"I appreciate you..."

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. 

But this isn't a blog about that....or maybe it is.

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!

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.  

I appreciate you.

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."

I do, too.

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.

I have things to say.  I don't have to take a long time to say them.

Also, I appreciate you.

"Call me a hippie, or whatever..."

Hey, I'm back.

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.  

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.

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. 

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 adjustment disorder.  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 exhausted.

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.

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.

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.

Okay, not really.

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. 

You absolutely deserve it.  You crazy hippy, you.

Side note...I just realized I'm wearing a tie -dyed tank top that I bought in Woodstock, NY last summer.  Serendipity.

Going Squirrelly

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).

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
friends.  The most common visitors are downy and red-bellied
woodpeckers, tufted titmice (titmouses?), chickadees, finches, cardinals, juncos, house wrens, and the occasional blue jay.

It is marvelous; I find birds to be immensely fascinating.

Not everyone who comes up on the porch is feathered, however, and the other visitors are fascinating, too, though not for the same reasons. 

I want to talk about squirrels.

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.

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?

No matter how silly they look or how many times they are defeated, they keep trying.

The Little Things

I went for a walk today.

The sun was out, the weather was fairly warm and the sky was blue.  I couldn't NOT go and get some fresh air.

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.

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.

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.

Sometimes, the little things aren't so little, you know?

Silver Linings

In 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.

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).

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.

Because this struck in early spring, there has been so much wildlife activity outside my window.  My
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.

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

wrestling a little with Mattie, the fearless furball princess.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Flashes of Normal

Today, 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.

Between his heart, the diabetes, and his age, my father has a trifecta of risk factors and we are taking no chances.

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.

None of us know.

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.

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.

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.

Like chocolate chip cookies.

Practice Humanity

I have not written a blog in four years.

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.

But it was none of those things that got me to come back, as it were.  It is a combination of three things.

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.

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.

The third reason, as you might imagine, is the pandemic.

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.

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.

Practice humanity, he said.

Practice kindness, practice compassion, practice gentility, practice patience.

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.

Practice humanity.

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.

Practice makes perfect.

Practice humanity.

Uniting, Not Silencing...

It was a gay club.

It was an American club.

It was a human club.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.  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.

Trailhead This Way

On Friday, January 22^nd, 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. 

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…

…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.

“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.

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.

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…

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.

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.

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…. 

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.  Don’t be a klutz. 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.  Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t.

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.  I was with my dad.

I was with my dad.

The Fourth House...

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.

This is not a blog about my job, though.

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.

But this is not a blog about changing my daily perspective.

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.

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.

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.

Him and I.

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.

Here.  With him.

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.

Together.

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.  

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.

Him and I.

Home.

Together.

Us.

My hands are small, I know...

"The opposite of love is not hate, it is indifference" - Elie Wiesel

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 - she feels things.  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.

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.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

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 - La Liberté éclairant le monde. Liberty enlightening the world.

Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

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.

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.

We can do this.  Spread light.  Give love.  Start small.  Take my hand.

Flocks of Wonder....

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Just Breathe...

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.

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.  

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.


There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
I love not Man the less, but Nature more.
—Lord Byron, “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage”

Walk Right In, Sit Right Down...

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...

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.

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.

And then I remembered my friend from the night before.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“The further you get away from yourself, the more challenging it is. Not to be in your comfort zone is great fun” – Benedict Cumberbatch

Not angry, but passionate...

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:

• It is the middle ground of teaching between high school and large universities across the nation.
• They give you a drastically larger amount of leeway in community college.
• It is essentially an extension of high school. 
• You can take community college courses in high school
• It is the 13th grade. It's a stepping stone.

So, this is my reply…

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Trying not to dwell...

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.

A shadowy presence in my mind, lurking

Blotted out most of the time when I’m occupied

Time with friends, errands to run, chores to do

But then, under the glow of a supermoon

And the quiet hum of tires on the ethereal highway,

It comes back to me in a wave of melancholy

It does that sometimes, less often than the pain

Sometimes it comes as anger, but not tonight

Tonight it came out of nowhere dressed in sadness

Like a shadow in the night, a cloud in the sky

It came and I was reminded not just that I hurt

But it softly reminded me how and why I am broken

Not in a way that stops me from loving life

Not in a way that shatters dreams or saps hope

Not in a way that leaves me crippled and lost

But just a little less than whole, a little bit flawed

Just little broken like a chip in a glass figurine

A rough edge that time smoothed out but did not erase

This time it comes to me in numbers that prick my eyes

And roll through my mind like an insidious code

The 11^th day of the 8^th month

The 38^th minute of the sixth hour after noon.

The temperature was 78 degrees.

His speed was over 50, mine was less than 5

A quarter percent of his blood was alcohol.

It was the tenth day after I bought the car

The first car I’d ever owned

The third month I’d had my license.

Now I spend forty dollars to have my bones cracked

Hoping it will hold for four weeks until I return

I had five shots driven into my spine for no relief.

I was twenty three and it has now been 19 years

I cannot remember and I cannot forget

But don’t mourn for me – the shadow will pass

The chip will remain, but I’m not really broken

When I smile I mean it, when I laugh I feel it

The moon is beautiful tonight and I am alive.

Alive.

Pressed 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.

A sampling...

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

That Which Does Not Kill Us...

POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNING....SENSITIVE TOPICS HEREIN.

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

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.

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.

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?

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. 

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.

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. 

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? 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. 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? Especially since, no matter what your views on capital punishment are, a death sentence has collateral damage that is often overlooked.

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.

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? Especially since the recidivism rates may not be quite as bad as public opinion thinks they are? 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.   We must, for the moment, co-exist.  Some small voice, however, knows 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.

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.