my grandmother. Inside she expressed her love for him in her elegant script and touching it brought tears to my eyes that turned to laughter. She closed her inscription with the phrase "have a nice day" and that adorable innocence is how I remember her. I may never know if she was really cheating at Yahtzee or just forgot how many times she rolled...</div><div><br></div><div>Piles of letters written by my mother whenever I was away - summer camp, school trips, college, student teaching abroad. She wrote of all the things that were happening in her world, leavings with a splash of home in the midst of whatever strange experiences in which I found myself immersed. She signed every single one of them "Love ya, Mom" in her familiar hand.</div><div><br></div><div>A program for a Meatloaf concert and numerous ticket stubs. My brother was my concert buddy - still is on a smaller scale. We would go, for instance, to the Downtown Festival Tent every year to see REO Speedwagon...even the year that I had just gotten out of the hospital following surgery on my jaw. So many other concerts that it seemed only fitting that when I graduated from college, he gave me two tickets to see Boston's Walk On tour. The Meatloaf concert was a deal - I'd go see Steve Miller with him if he'd go see Meatloaf with me. We both loved both concerts.</div><div><br></div><div>An envelop full of high school graduation documents showing various accomplishments in the face of what I have increasingly come to see as a very difficult time in my life. People sometimes say that high school was the best time of their lives. Not me. I never felt I fit in anywhere and yet it was a formative time that laid the groundwork for all the successes that came after. In the face of adversity (of, honestly, a very mundane kind), I made it. That envelop represents that to me.</div><div><br></div><div>A book of early poems. Oh, they are so wonderful in their juvenile awfulness. The childish scrawl, the teddy bear cover...all of it. Painful rhymes, choppy rhythms....but there are nuggets there that, again, laid the groundwork for what I think is better, wiser, stronger poetry of which I can be proud.</div><div><br></div><div>These things are all special to me - and there is so much more. I am thinning the collection some. There are things whose importance has been lost in time and the fog of the past. There are things of which I am ready to let go. There are things that just seem silly now. But all of it begs the question of what will it all mean someday when I am gone? I think of this sometimes when I find myself shifting through a box lot at an auction with my dad. Old letters and postcards in flowing script describing someone else's faraway home in a faraway time. And I'm not sure we value the paper of now as we value the paper of old. So perhaps it will all someday be recycled and pass out of time and space. For now, though, they will stay close to me and mine, weaved into the person I am, the person I was, and the person I will someday be.</div></div>Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-44748120530563617972014-07-01T20:31:00.002-04:002014-07-01T20:37:46.877-04:00That Which Does Not Kill Us...<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><b>POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNING....SENSITIVE TOPICS HEREIN.</b></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you. – Friedrich Nietzsche</i><br /><br />So, there is a registered sex offender living next door. All that separates our house from where he lives is a hedge and the driveway into the cemetery. I know he is there because we received the mandatory letter from the police department with most of the relevant information. I looked him up on the registry and, to get the more unpleasant details out of the way early, this is what I found out: he is a violent offender whose victim was 12 years old. He is a level 3 risk and was charged with forcible compulsion. Quick searches online revealed that he plead out, which explains why he only received five years. He will be 34 this month. He is mandated to attend anti-violent and anti-aggression counseling. He is prohibited alcohol and is not allowed to drive. He has a curfew.<br /><br />This particular type of crime repulses me to no end. I would wager than any decent human finds it be one of the worst things we can imagine. The violation of a child and the utter destruction of that child’s innocence are beyond our ability to comprehend on any rational level. Regardless of how horrific his own background might have been, there seems to be no possible way to excuse his behavior. It wasn't a mistake, as a drunk driver might say. He didn't do it to feed his starving family, as a thief might say. He wasn't a mislead youth, as a vandal might say. It wasn't self-defense, as a murderer might say. His behavior is the action of a depraved human being who – at our kindest – we can say has an illness of the brain. None of the public documentation indicates this to be the case at all, but I am willing to concede that it is possible. Even that, however, is not enough for me to feel anything but disgust. As a woman living in a rape culture, as a human being with a heart, as someone who was once a child…I just cannot shake off the utter revulsion I feel when I consider what he did. I try not to.<br /><br />All of this leads me to an interesting place of discussion. Our justice system is a flawed thing, no doubt. But it is the system that we have and I’m not sure I have a better system in mind to replace it with if I could. So, we have to fight it when it is unfair, and we have to make do with what it gives us. This man is on probation and living next door in a neighborhood where the school bus stops directly across the street from his residence. Young girls, female runners, and countless walkers flow through the cemetery steadily as it is a great place to get away from roads and traffic. This is frightening to me. All of it. Our justice system says that he has paid his dues. He should be, in some ways, just another citizen with a couple of extra hoops through which he must jump. But even the documentation identifies him as having a “high risk of repeat offense” and acknowledges that “a threat to public safety exists.” The recidivism rate of sex offenders has always been thought to be high. This is public information. So, what do we do?<br /><br />I don’t mean on a personal level. I am always careful of my person and now will be more so. I’m fairly certain that JDB won’t actually run him over with the car. His house is easy to avoid and foreknowledge is forewarned. Not for nothing, this is why they tell us he is there. For our protection and the protection of our children. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But, (if you are feeling up to it), spend a few moments reading the comments on this kind of story anywhere on the Internet or listening to people discussing a crime of this nature and the barbarism is truly shocking. So many terrifying things come from those who are angry and feel helpless when encountered with a story of the abuse of a child, sexual or otherwise. When society isn't victim shaming, its collective heart breaks and its blood boils to contemplate, in any way, crimes of a sexual nature. It is a truly damaging crime that is all too prevalent and under-reported in a culture that seems steeped in factors that feed it. But the violent threats and suggestions of how to solve the problem of the rapist are rarely palatable and often are disturbing in and of themselves. That said, I also firmly believe that the people who let such suggestions enter their public discourse could never actually follow through. It is a coping mechanism. I have heard it as such, I understand it as such, I have even had such thoughts myself.<br /><br />But that does leave us with the very real dilemma borne out of a general quandary regarding what we actually can and should do. On one hand, he paid his dues (regardless of whether or not I think it was enough) and as long as he continues to do what he is supposed to do, he should be allowed to continue on unmolested. That’s what makes people like us better than people like him. We can rise above our primal instincts which call for him to suffer unendingly for what he has done. We have to believe in the system of a civilized society where we understand that if we gaze too long into the abyss, we eventually become one with the abyss itself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But, that leaves us with the problem of what to do. He must work – but who will hire him? He has to live somewhere, but who wants him as a neighbor? And if he is repeatedly and continually ostracized by society, isn't that more likely to drive him to more criminal behavior? What about the conundrum of Broward County, Florida? <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Business/story?id=8083584">In 2009, a registered sex offender was begging to be arrested again because there was absolutely nowhere for him to live that was within the confines of his probation</a>. Protecting the public is paramount…but don’t we, as human beings with hearts, have some duty to other living creatures? No matter how reprehensible their behavior has been? When a dog is rabid, we euthanize because we cannot cure what ails him. Problem solved, albeit painfully. Where do we draw the line? <a href="http://verdict.justia.com/2013/10/25/weight-capital-punishment-jurors-justices-governors-executioners">Especially since, no matter what your views on capital punishment are, a death sentence has collateral damage that is often overlooked.</a><br /><a href="http://verdict.justia.com/2013/10/25/weight-capital-punishment-jurors-justices-governors-executioners"><br /></a>This is something I feel uniquely sharply because one of my greatest strengths is also one of my greatest weaknesses. Empathy. I kill no creatures if I can at all help it and I often find myself pulled into the emotions of others to the point where I run the risk of drowning in them. When I don’t drown, it is a good thing not only for me but for whoever has leaned on me in a time of need. When I do find myself slipping, it can be heartbreaking, exhausting, and agonizing. It also makes me feel this whole topic rather keenly. Wasps can kill me – as I said in my last blog – and yet I won’t kill one. I’ll capture it and put it outside. If it were to sting me, I would know that it was just engaging in its own nature. As long as we avoid one another, that nature can continue, unabated and unharmful for both parties.</span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />But what about my neighbor? Is the letter from the police department the cup placed over the wasp? Do we simply live and let live? Hope he doesn't repeat offend? Find comfort in the litany of restrictions placed on him? Trust the system? <a href="http://www.scientificamerican.com/article/misunderstood-crimes/?page=1">Especially since the recidivism rates may not be quite as bad as public opinion thinks they are?</a> Does the percentage even matter? I cannot put any other sort of cup over him and let him outside, so I have to learn to be safe. I cannot engage in self-torture by dwelling on his crime and I cannot sentence him for one he has not yet committed. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We must, for the moment, co-exist. Some small voice, however, knows </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">the guilt will sit heavily on me if that next crime should come to pass. Not because of any rational sense of wrong doing but simply because of a zone of proximity that will leave me feeling as if there must have been something I could have done.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />In the meantime, I will simply say that I don’t have the answers. I just know I’m more careful and I have added another bullet to the pro column of reasons to move to the country. Which will not solve the larger problem; it will only make it not my problem. Because that is what we do when we don’t have the answers. If there are too many wasps, we run.</span></div>
</div>
Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-78494261244320169672014-06-22T22:22:00.000-04:002014-06-22T22:24:33.688-04:00Black, Yellow, and DeadlySummer is amazing. It's full of energy and life in a way that no other season can match. But there's danger, too. Oddly, enough, though, the danger of summer was captured for me one October afternoon. It's one of perhaps three times that I've had what I call a near death experience and it is the one I remember most acutely.<br />
<br />
As I said, it was October and I was helping mom clean up the kitchen. It had been warm and there were still mosquitoes out...I had at least one bite on my ankle. This would become more interesting as the day wore on. I threw something away and was pushing the garbage down into the bin when it happened. Just a tiny prick on my thumb between the first and second knuckle. I gasped a bit and looked down, only to see him sitting there. He was black and yellow and somewhere looked angry, sullen, groggy. It was, after all, October. I said something to my mom and she was surprised - she had apparently killed him and thrown him away earlier. It would seem he was more resilient than that. It was a lesson to be learned.<br />
<br />
There was not much fear yet. I had been stung a long, long time ago and had had a terrible reaction, but it was so long ago that there was some level of buffer. I had become complacent in those long years.<br />
<br />
Within a few moments after the sting, the mosquito bite on my ankle began to spread into a full hive that ran nearly to my knee. It itched. I felt other hives begin to form and I mentioned them to mom. She sent me up to take a bath in baking soda to relieve the itch. I may have taken some Benedryl even then, but I don't remember. I don't really remember any fear at this point, except perhaps the vague stirrings somewhere deep inside. Somewhere I couldn't place or even identify. Not yet.<br />
<br />
That changed relatively quickly because as I sat in the bath, I could feel my throat begin to close. I remember licking my lips as the fear became steadily more insistent and my tongue dragged over lips that were beginning to swell. Eyes, ears, tongue. I scrambled out of the tub and called down to my mom in a voice edged with the beginnings of panic. She told me to take my contacts out and get dressed. Her thought process was far more rapid than mine; she could see my eyes, the swelling and perhaps the fear, too. Moms know things. They sense things. At least mine did.<br />
<br />
Later, I learned that there was a different hospital we could have gone to, one that would have been faster and easier. Mom took me to the one she knew, though, and for that I can't blame her. She never liked expressway driving so she took me to Thompson.<br />
<br />
I don't really remember the car ride...except I remember coughing. It was getting harder to breathe and I couldn't focus on anything. My hands were cold, my arms were laced with blotchy hives...the fear clawing at me in ragged breaths drawn between lips turning blue. I suspect my mother drove faster than she had ever driven up to then or since.<br />
<br />
We arrived at the emergency department and mom half dragged, half carried me inside. She said two words as they came to us, "wasp sting" and they became a blur. I was in an exam area with a needle in my arm before my mother saw a stitch of paperwork. I don't remember much - needles, 2800 mg of Benedryl, a blood pressure of 60 / 40, a doctor telling me that when I came in,I was about 10 minutes from a coma. From there, death.<br />
<br />
These days, I carry two Epi-pens with me. Adrenaline which will not get me out of harm's way, it will only stave it off until I get to a hospital. I've been stung by a bee since that day, but it only put me on crutches for a week with an angry infection and stretch marks across my ankle. That hasn't reduced the vigilance; it just focuses it more tightly on what I call the heavy hitters - wasps and yellow jackets. You see, that's the thing about allergies to stinging insects...I really have no way of knowing if I am more allergic now or if I've grown out of it as I've gotten older. The only way to know for sure is to get stung again. So, I am careful. I remember the fear. I try hard to not become complacent again. I have people who help me with that and while I may act exasperated when I am reminded, I get it.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure I have any profound words to change the experience into something larger than what it was. I know I almost died that day and I know my mother paved the way for me to live and while some details are fuzzy, I will never forget the fear and the slow withdrawal of myself from anything around me. I don't remember parts of it because parts of me were already letting go. I can still see my blue-tipped fingers in my mind's eye, still see the hives blotting my wrists in awkward patterns. I remember enough to know I was lucky and in good hands.<br />
<br />
We all have these kinds of memories etched into our minds...they remind us how fragile life is and how amazing it is that we draw breath each day and can run through the flowers and walk along the lake on a beautiful summer day. Some of us just have to remember to bring our Epi-pens along to guard against death in tiny packages of sullen black and yellow...<br />
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<br />Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-27050339572974359002014-06-13T21:05:00.001-04:002014-06-13T21:13:44.717-04:00What's In a Name...<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Today I will talk about names. Names are powerful things. In a book I am currently reading, the author
draws on old magic wherein the knowing the name of a thing gives one a certain
power over it. Sometimes, this is a
dangerous use of dark magic and sometimes it is something more subtle and
beautiful. But always, it is power. From Rothfuss to Rowling to Rumplestiltskin,
there are countless examples from fiction, fantasy, and folklore that tell of
the power of names.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For me, it works on other levels as well. We use our given names everywhere (in <i>Pulp </i>Fiction, isn’t it Bruce Willis’
character who says we are in America, and names don’t mean….well, you get the
idea). I don’t think that’s entirely
true, but there is a certain amount of familiarity with the names we carry on
our birth certificates. Perhaps that is
why it feels like there is power in the bestowing of a name that is accepted by
the one who is named. The giving of a
nickname, a pet name, a role name, or the choosing of a name is not something
often entered into lightly. I’ve thought
about this a lot lately – partially due to the need to name the kitten that is
currently fiercely battling a stuffed mouse under my chair. Perhaps because of the Baptism I recently
attended or the student I have who was brave enough and strong enough to give
himself a male name to better reflect who he felt like inside. Perhaps I’ve always loved names as a writer
and a gamer and someone who loves words in general (who amongst you writers and
games doesn’t know what I mean when I say a name must have The Ring?) My husband is more frequently known by the
character name from the game in which we met than he is by his given name. My best friend is called Raven for a million
reasons, all of which are fitting and funny and wise and meaningful beyond what
I can explain here. I tend to give
nicknames to my dear friends because it ties them closer to me in some
way. Not to sound proprietary, but it
makes them <i>mine</i>. I hate the way that sounds, but I think my
readers will know what I mean. It is a
verbal bond – or a verbal marker of a bond that is far more ethereal, in
general. As someone who has long believed that I’m
cursed with finding wonderful people only to then lose them, this is a significant
emotional investment. Names of all kinds
have power in my world…and if I give you one, it means something. If you give me one, it means something as
well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That leads me to verbalizing my curiosity about names I’ve
gathered over time. There are a number
of reasons for this and a number of names that immediately spring to mind. JDB has a slew of nicknames for me, Raven has
one, my sister has one. My brother gave
me one long ago that he doesn’t use much anymore, really, but it’s still mine. My father and mother each have names for me,
as do my nephews. And then there are my
students. Many of them call me Dr. T., which is
something I like. Formal, but not. Kind of like me. Amongst the larger group of students is a
smaller group who, for a variety of reasons, I refer to as my Minions. They seem completely at ease with this
moniker and they consist of students who take every class with me that they
can. They are students who wear the title
with something akin to honor and they seem believe they have to earn it and
keep earning it. They work hard; they go
above and beyond as students. And they
have given me a name to which I also feel I must continue to earn. There was a time when the chief among them
called me Teacher Lady. Later, it just
became Teacher. Still later, it was
shortened again to Teach. And then it
spread until all the Minions now use it.
I see it in letters, emails, notes on my door, Facebook messages, in the
halls and the random places where we meet.
On some level it may seem generic – it is a verb that describes what I
do. I suspect it means a lot more than
that and that it carries a lot of weight behind it. I think.
I’m sometimes not very good at these things. This may sound completely
off the wall, but it reminds me of the days when I was called Fang-sama and Sōke
(pronounced so-kay). Which, of course,
begs some explanation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In the game where I met my husband and the people with whom
I’ve held the longest friendships I’ve ever had, I played a character that
belonged to one of three races. One race
was vaguely Middle Eastern, one was loosely Western European, and the third was
based on a blending of various Asian cultures.
The dress, philosophy, culture, and belief system was an amalgamation of
mostly Japanese and Chinese cultures of the past. I chose the third one to play (I was and
still am a fan of martial arts movies and even trained Washin-ryu for a little
while. I claim no real knowledge of
anything beyond that, I just liked what little I knew). Since I was the head of the monarchy, which
at its largest was 160+ members, it had those same cultural leanings. We were a role-playing group and so I <i>was </i>my character for many of its members
– and I was never anything else. When
they or I left the game, we no longer really existed for one another. But while we were there, I was Soke – which roughly
translates to something like headmaster, head of the family, or even
grandmaster. To some I was Sensei –
teacher. Some went so far as to call me “My
Queen” (one still does to this day) or to add –sama to my character’s
name. This last often caused me some
measure of embarrassment – for it is an honorific given to one whom is greatly
loved, respected, or admired. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now, this was, of course, in a role-playing game so some
amount of hyperbole is to be expected and I certainly don’t personally lay
claim to any of those titles or honorifics, though at the time I loved the feel
of them in the context of the game. I
was the head of a monarchy and so it was a good feeling to have so many willing
to play that role with me and create a vast network of like-minded folks in a
game where interactive story telling far surpassed the graphics and story of
the game itself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">S</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">ō</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">ke and Teach are very different things, but I treasure
them for much the same reasons. They
were given to me by people who chose to give me a name that reflected who I was
in their life. It may seem odd to say,
but I've always seen a certain level of parallel to gaming and educating. I play the role of educator, they play the
role of learners. When the game – the class
– is over, they move on and so do I. We
all find new games and new experiences and often, our paths diverge, never
more to reunite. I was their professor,
but am no more because they have moved on.
They were my students, but are no more, because our time together has
ended. They may never use the knowledge
again in a direct way, but I like to think it has impacted them on some level –
just as we may never return to the games of our past, but they forever impact
the games we play in the future, even if it is a subtle and indirect and obscure
a connection. But some – some stay, the
game changes and the characters change, but they remain. They are the Minions who let “Hey Teach” roll
off their tongues with casual smoothness and grins. They are the ones who still call me Fang-sama
and My Queen – despite that we stopped playing the game over ten years ago. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I started talking about names and ended up talking about
teaching and students and, to a larger extent, the impact we have on the people
around us. And games. There may be names I don’t
have anymore, but they are in the Record Book of who I am and how I came to be
the person writing this today. So, I
will treasure ‘Teach’ for as long as it is part of my current story…and we will
see who keeps using it, who finds a new name, and who fades away leaving good
memories and a story behind them as they travel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-3465055539199757322014-05-29T21:17:00.003-04:002014-05-29T21:26:06.313-04:00Like a phoenix, rising...<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It took me a long time to determine what to write
about. After all, it has been a long
time since I posted in this blog and it didn't feel right to just dive right in
without acknowledging that. It isn't as
if I've such a large following of readers that it really matters, but it
matters to me. Therefore, it matters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I've had numerous conversations and deep thoughts of late
that would make excellent blog posts, and I suspect that many of them will
become just that as I move into my attempt to do this more regularly.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I've talked late into the night about fear when it comes to
allowing people into my inner circle.
This fear is borne out of the realization that letting them in gives
them the power to impact my state of being.
I’m emotionally sensitive and I feel things very deeply. This can be a dangerous combination.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I've talked about the nature of religion and belief and how I've come to peace with belief systems and organizations built on belief
systems and the disparity that oft seems to lie between. My own is at once deceptively
simple and infuriatingly complex. But
I’m at peace with it, and on the edge of a path that might lead me into a
journey of discovery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I've thought a lot about my role as a teacher and how
closely intertwined that is to who I am.
I cannot speak for other careers, but I know that for me, this calling
is one that cannot be wholly separated from that emotional being I mentioned
above. Teaching exhilarates and exhausts
me, excites and exasperates me. Grading
is a terrible time for me – each student who has stumbled, each who has failed
is a failure of my own, whether that’s accurate or not. I’m not sure which ones hurt more – those
with wasted potential and squandered time, or those who are just misplaced and
have not found what will motivate them. Some of them so desperately need me and I live in constant worry that I will somehow let them down. And when I do, it can be devastating.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I've thought a lot about the nature of leisure activities
and what constitutes entertainment. I've noticed a trend towards the bleak in much of what is popular these days and I
used to struggle immensely with what makes me so different that I have no wish
to watch shows where the biggest question of the week is who and how many will
die and whether or not it was a fitting end for the serial killer and the meth
addict. For a long time, I wondered what
was wrong with me, quite frankly, that I couldn't take pleasure in these sorts
of stories. And I wondered who was the
more odd, me or the vast numbers of the population whose proclivity for this
sort of entertainment was so disparate from mine. And then I figured it out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I've thought about these things and talked of many more. I have grappled with friendships just born
and those which seem always on the edge of failure. I've talked about dark psychology and bright
futures. I've thought about poetry and
birds, babies and the cold winter, plans and regrets. I've talked about a world that is changing for the better in the face of tragedies which belie how far we have to go. Tragedies and tears, love and light. So many things rolling around inside my head
and yet not one of them seemed fitting for the re-inauguration of a blog that
means a good deal to me if not to anyone else in particular. Instead, it seems more fitting to talk of why
I am bringing it back to life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I love to write is one reason; this goes without saying, I’m
sure. The other main reason is that I
spend ten months of the year actively feeling disingenuous. I teach my students to read and to write and
yet I do not do enough of either to make it anything more than “Do as I say and
not as I do.” It feels – and has felt –
wrong. I have half read books collecting
dust, poems that only get written because I feel the pressure of an annual
reading wherein I</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> am in the spotlight and need words with which to fill the
room.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This cannot stand.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So, when asked to build goals as part of my post-tenure
review, I wrote this as my last goal:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Be a better practitioner of my own craft.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And so, here we are.
Come with me, if you will – and we shall see where my mind goes and whether
or not it is of interest to you. That said, I will leave you with the words of our beloved Maya Angelou, who so recently slipped her light
away from the earth...</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #181818; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“There is no greater agony
than bearing an untold story inside you.”</span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #181818; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #181818; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Will you listen to my story?</span></span></div>
Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-59139196709189077942012-11-27T20:52:00.000-05:002012-11-27T20:59:11.038-05:00Desert Places..<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #741b47; white-space: pre;"><i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars--on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.</span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #741b47; white-space: pre;"><i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> -R. Frost</span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I’ve often heard tell that this time of year can be the
hardest to face even when you have many blessings to count. It just feels like this time around it’s even
more painful than I recall it being in other years. It feels like tragedy is touching my life in
ways that dig deeper than the sad brushings of pain I can sense but cannot feel
as keenly as those engulfed and reeling in its wake. It seems it began as summer passed into
autumn, the days grew shorter, the wind grew chill..<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I have said many times that life moves in ley lines that
sometimes arrange themselves in brilliant mosaics that leave us speechless and
thankful. Sometimes, though, the ley
lines carry naught but tears and the hitching of breath that never seems to be
enough to truly feel alive. As I wake to muted dark mornings and deep blue
nights, gazing up at sullen grey skies and endless expanses of stars, so many
around me are facing unthinkable pain. This is for them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For Linda, who lost a nephew in one of the most inconsolable
ways imaginable…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For Karen, who lost an aunt who was also very much a friend…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For Holly, who lost a brother in arms who paid the ultimate
price…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For the Biddles and others, who lost a friend
whose smile brightened the world…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For FLCC and beyond, who reeled when his story
came to an end…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For those who have lost elders and youth, friends and family four-legged and two…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For Ben, whose family is straining against a dark cloud of fear
and heartache…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For Larry, who walked a path of uncertainty to bring his
mother comfort…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For Allison, who supports a son and a husband
who need all that she has to give…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For you, for your own battles and tears....<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And for me…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For myself, I will hug my loved ones, appreciate my many
blessings, and smile as the snowflakes fall and the bells jingle. But I will also keenly feel the acute sense of loss and
heartache that faces so many that I love. It is the price one pays for wearing her heart on her sleeve and entwining others' lives into her own. I would not change it, but I will seek solace in what counts as prayer in my worldview...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #741b47;">May each of you – each of us – find solace in warm memories, good
friends, and the promise of brighter yesterdays and tomorrows both. May we hol</span><span style="color: #741b47;">d on to our loved ones – the ones who are here, the ones
who are gone, and the ones who may leave us at any moment.</span><span style="color: #741b47;"> May we l</span><span style="color: #741b47;">ove them – all of them, m</span><span style="color: #741b47;">ay we never shy away. May we never be </span><span style="color: #741b47;">afraid to love, to reach out, to
hold on.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Hand in hand, arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder, we will all
learn to smile again. Our strength lies
in one another - the rhythm of beating hearts, the light of love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Let no one be lost, let no one be alone.</span></div>
Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-51294046362809108982012-09-25T20:13:00.000-04:002012-09-25T20:14:14.452-04:00This is Teaching...<div style="color: purple;">
As I sit here writing this, my students are reflecting on the paper that they wrote for our class today. As they work, they will occasionally look up and make some sort of comment about the project, their state of mind, or the contents of what they are writing. Sometimes, their comments have nothing to do with what they are writing about. But they are working. It is an eclectic group of students -- nursing, business, biology, music. Only five students and the campus where I teach them is a half hour drive from the main campus. The course sits at the end of a long day in which I've likely already taught three classes and attended at least one meeting. Normally, this would be exhausting and three-hours dragging by in the painful way that only night classes can. But not this time. Not this time. I am teaching.</div>
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<div style="color: purple;">
To really understand the scope of what I'm talking about, you have to understand that this class is an experiment - an introductory writing class that is half online and truncated to fit into a half a semester. On some level, it feels like it is set up to fail - sped up, half-removed, tiny. But, against all foreseeable odds, it is not failing. It's working. The students are engaged, active, thoughtful, funny, participatory, and alive. I do not list these qualities as being somehow different from my other classes, really, I am looking at them solely on their own merit. I can sum up by saying this: I leave after a fourteen hour day energized. They are helping me shape this course into something that is actually useful for them and a place where, despite all the elements that made me expect failure, they can succeed. This is teaching.</div>
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<div style="color: purple;">
You see, none of them want to be here, really. One of them admits to putting the course off for two years because he "doesn't like to write." One student was struggling to make sense of what to write and how to write it and another told him, "we will help you." They are supportive of each other in the face of their own intimidation, fear, insecurity, and doubt. They stress. They ask questions born from these feelings. But, they ask questions. They will interrupt me to ask a question that is maybe not entirely on task but is about writing and all the nuances of it. They fret about doing well. They raise eyebrows at the amount of work and the time period in which they have to complete it -- but then they nod and dig in. They panic that they can't do it all, except then they do. This is teaching. </div>
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<div style="color: purple;">
It is not perfect; sometimes, in the online portion of the class, there are more crickets than I would like to hear. But, then again, that is also partially my fault. We are all on a leaning curve here, and sometimes we slip down a little bit as we try to find our way. They are easily distracted...but also easily reigned back in. This is teaching.</div>
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<span style="color: purple;">This is teaching. And I am grateful.</span>Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-22050285827750096892012-08-29T19:55:00.000-04:002012-08-29T19:55:57.975-04:00Just Save One...<span style="color: #674ea7;">Life has ley-lines -- defined in different ways depending on your spiritual inclination -- but I'm simply referring to the way life seems to comment on itself and rearrange events so as to have them line up in interesting and often fortuitous ways. I will explain.</span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;">Day One. Morning. I sat in the new auditorium at work listening to the opening remarks made by the president of the college. She talked of the things she always talks about -- enrollment and retention, initiatives and strategic plans, budgets and construction. In her graceful and eloquent way, she spoke of her dreams for the college and, as she often does, she made it deeply personal. She talked of students as if she knew each one and as if her heart broke a little every time we lost one. And I'm sure, in a way, it does. As part of this talk, she asked us to imagine how different the college could be if we each saved one. Just one.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7;">Day Two, Morning. I had breakfast with a former student. We always talk of getting together, but we don't manage it nearly enough for either one of us to be happy. During the course of our conversation, it came to light that she wanted to return to school, but knew she owed money to the college and was trapped in a reluctant, embarrassed cycle of procrastination and fear. I knew she was capable of so much more than she was currently in a position to do, so I suggested -- then encouraged, then downright demanded -- that she return to the campus with me and speak to the powers that be about what she owed and how she might go about fixing things that so she could return, someday, to school.</span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;">Day Two, Noon. I was speaking to a friend and colleague in the lunch line about the morning's events without really realizing that the president of the college was behind me, listening. After a few minutes, I realized this to be the case and I expanded my explanation to include her as well -- we talked of the ache of watching dreams slip away for something as frustrating as money. We talked of saving a student. Our conversation ended with her suggesting I speak to the controller of the college about the situation.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7;">Day Two, Afternoon. After exchanging a couple of emails in which I was told that something could likely be worked out, I went to the controller and told him the story, and within a few moments, the hold was lifted on her account and she was free to register. The only caveats were that she make arrangements with the collection agency, she get a job on campus, and she do well. I had countless assurances from her that she would. Just like that, an obstacle became a concurrent responsibility.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7;">Day Three, Afternoon. The student became just that - a student at the college. She took care of the collection agency, financial aid, and reactivating her account.</span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;">Day Three, Evening -- As the student and I discussed possible student aide jobs, I had a flash of thought and sent a message to the director of the writing center on campus inquiring as to whether or not they were looking for peer tutors. They were. Now, the student will be meeting the director at a staff meeting on Friday with a writing sample and a letter of recommendation. It is not, of course, a sure thing -- but the match seems a good one thus far.</span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;">In a space of sixty hours, one speech from a college president who was cutting the ribbon on a new academic year led to an unemployed young woman actively accepting personal responsibility and becoming a college student with an achievable and realistic dream.</span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;">She calls it a miracle. The friend in the lunch line calls it knowing people in high places. I'm sure the president would call it the least we could do. I call it serendipity. I'm not sure it matters what we call it beyond the acknowledgement that these three days unfolded in such a way as to completely turn someone's life around. She has dreams and her feet are now on a road to achieve them. It won't be easy for her -- no one is giving her handouts. All we are doing is giving her the chance to show us what she has. And me? I'm not sure I did any real magic -- but I'm not sure that matters either. I put my neck out there because I believe in her and because the message of enabling success in others was still ringing in my ears. And I work in a place that is willing to put action to word. I'm not sure that echos positively on me, or the college, or both. But no matter where the magic and the power began -- it lies now with her. And I, for one, cannot wait to see what she can do with these opportunities for I know that she has it in her to do what the president challenged all of us to do. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7;">Just save one.</span>Trista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2525517309767979665.post-58932558776976301362012-07-29T22:43:00.001-04:002012-07-29T22:43:22.271-04:00TestingI'm trying out the Blogger app on my iPad. I can't believe it doesn't rotate, Then again, I can't believe they don't have an iPad version. Oh well. <br />
<br />
Anyway. I'm hoping to resurrect my blog. This is an odd way to do so. I love my iPad, though, so maybe that will be what it takes to get me t owrite again. The keyboard makes it even easier to do so.<br />
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I'm not sure I have any readers left -- not that I had that many in the first place. I think I'll just try to do this for me and just see what happens. Time to post and see if it works.<br />
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-TTrista Merrillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872503954287463759noreply@blogger.com0