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Today

Do you know what sounds just brilliant? Staying in today. In this moment, with all its awkward imperfections, with all of its questions and mysteries, with all of its fears. Today I can see the wind playing on the tree tops, and my hair is tickling my elbows. Today I am writing letters to five friends, and I'm drawing pictures on the envelopes. Today I'll sit in the garden at All Souls' and meet God. Today He'll have something for me.

No furrowed brow today. No wondering if I'm doing things right. I'll get back to that tomorrow. Today my mother will drive into town just for the afternoon. Today I'll eat whole wheat banana bread I made yesterday.  Today I'll enjoy the company of Christ and open my eyes that I might receive his gifts.

The One Thing

I've been thinking a lot about the "one thing." I think we all experience some degree of fragmentation in our lives. But I believe we are supposed to work toward cohesion, toward wholeness, toward shalom. Christ came to bring all things back to himself. And so I've been asking myself: Are my days filled with random activities? Am I distracted by whatever is newest and shiniest and most urgent? Or is there a 'one thing' that binds them together?

Jesus had these two friends, and I suspect both of them believed him when he said he came to serve and not to be served. They probably both wanted to be like him. But one of them knew the secret of being fully present. She kept her gaze on Jesus. We don't know what all that meant for her life. And the other took his message of service and painted the town. She became Queen Servant. In her zeal to obey her Lord she turned her gaze from him. She became distracted by her own productivity. By her own obedience.

And Jesus said something like, "Wait a minute. Just stop. The world is not going to fall apart." Later he said something similar to a group of obedient followers at Ephesus. "Remember your first love."

Remember what you are living for in the first place. The one thing. The good portion. Me.

Like you, I have many things on my plate. I teach seven classes at Veritas Classical Academy. I am about to be an aunt for the first time and we have showers to throw and baby gifts to buy. I'm guiding a college girls bible study. Sometimes I wake up in the morning ready to bolt. Oh, yes, I can get pretty frantic. But the one thing. What is this one thing?

Regardless of whether we are intentional about it or not, our actions are bound together even in times of deep fragmentation. Perhaps the binding theme is self-importance or maybe numbness. Maybe we run through the things on our to-do list so that we won't have to really think. And maybe Jesus is whispering to us, have you forgotten me? What is it all for, then?

This morning I woke and sat with my bible. I closed my eyes and saw the actions of my day, the words come out of my mouth, the items on my to do list tied together by an invisible ribbon. And what is that ribbon? It must be nothing less than God's love for me. He has loved me and called me according to his purpose. 

Our work here is not easy work. The farmer who wrestles the soil to get food so that we all can eat. The mother that cleans up children's toys for the millionth time for the sake of order. The teacher who tries to grade fairly and thoughtfully. The student who finishes well. 

And as it is God's will that we work and work with excellence, that we remain faithful in our many callings, the one thing cannot mean turning away from the plow, the papers, the children. Jesus, in admonishing his friend did not mean for her to stop her work. He meant, Do you see me? Do you see me in the dishes, in the toys you pick up, in the soil? 

It must mean staying aware of our Lord and bringing ourselves back to awareness when we find ourselves distracted.  Today I work toward awareness in gratitude. "Thank you God for this student, for this parent who cares enough to ask, for the thrill of learning truth about your world, for this call from an old friend. These are gifts from you, Jesus, and now help me to push back the veil of darkness in the small work you've given me. Your kingdom come."

“Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things, but one thing is necessary. Mary has chosen the good portion, which will not be taken away from her.”

Elder Bugs

There are bugs in my house sometimes. This bugs me. I see something scurrying out of the corner of my eye, and it doesn't matter if I've been curled up with a blanket and tea and a book in a world of meditative serenity. I become lethal. I HI-YA them from wherever I am. Picture a levitating kung-fu Abby springing from my comfy chair with whatever happens to be in my hand (a coaster? A coffee mug? My journal?) You might want to check for bug guts before handling my things.

In college I used to try guide bugs outside. (Unless they were roaches. Roaches have no right to live).  I would pick them up and guide them out and not squash them. But now I live on the second floor and it's my home and I've got to many important things to do. I've been justifying my enter-and-die policy. So now I have guilt for the bug massacre that has been occurring without anyone's knowledge but my own and God's, and I planned a public confession on my blog. That would have been it, and then I could have kept killing because most of you would have told me to get over it. But then it got complicated.

I found out the other day that the bugs I've been killing are called elder bugs. Not roaches or black killers or scurry ticks. No, I have been visited by elder bugs. I felt bad enough killing them before, but now that I look at them carefully, I notice they are not really scurrying; they are walking in a dignified, tired manner. They appear to have little elder bug shawls and elder bug hats. To confirm the meaningful connection between name and creature, several bugs have just keeled over and died right in front of me without me doing anything. I'm convinced. They're elderly. So kung-fu Abby, (who never felt completely at ease as a bug killing machine), has become more of a geriatric bug specialist. I gently guide them out the door, thank them for coming and tell them I'm going to be really busy so it might not be the best time for visits.

"What's in a name? A rose by any other name..." Oh Romeo, Romeo, wherefore aren't thou here to convince me? I'm telling you, there is something in a name. As long as these bugs are elderly, I simply can't squash them.

I think life is hard sometimes.

There's No Such Thing as a Fresh Start...

But there is such a thing as fresh. I know, because I'm in it. I am grimy and my hair is dirty and my face is sticky and my throat hurts, but there is freshness in me and in my world today. Things feel new and I can breathe deeply and write again. To commemorate the new start I wanted to start a new blog, but the name and the header and the background color and the links overwhelmed me. I needed them to be perfect, so I decided not to deal with it at all and just to write. Where to start?

Start small, Ann Lammott says.

I tend to operate on a pendulum. I know this is unhealthy, but while many have helped make me self aware, few have attempted to show me the exit door from the pendulum swing. And so, I ride. I've been living with a wonderful family for the past ten months. I was in a very tough place and they welcomed me to their home, their hearts, their dinner table, their weddings, their joys and fears. I felt it all and I had a home there. But this summer the time came for me to move into my own space. I prayed for a lovely space and God gave me one. I am sitting in my new home now now. It was built in the 1930's, quirky and quaint. It has arches for doorways and hardwood floors. The light is softish yellow mostly, and there are trees tickling the windows. I'm being hugged by a house that's being hugged by trees that are being moved by God and he reminds me of how he loves me, how he cares for me, how he hears me.

The pendulum swung. I have not been able to invite people over to my house for so long. I moved into this beautiful space and the hostessing energy that has been pent up is now bursting forth like a giant sparkly firework that is mostly pretty and occasionally catches things on fire. I can't stop inviting people over. The food has multiplied like the fish and the loaves... I honestly don't know how I've fed so many people. I have precious quiet time in the mornings and evenings, but I have had people over for at least one meal a day since I got here.

Tonight I had a family of six over for dinner. I googled "kid friendly healthy food," came up with bbq chicken burgers, added my own sweet potato fries and a watermelon to go with it. When they asked what they could bring I said... chairs. I loved having them over. Their six year old boy spilled his ice cream all over and and things are a little stickier now, a little more lived in. I talked to the parents about life and education and kid's books as their kids explored my home and played on the furniture.

And so, I live by myself, but I am not alone. God wakes me, he guides me, he forgives me for being self-absorbed and he helps me. This space is ours, and visitors are welcome!

After tomorrow I'm grounded for a little bit from having people over because the next week I start school again. Teaching, round two. After in-service this week I can officially say I'm so glad to be back. To have another chance at helping students to see and to love what is true, good, and beautiful. No, this is not a fresh start. I've certainly made very visible mistakes. They've been seen and noticed, but in my workplace they have not been cataloged to be used against me. No, they've been forgiven (where forgiveness was needed), and even celebrated when there was a lot to be learned from the mistake. We've laughed together. And so there is freshness in me, in this un-fresh start. And I have hope that the one who has called me is faithful and will strengthen me.

From the Deep

I went to see for I had traveled deep

Inside myself my hurting self to keep

Wrapped up alone and cold and seeing there

Through telescope that reached to eyes and air.

I read just fine I walked and did not fall

What once had loomed and screamed grew quiet and small

I heard my words and saw them nod and smile.

Sufficient, I could rest inside awhile.

So weeping cries, they settled to an ache.

No longer did I fear that I would break

The tender me curled up and lay quite still

NohurtNotearsNorushNoloveNothrill.

I went to see for I had traveled deep

Inside myself my hurting self to keep

And took note that the thickness of her skin

Kept scary clutching claws from getting in.

But noticed too, the sunsets ceased to gleam

The moon fell flat without her reaching beam

Dogs licked. Annoyed, she pushed them out of sight

Friends called. I could not laugh. I said goodnight.

I saw the balance weighed and knew my choice

Climbed back inside despite a windy voice

And curled up watching life from far a deep

With one great tremor laid Myself to sleep.

Asleep I lay and numb contented I

had no intent of waking death to die.

But scent of safety woke me from the gray

And out I looked to softish warming day.

Awake! already asking, was there fear?

I found only a longing for the sky.

Lured I reached myself into my skin

Longing to Taste and See and know again.

Without hoorah without ceremony

As if helped by a power outside of me

One step one look one stanza at a time

Slow and steadily I made the climb.

Little Lady Katie

My sister's name is Katie. I have three sisters and I refer to them all as "my sister" when I am telling stories. This really bugs my friends. Katie is in charge of the family, and we all know it's best that way. No, "in charge" doesn't really do it justice... she is the master of ceremonies. Yes, that's good. Our family progresses as one big ceremony; my dad stable with love and amusement, my mom magic, me having visions and panic attacks, Ali simple, cooking and laughing and praying, Danny listening and advising and brothering, Keila as the entertainer and prophet. and Katie is the master of ceremonies.

I think I'm supposed to have some older sister driving force, but as far as I see it, (Katie, correct me if I'm wrong), my job is to love Katie, to protect her (I am still the older sister, and if you mess with her, I'll mess with you), to advise her when she asks, to take care of her when she lets me, and to go along with the plans she makes.

This works well because Katie, with her twinkling eye and stubborn assertiveness and ability to make anything fun, knows best. She puts together outfits, parties, and adventures with a wave of her hand (often holding an iphone, of course, but in her case she is its master, not the other way around).  She makes family reunions fun. Going to lunch is an adventure, getting dressed a festival. She coordinates with grace, effortlessly spreading prettiness and laughter everywhere she goes. She's been smiling since she was a baby. And the more she learns she doesn't have to smile, the truer her smiles are.

But Katie is not a silly girl. She is too loyal and competent and self assured for that. She says no when she needs to and she trusts the voice inside her. She prays and she obeys when she understands what to do. And she's one of the most generous people I know.

If you happen to tumble into Katie's world, if she happens to meet you and glisten and tilt her head back and laugh, you should know now that you are about to fall in love. You are going to want to take her on a date or hire her or be her new best friend or make her your maid of honor or best man depending on your current situation.

And she is my sister. Dang, I lucked out.

Beautiful Things

I am over-caffeinated, still holding my coffee cup, watching the sun shine down on California mountains and sunburned from yesterday. I'm filled with gratitude and wonder, and humbled by the grace and faith of a friend.

In honor of the above, I'd like to share the following beautiful things.

1. Josh Garrel's Love, War, and the Sea in Between

2. The following poem by Wendell Berry

Sabbath Poem X

• Tanya. Now that I am getting old,
  I feel I must hurry against time to tell you
  (as long ago I started out to do) everything,
  
  though I know that really there can be no end
  to all there is for me to say to you even of this,
  our temporary life. Sometimes it seems to me
  
  that I am divided from you by a shadow
  of incomprehension, mine or yours, or mind and yours;
  or that I am caught in the misery of selfhood
  
  forever. And I think that this must be
  the lot (may God help us) of all mortals who love
  each other: to know by truth that they do so,
  
  but also by error. Often now I am reminded
  that the time may come (for this is our pledge)
  when you will stand by me and know
  
  that I, though "living" still, have gone beyond
  all remembering, as my father went in time
  before me; or that I have gone, like my mother,
  
  into a time of pain, drugs, and still sleep.
  But I know now that in that great distance
  on the edge or beyond the edge of this world
  
  I will be growing alight with being. And (listen!)
  I will be longing to come back. This
  came to me in a dream, near morning,
  
  after I had labored through the night under
  this weight of earthly love. On time's edge, wakened,
  shaken, light and free, I will be longing
  
  to return, to seek you through the world,
  to find you (recognizing you by you beauty),
  to marry you, to make a place to live,
  
  to have children and grandchildren. The light
  of that place beyond time will show me the world
  as perhaps Christ saw it before His birth
  
  in the stable at Bethlehem. I will see that it is
  imperfect. It will be imperfect. (To whom would love
  appear but to those in most desperate need?) Yes,
  
  we would err again. Yes, we would suffer
  again. Yes, provided you would have it
  so, I would do it all again.

3. (I wish I could share with you) the dancing light of dew of leaves on trees on the sunrise side of the mountain (I would kill a student for putting that many prepositional phrases back-to-back), or the sound of snow slushing down to the creek, down the mountain, on a journey who knows where.

"I can say with reasonable confidence, 'I have fought the good fight of faith.'"

He is seventy-six years old and he qualified the above statement with, "though I have to wait to know for certain until the good Lord says, 'Well done, good and faithful servant.'" He has lived steadily, humbly, deeply for his seventy-six years. How rare. I know so many who walk away. I know so many who choose not to meditate, to reflect, to ask forgiveness.

I watch old friends change. I watch promises broken and terrible choices made. I watch the line between feast and debauchery be crossed, and then the feast is forgotten. The important thing is to not feel. To indulge. To feel good.

The man who said this last night shook sometimes when he spoke. He forgot what he was saying mid sentence. But he answered the question, "how?" "How did you do it? How did you live well and steadily?"

"Two things," he said. "I have walked with integrity of heart. And I have sought to encounter the living God."

Integrity. Integrated. These share the same root as the word integer. Whole number.There is much to say on this. But for now only questions. Is there wholeness in my heart? Do I disregard shadows? Do I make allowances, permissions? Do I grow accustomed to walking with a limp? I want to grow old and gray and wrinkly. I want to smile and lift my face to the sun and say, "I have fought the good fight."

I suppose

I suppose I'll blog today. Why not? When I walked among palm trees this morning, and now I'm looking at about two feet of snow in the mountains. When I'm drinking a glass of wine beside a wall of windows in the mountains of California. It's spring break and Lord knows I needed it.

I have sweet potatoes covered in olive oil, rosemary and thyme baking in the oven and I am making grilled avocado and brie sandwiches for myself and a friend. I spent the better part of yesterday curled up with a poetry book, carried by the words of better writers.

I've not wanted to pause the world the last few months. I've been a glutton of life. I learned new songs on the guitar and read Hunger Games and T.S. Eliot and Kathleen Norris and the Psalms. I stepped into the river of life, formed my body in the shape of a crucifix, and just floated, saying THANK YOU and accepting everything that has come my way. I've hugged students and been hugged, I've laughed and as the spring has come I have sat outside. I have friends with babies growing inside of them. I have other friends with cancer and we all have our broken hearts to share and exchange and mend.

Spring break began on Friday and I spent the first part with my parents. They live well and I live well with them. Then I hopped on a plane and spied on people. The woman next to me read a strategy book on dating. On the fourth date, you are supposed to be honest but yet mysterious. I'll keep that in mind. I eavesdropped on a family that didn't know I could speak Spanish. I asked for coffee and told the flight attendant she was lovely. She was.

And know I've broken open again. I'm in California and I'm writing. I can't stop. I am a student of life, and I am learning so much. I am a scientist, discovering my own heart and the heart of others, and I am an actress. I will live a tiny life and I will die someday soon, and I will be forgotten. But I will live it deeply. I will love and be loved. I will trust moderation, having known the sickness of needless indulgence.

I read this yesterday, and loved it. I hope you will too.

"Be sad, my heart, deep dangers wait they mirth

Thy soul’s waylaid by sea, by hell, by earth:

Hell has her hounds; earth, snares; the sea, a shelf

But most of all, my heart, beware thyself.”

Wonder

I’m not sure how to live in a world where kindness is a real possibility. Where gentle things can be protected, nurtured and grown. Where hardness can soften. I’m not sure how to live in a world where winds pick up flags and curly hair, where little girls walk into coffee shops in leotards, and old ladies wear overalls. Where bread rises with yeast and warmth, where people extend friendship and genuine smiles.

I’m not sure how to live in a world where Christ walked. The immovable point… in a stable. The Prince of Peace with a crown of thorns.

Where two trees with separate root systems can grow together, so close that the bark changes and becomes one tree. I saw this once. I felt the bark and it was not just interlaced; the trees had given into one another.

I put my head down on my book a few moments ago after reading about Russian princes ousting the Mongols. It is a history book but I’m too overwhelmed by the romance of it all. And I prayed, because I have to teach tomorrow and that means I cannot just sit here and imagine khans and princes fighting for Russia. And I cannot say every “Ferdinand” and “Isabella” out loud and be shocked by language and by my own tongue.

I love this world, this world of goose bumps (the hairs on my arms react to a touching story… what is THAT about?!) and pinstripes and white wicker porch furniture. Of delightful friends who teach me things. Of the Still Point (Triune, Steady, Good) that makes this dance possible. I know I love this world, but I’m not sure I know how to live.

Cemeteries and Somber Thanks

Tonight I watched the sun bow for the day. "I've finished a day," she said. "I rose this morning and bid the moon good day and goodbye. I stayed high at noon and came back for a brief magic hour after hiding underneath a cloud blanket."  I watched her bow from a cemetery where I felt small and insignificant and modestly grateful. She played her part. Have I played mine?

Learning

My boss, who will not like it one bit that I called him my boss, encouraged me to blog about things I am learning at school. I think this is a very good idea, but I am learning so much that the challenge overwhelms me. Should I tell you about Edward II or Alexander Hamilton? Shall we talk about commas, early American poetry, Transcendentalism? Or the pope! And really what he meant was pedagogy. Do I tell you how humbling it was to learn that I was scaring the students in writing? How exciting it was when my eighth graders identified trochaic octameter in a poem? And LIKED it?! No...

You get the idea. I sit still, the world leaps and flies around me. Again I woke struck with the urge to stop it all. To find the world's pause button (I'll bet it's somewhere so sneaky no one would guess it. I'll bet it's under the bleachers of a tiny high school in Kearney, Nebraska or maybe under  your chair. Everyone check right now just to be sure). I would press pause and then walk around for a year or so. Mostly I would put my hand to the cheeks of people frozen in their tracks. I would push their hair behind their ears, make the sign of the cross on their foreheads and bless them. They are sacred. I would flip through my student's writing journals (which I am allowed to read) and try to understand what they think about their writing. I would pick up trash from empty streets and put all the grocery carts back into their lines so that when I hit the play button again the boys who collect them (they do seem to always be boys) would wake surprised. Other than that I wouldn't move too many things. I would touch everything though, and I would turn all the radio stations to the same channel, and figure out how to play Allegri's Miserere when everyone woke back up. And we would have a holy moment, and I would die for joy.

I think I might leave someone else un-paused too, so that we could look and cry and pray together. This is what I learned this week. I need people so much. This is not co-dependence; it is human. God said, "It is not good for man to be alone." I work with people who give me room to breathe and grow and teach and love my students. This week I scheduled something wrong and my boss, without a moments hesitation or condemnation, picked up what I dropped. And a mentor teacher gave up his lunch to patiently walk me through something I should understand. Tonight I sit alone in a coffee shop, so happy to be here reflecting, but even more happy that next week I'll be able to see all of them.

I also moved this week. My roommate, who I mentioned in an earlier post, left a bit suddenly and I could not find a roommate. So I broke my lease, put my stuff in storage (again), and I moved in with people so precious I am scared to write about them. Last night we smoked Cuban cigars and talked about pilgrimage. Every morning one housemate and I hug before we speak. I can't believe I get to live there.

I learned many other things this week, but mostly I learned I need people. And I'm so blessed to have them.

Sabbath

I work six days a week. From sunrise to sunset six days a week I teach, I grade, I plan and I assess. I pray each morning that God will help me to see the material clearly and to steward well the frighteningly precious students he has given me to teach. And I work as hard as I know how while still trying to be present for my neighbors.

But to my amazement God doesn't want us to work seven days. The God of the Bible commands rest. Our Jewish parents rested on the seventh day after a week of hard labor. One of the privileges of following Yahweh in this age is that we rest at the beginning of the week. We start our work Monday morning from a place of rest.

So on Sundays I Sabbath. I begin the day with Holy Communion at the parish I am attending in Oklahoma City. And then I let the wind carry me, praying thanksgiving along the way. Today I ate lunch after Sunday school with the Parker family and we talked about Ireland and the Book of Kells and theology and music and pedagogy and love. Then a friend asked me to go to Lake Hefner. So we got pumpkin spice lattes and went and sat on stone stairs by our sadly shrunken lake watching rainbow sail boats and reading short stories out loud. A couple sat near us and talked quite loudly. I scowled at them, and then the man pulled out a violin. My jaw dropped and I apologized to God and the angels and everyone in all of history for scowling, and we sat and watched the lake and listened to him play.

And now, Shiner Bock and a movie with a neighbor. A heart full of praise and gratitude. If it were only the Eucharist, that would be enough. Just God's love is enough. But he gives me a family to eat with, a neighbor who loves me and is crazy, and a shimmering Fall sun. Tomorrow I will rise early and put all of my strength into the work God has given me. And I will not get it all done. But today in a leap of faith and gratitude I Sabbath.

Hope

I woke today with hope. And it is not because I have done a good job, or because my apartment is clean, or because things are right. Even as I type a determined and possibly caffeinated fly is having a conniption fit around my head.  And furthermore, I've been praying through a difficult transition I'll have to make soon. And I have a hole in my sweater. Things are not perfect.

I woke today with a glimmer, a memory of fresh bread in France, my Dad saying goodbye in an airport, photos of flamingos in Nairobi. I stood to the sunrise, to one more day, to fresh coffee and a faithful, beat up car who has traveled so far with me.  I woke imperfect to an imperfect world, with the knowledge of a perfect King, and I have hope.

Some Unsolicited Advice

What Not to do When Teaching.

1) Do NOT write an acrostic to help students memorize the thirteen colonies if you do not have in your hand the list of the actual thirteen colonies.

I thought, "I'm the teacher. I know this." I wrote, "Vicious Mice Navigate Mazes..." You get the idea. I then wrote, "Virginia, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Maine..." After I had finished writing them all, and still had Maryland left. I realized quickly that one of two things had happened. Either we had been counting wrong all these years, and would have to get Miss Betsy Ross to add another white stripe to the flag, and I would be a hero, or I had screwed up. Again, remember the fourteen eyes boring into the back of my head. I stepped back, I sighed, and asked for help. Where to put Maryland? It took five minutes for me to remember that Maine was not a colony. I cursed the book for mentioning it at all (silently, in my head), told myself I had made a career mistake but had to at least finish the period, and erased Maine. I will never, ever forget, and I will unfortunately probably not like Maine as much for awhile.. oh sneaky Maine.

2) Do NOT say things out loud for the very first time in front of students.

I constantly "make up" proper nouns in my head without knowing the actual pronunciation, and today I changed Guinevere's father, Leodogran to LeoDRAGON. Yes, I added a dragon to our Arthurian legend discussion. Ugh.

What to do when you do all of the above (or customize your own version of seemingly "epic" failure).

1) Tell your students you made a mistake. If nothing else, they deserve to know the truth about Maine.

2) Get around people who can guide you away from a ledge jump to the pit of self-loathing, and into laughter. If these people happen to invite you over for dinner and to spend the night, and then happen to give you a build-a-bear, and a plastic crown, you're all the better for it. (Thank you, thank you, thank you Dunham family).

3) Eat cake, but just a little.

4) Go to bed. I'm going now. It's 9:21.

Goodnight, blog world. Tomorrow is a new day.

Marina

My neighbor, with peach fuzz hair (growing back slowly after chemotherapy), and framed pictures of Obama all over her house. She loves President Obama, and sent him a birthday card from our apartment complex. I signed it gladly. Right now the floor of my apartment is shaking because she is playing hip hop with a ridiculous base. She is about seventy, and frequently she turns on base heavy rap at apartment-shaking volume, and then goes outside to go swimming. Then I go outside and get her out of the pool to turn down her music which no one can hear but me.  This is one of those moments, and I'm too tired to go get her.

For my first day of school she brought me Kleenex and soap and told me that students are germy. I wrote her a thank you card and she wrote me a thank you card back for my thank you card. When she came over for dinner last week she asked if I were seeing anyone and if I believed in God, and she told me she was Jewish and Catholic and "okay with gays."

"Love your neighbors," He said. Don't mind if I do. :)

Is This My Life?

My life is small now. I am no longer swallowing oceans and climbing up trees and in and out of planes. I walk through the cemetery. I put a pot of coffee on. I read.

I look into the eyes of students and talk to them about the Transatlantic Slave Trade. I talk to them about basketball and I talk to them about grammar. They look at me and write down things that I say. All of the sudden I can't spell to save my life. Spelling with fourteen pairs of eyes waiting for you to step aside so they can say, "What is THAT?!," is a whole new world.

One class at a time. One story at a time. One gerund, one French lord, one American gothic short story at a time. Can I help them to see? I know I can't make them see, but can I help? Them to see their place, their lives, their world? Could I help them to see the man outside asking for a dollar? Could I help them believe that it might be better sometimes just to give him a dollar or two rather than offering him advice, even if they money will just go to booze? I can't say it directly. I have to say it through SAT prep and vocabulary checks. I'll say it through loving them, by God's grace.

My life is small now... eyes and neighbors and bookshelves and homework to be graded. And students. Precious and young students, who might give themselves to something great.

My Saint Bernard Sweater

By divine providence, I came into possession of an over-sized cashmere sweater with a giant Saint Bernard head on the front. It came to me during a fairly reflective, transitional time of life and I wore it for about a week continuously when I first inherited it. I wore it with jeans, shorts, tights, dresses. I would usually start the day in something relatively put together, make it to about 10am and then on would come the sweater.

I took a loonnnng road trip to Dallas when I left Massachusetts this spring and every time I felt nervous about coming back I would bend over, shake out my hair until it was twice the size of my head and dig out the Saint Bernard sweater. It was May, but somehow I managed to be on a mountain or in the middle of a cold front when I really needed that sweater. It's like a cashmere hug. It goes down to my thighs and presents a fierce Saint Bernard to anyone who might try to mess with me. I actually feel protected.

Tomorrow I start teaching. I am going to assign projects on American Historical Figures and the like. I am going to grade things. Don't get me wrong: this is absolutely where I am supposed to be and I don't think I could be happier. But it is a Saint Bernard sweater kind of day... nerves and needing hugs and also kind of ready to fight. Oh Lord, help.

A Leap of Faith

I have wanted to write for so long. I have had stories, lessons, exultations building up in me for months and months, but have sat with them. Today I told my roommate about it. About having experiences that are so precious they shake me, and being torn between wanting to share them and fearing exploiting them. I want to write it all, to tap my fingers and say "THIS, This is what I see." But isn't that selfish? Don't people have better things to think of? And Kate said, "Abby, how much better would the world be if everyone gave each other what they had to give?" She is right, and well, it might not be great, but this is what I have to give. I am taking a leap of faith and returning to my blog to share a bit of my life with whoever might want to read it.