Coincidence or Serendipity

If You Were Born Today, December 13
You are a very versatile person with an adventurous spirit, yet a very grounded outlook. Material success is likely in your life time, as you are hard-working and proud. As well, you are filled with ideas, and they're usually quite marketable! A true problem solver, you love to find answers and help others to do so as well. 

In what could be a coincidence or serendipity, today is the birthday of two people who have had a big impact on my life.  Heidi was my roommate and friend, and Chuck was my cooperating teacher, principal, and friend.  I met both while in my mid-20’s, a turbulent time for me.  In different ways, they guided me, made me laugh, and offered their unconditional support.    

You just never know who you’re going to meet in the dorm.  I met Heidi through Cheryl, who lived on my floor in Ashton, formerly Rogers Centre, where my parents had met 40 years before.  Ashton consisted of multiple buildings, and I chose this dorm because I wanted a single room.  There were girls on my floor who had wanted a roommate, which seemed like the weirdest thing to me.  Why would you want to share your space? The irony is that Heidi became the only roommate I ever actually enjoyed living with, when we eventually shared two different apartments. During that time, she counseled me through an epic breakup and subsequent relationship with Nels, the man I eventually married. 

I didn’t drink coffee—that is, unless it had hot chocolate mix in it--until I lived with her.  Heidi taught me about the wisdom and joy (not to mention energy) that comes with the smell and taste of strong black coffee, preferably accompanied by fried eggs and hard rolls.  As a German, she also shaped my taste for chocolate.  I would bring home what I thought was a treat—a bag of Hershey Miniatures.  Heidi disdained this offering, and introduced me to chocolate as strong and dark as her coffee.  I am forever grateful, and dark chocolate is still my favorite.    

Along with being a great roommate, Heidi was the first poet I ever met.  She loved books as much as I did, but she was into poetry.  I never appreciated poetry until she introduced me to poets who showed how everyday events and people could become meaningful and beautiful through language.   Even though I only grudgingly went to poetry readings with her (she lured me with the promise of cookies afterward), she also convinced me to take a poetry writing class, where I wrote one good poem and a lot of bad ones.  Now I have two shelves of poetry books and have written several on my own, including a slam poem. 

Heidi also shared her poetry with me.  My favorite was “Women at 40” written for her mom, Ursula.  I’d like to see that poem again now that we are both in our early 40’s.  Heidi wrote this when we were in our 20’s, and 40 couldn’t have seemed any more distant. 

Heidi, thank you for being a terrific roommate and friend.  You were, and no doubt still are, exceedingly generous with your space, food, enthusiasm, and time. 

As I pair teacher candidates with cooperating teachers, I am always reminded of my own fortuitous meeting with Chuck Holloway, who was my cooperating teacher.  When I met him, Chuck was a rollicking 7^th grade teacher at Tri-North Middle School who had previously taught at an alternative school in Colorado.  His sidekick was Suzie McCloud, who taught math next door. They co-taught an English-Math block for the “at-risk” kids.  In the early 90’s, Janet Reno was in the news as the first woman to serve as Attorney General.  Chuck and Suzie, along with special education teacher Connee Headley, thought it was hilarious that I had the same first name as Janet Reno.  As a hazing ritual, they pasted my photo over Reno’s in a newspaper article and posted it all over the school.  The middle school kids didn’t get it, but the teachers thought it was hilarious.  Eventually, I did too. 

 A couple of years later, Chuck became the principal of the new alternative school and hired me as the lone English teacher, along with a math teacher, social studies teacher, and work-study coordinator.  The experience of starting a school—which eventually was named Aurora by the students—is one of the most important of my life.  I learned every single day on the job, and Chuck’s humor and guidance were essential to my personal and professional growth during this time.

The kids who came to Aurora were there because they did not fit into the regular high schools’ social or academic worlds.  Thus, they taught me not only how to teach English, but how to be an advocate.  In the early days especially, I screwed up more than I got right, but they, along with my colleagues and Chuck, put up with me and pushed me gently (and not so gently) to continue to get better. 

I am the teacher I am today because of what I learned from Chuck.  He taught me to appreciate kids as human beings first and students second.  He taught me that schools don’t have to be dictatorial, that students and teachers could have voice in impactful school proceedings, including the gut-wrenching decision to expel students.  He taught me that this kind of pedagogy may be hard, but it’s worth it. 

Chuck, thank you for being my first mentor.  I had no idea what meeting you on that August day 20 years ago would mean, and I am forever grateful for the opportunities you provided and your belief in me. 

Happy birthday to two of my favorite Hoosiers!  Much love to you both.        

Outlaw Country Visits Rhode Island

Steve Earle and Billy Joe Shaver are both grizzled singer songwriters who have influenced scores of performers.  We had the privilege of seeing them both, separately, last week.  Earle played at the Narrows Center for the Arts in Fall River, which takes up the third floor of an old warehouse overlooking the river with floor to ceiling windows, wood floors, and an art gallery.  The audience is encouraged to bring picnic baskets and coolers, creating a festive atmosphere.   Billy Joe Shaver was at the Channing Unitarian Church in Newport, built in the 1880’s.  The stone walls, handcrafted wood balustrades, and soaring, painted ceilings were evidence that this was meant to be a holy place, indeed.  Picnic baskets were not welcome here, of course, and the church was all sanctuary, such that if you wanted to go to the bathroom,  you had to go outside and be led to the separate church office via flashlight.   While the Earle show was packed and the Shaver show barely registered 100 people, the crowds were equally fervent.

I was struck by how these two performers were so similar and so different.  They both write from the heart but where Earle is intellectual and political, Billy is strictly a honky tonk guy.  They have both found their dharma in writing, singing and playing with clarity and honesty in a particular genre that has room for both of them. 

Romantic love was not the focus for either performer.  Instead, both talked about love of country, love of God, and love of drugs.  Earle is unabashedly and unrepentantly liberal.  On stage, he said, “Obama is not a socialist. I’m a socialist.”  Because of this statement, conservatives might paint him as unpatriotic, but his point is this:  the promise of the United States is that everyone will have equal opportunity.  Earle’s critiques of the system (and he has many, including the death penalty) does not mean he is against the United States; he just feels we are not living up to the promise of equality and freedom for everyone.

Billy Joe Shaver represents old-school patriotism, claiming in the song “Good Ol’ USA” that he has been around the world, and, pointing vehemently to the ground, the United States is the best place in it.  He didn’t talk about the recent election, like Earle did.  Instead, his loyalty to the U.S., specifically, Texas, was just as unabashed and unrepentant as Earle’s commitment to social justice.   Shaver took care not to alienate anyone in the audience (at least on a patriotic level), unlike Earle.

Both singer songwriters also talked about religion in ways that matched their stance on patriotism.  While Earle didn’t sing the song “God is God” (I believe in God/and God is God) he talked about how the death penalty was a violation of the Ten Commandments.  Because he is a citizen of this country, where the death penalty is legal in many states, he feels that he is implicated.  Therefore he speaks out, in songs, (“Billy Austin” and “Ellis Unit One”) and in outreach to prisoners on death row.  Whatever you want to say about Steve Earle, he follows through on his beliefs. 

Shaver, once again, took a more direct approach.  He said that Jesus was his hero, and thanked God for giving him the gift of songwriting.   Some of his songs have specific mentions of God, and he clearly acknowledged that he was singing in a church.  Both performers have experienced and enjoyed the dark side and told those tales in their music, yet their spirituality was also apparent.  Earle’s approach was finely tuned, whereas for Shaver it’s just not that complicated. 

Going along with the joy of spirituality and surrender to a Divine spirit is what Jung calls the “shadow” side.  Both performers have songs about hell-raising (Earle, “The Week of Living Dangerously” and “Copperhead Road” and Shaver, “Tramp on Your Street” and “The Hottest Thing in Town”) and are not ashamed to talk about it or write about it.  Even as some of their earlier work celebrates a hedonistic lifestyle, and they still sing those songs, they acknowledge the dangers, especially of heroin.  On stage, Earle talked about the powerful force of his own addiction.  He noted that his family members and friends were pretty sure he would die an addict, as was he.  He then launched into “South Nashville Blues” with the lyric “I went downtown just to ease my pain/I took my pistol and a hundred dollar bill/I had everything I needed to get me killed.”

Earle lost years off of his life that he will never get back.  Shaver lost his son Eddy, who played guitar for several famous groups and had also been in Shaver’s band.  In one of the few sobering moments of the show, Shaver dedicated a song to all the people who had either experienced addiction or knew someone who had.  He sang a shaky a capella song while the guys in his band turned around and removed their cowboy hats.  Shaver’s sincerity and sense of loss were as touching as Earle’s matter-of-factness was transfixing.   

Steve Earle is 57 and Billy Joe Shaver is 73.  For both, writing and performing is salvation.  Where Earle is serious and nuanced, Shaver is joyful and straightforward.  Where Earle is troubled, Shaver is delighted.  Both have clearly found their dharma, or their calling, and it was a privilege to see them in action last week.  Their songwriting and performing are exemplars of what the arts can tell us about the human condition, and thus so much more than an evening’s entertainment. 

   

Om not Um

I have taught every semester, every year, since 1995, the year of the O.J. Simpson trial, Jerry Garcia’s death, and the opening of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland.  It was also the year of Babe, The Usual Suspects, and “All I Wanna Do” by Sheryl Crow. 

In other words, I’ve been teaching a long time, from high school freshmen to doctoral candidates.  For the first several years, I felt guilty because I was learning more from my students than they were from me.  After a long while, I finally figured out what I was doing.  Or so it seemed.  There were good semesters and bumpy semesters, eager students and indifferent ones.  Through it all, I grew and changed, and still can be absolutely surprised at what my students have to teach me, if I’m willing to listen. 

With all of this experience and reflectivity in and on teaching, I was reasonably certain I could adapt easily from English education to yoga.  As Nels put it, at the very least, I know how to be in front of people and connect with them.  Plus, the sequence of poses was already prepared for me—I didn’t even have to develop it.  Nels even let me teach him the poses so I could practice. 

Thus, I felt mostly prepared to teach my first class this weekend.  Similar to microteaching in the early courses of our secondary education program, the audience would be my peers.  As I watched others teach, my teacher educator self peeked out and I could feel myself being critical.  She didn’t say very much.  He moved too fast.  She skipped that pose.  After listening to my peers’ and teacher’s feedback though, I realized that those were small issues. My teacher was looking for something different, and I saw that the things I had depended upon as a high school English teacher and college professor, that is, my verbal ability and strong personality, were not assets in this setting, but liabilities. 

For example, my teacher asked us to use only necessary words—nouns and verbs--in our instructions.  It was easy to see why.  Filler like “We’re going to…” before the next pose breaks up the rhythm, as every pose has a specific time to inhale and exhale.  She also asked that we focus on what students were experiencing, and when possible, to demonstrate instead of using words. 

This was a struggle.  My teaching persona is built on the outgoing aspects of my personality.  I like to tell stories as well as hear them.  Plus, I enjoy yoga teachers who bring themselves into the room.  However, my teacher’s point was well-taken:  yoga is the place for students to go inward, something that is not readily available in everyday life.  If I’m up there telling stories and trying to impress with clever repartee, the class is focused on me and my performance, not on their experiences with their bodies.

Thus, before the class, I was determined to shut the hell up.  I even wrote, “Stop talking!” on my cheat sheet.  Alas, it was not to be.  I kept using the word “gently” as in “gently raise your left leg” or “gently lay your head on the mat.”  I also said “um” a lot.  It’s kind of ironic, since “Om” is the universal word to start and end yoga classes.  At least I got that right.

My biggest disappointment, though, was that I was so concerned with getting things right that I neglected my students.  In fact, I barely opened my eyes through the first postures.  My teacher pointed out that several of us, when teaching, neglected a peer who, due to injury, was having difficulty executing a particular pose.  As she reminded us, being a good teacher is about self-control.  The teacher needs to be able to put aside her ego to focus on her students.  Duh.  How many times have I said this to the candidates I teach?

On the plus side, my peers told me that they felt safe and that I taught with integrity.  I also did well with what I thought would be my biggest problems:  pacing (slow) and voice (soft. I know!  Can you believe it? Me?).    My teacher said that I executed my intention to have a restful class.  This made me feel better.

This experience reminded me of two things.  First, doing something is not the same as teaching it. Just because I have been doing variations of these yoga poses for five years doesn’t mean I know how to teach them to others. Second, it is not only the tasks that are challenging, but recognizing and understanding the nuances of a teaching environment. Any classroom, in any setting, has a unique meta-structure that is only partially discernible to all but the most observant students.  This structure reflects the values and demands of the institution and the teacher. Thoughtful and skilled teachers render the structure invisible, but its absence becomes obvious when an inexperienced or clumsy teacher steps in.

Once again, I am reminded that the intellectual work of teaching is only part of the equation, albeit a necessary part.  Nothing takes the actual place of practice with compassionate and knowledgeable observers, whether they are students, peers or teachers. My message to teacher candidates, then, is this:  take every opportunity to teach and get feedback.  Read not only the surfaces of the teaching environment, but what is going on underneath, just as you would with any text.  And always question your motives when planning and executing a lesson.  Does the lesson reflect what your students need at this moment in this context?

My message to myself, as a teacher educator, is to observe my candidates with compassion and patience.  As I was reminded, becoming teacher is hard work, and flailing about is part of the process.  

  

Namaste.          

Presence versus Performance

This weekend, I will be teaching my first yoga class to fellow teacher trainees. 

There will be no objectives, no standards, and no assessments, at least in the sense I’m used to.  In the field of education, we use these various tools in order to justify what we are doing; to prove that it is meaningful in a larger context.   

With yoga, it is somewhat different.  I will be following a set “lesson plan,” in that I will be teaching Dharma Mittra’s Gentle Sequence.  He developed this sequence based on his work with his guru, who got it from his guru, and so on back to the teachings of yoga based on ancient Hindu scriptures.  There’s a history here, a sense of groundedness and connection that often seems missing from the field of education’s ever-evolving standards of what should be taught, why, and when.   In yoga, student safety and well-being are far more important than whether s/he accomplishes a particular pose and to what degree.  There is a mutual understanding between teacher and student that every day is different, every body is different, and that yoga is a nonlinear process that evolves.  There is no finish line, no test that says yes, I am a winner, I am an “A” yoga student. 

Yoga students are not measured against one another.  I have never heard a yoga teacher say that a student has low skills, for example.  Some students are more flexible, some are more experienced, and some know their bodies very well, but the unique strengths and struggles of each student is recognized and appreciated.    

Thus, yoga teachers are not evaluated on the skills and accomplishments of their students.  It is up to the teacher to provide the structure and guidance for a thoughtful and meaningful experience of body, mind, and heart.  It is then up to the student to choose to what degree she accepts these teachings.  In schools, students are punished if they don’t accept what their teacher offers, whether or not these teachings fit with their learning styles, previous knowledge, and interests. 

With this in mind, how will I know whether I have done a good job of teaching? Because yoga is a practice, and this teaching is practice, it feels both low-stakes and high-stakes.  It’s low-stakes because these are my colleagues and they know the poses and know me; it’s a gentle sequence so nobody will get hurt; and I have my teacher’s support.  But it’s also high-stakes because I need to recognize each student’s strengths and fragilities of body and ego. 

Come to think of it, maybe teaching yoga is not all that different from teaching English.  Beginning English teachers focus on activities and methods; beginning yoga teachers probably focus on poses and sequencing.  But the real teaching, in both yoga and English, comes with being fully present to and for students.  Because this is difficult to measure, it will never be on any PRAXIS test offered by the Educational Testing Service.  However, as a teacher, teacher educator, and student, I know it when I see it.  Presence comes with confidence, experience, and a finely tuned sense of what is happening in the classroom or yoga studio; what is said, and what is felt. 

As I observe my English teacher candidates in the schools and teach my first yoga classes over the next few weeks, that is what I will be looking for and working on.  Good teaching is not about performance.  It’s about presence.    

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

 “When I had to stop running, it was like a breakup.”  Jill J.

I don’t know about you, but I suck at breakups.  Good thing I’ve been married for 18 years and am as in love with my partner as ever.  But back in the day, I managed to shred every bit of respect and possible friendship with ex-boyfriends.  My friend Lesley is on good terms with all of her exes, inviting them over for parties where they even mingle with one another.  Me, not so much. 

Here’s my pattern:  decide it’s over, but am not sure how to break it to the person.  Behave incredibly badly so he breaks up with me instead.  Feel terrible and make him feel terrible too.

I broke up with T the summer between 10^th and 11^th grade. I dated one of his friends who had a Camaro (okay, it was the 80’s), and then felt sorry for T and got back together with him.  Whereupon he borrowed 50 bucks from me and left town with no further word.  I stalked as best I could, but to no avail.  So I ended up eating loaves of Roman Meal bread the entire summer, gained 10 lbs., and experienced a plummet in grades and self-esteem that I haven’t seen before or since.

Then there was B.  Handsome motorcycle rider, independent at 20 years old, living on his own with a pit bull (don’t judge; Veda was sweet).  I abandoned my first semester at IU to move in with B (now you can judge).  After a year, I moved all my stuff back to my parents’ house without telling B.  I’ll never forget the devastation on his face when he came home and saw that I moved out.  I honestly thought it would be easier that way, but needless to say, abruptly ending a year-long relationship without any advance notice did not exactly inspire a drama-free scene.

And finally, there was G. You’d think I would have learned something with the previous two experiences, but no.  I knew this relationship was limited, but it was fun and kept me from being lonely.  Then I met Nels (whom I later married and still am to this day), and I tried really hard to extricate myself from G.  G didn’t make it easy, though.  I broke up with him, then felt sorry for him, got back together, and then broke up again over the phone.  He left multiple nasty messages on my answering machine. Nels heard them and said, “I would never say that to you.”  And he hasn’t.  Ever. 

It’s clear that breaking up in a caring, thoughtful way, where all parties agree that it was the best thing, is simply not in my repertoire.  I haven’t seen or talked to T, B, or G since, and it’s probably clear why.  But as I consider my newest breakup, with marathoning, I hope this time is different, and we can still be friends.  I still intend to run, but I’m aware that the romance with long distance is gone.

Marathoning and I talked it over, and it’s clear we are on the same page.  I no longer have the same devotion and commitment to it.  It doesn’t want a half-assed effort on my part.  We even decided to part friends.  I will visit as my partner continues to run long distances with his eye on the coveted BQ (Boston Qualifier), and I will continue to run, albeit without a watch and without regard to weekly mileage. 

However, marathoning and I agreed to maintain our relationship until last weekend.  Just as warring couples stay together for an important event, like prom, a friend’s wedding, or a visit with the in-laws, marathoning and I had a long-standing date in Washington D.C. for the Marine Corps Marathon.  For the third and last time, we braved the mileage, soreness, and salt-encrusted skin together. 

In my innocence, I thought we had parted friends.  As befitting a split between real lovers, and my previous relationships, this last event was long, painful, and full of doubt and hurt.  Despite the inspiring location, prodigious crowds, and reasonable training, I was miserable much of the time, trying to find excuses to quit.  Adding injury to insult, I just found out I have a stress fracture in my left foot.  I guess I still have much to learn about breaking up gracefully.  

Tics, not Ticks

Lyme disease is a huge worry this August.  Family members and friends have suffered from this disease, which can be serious and debilitating.  But I suffer from a different problem.

My teaching nightmares started earlier than usual, during the last week of July.  I blame Sara K—she mentioned having them on Facebook, and I was all smug, commenting, “Mine don’t start until August 1!”  Clearly her power of suggestion seeped into my subconscious, and the dreams about not having my lesson plan and not finding the classroom lasted for about a week.  Travel, sickness, and then planning took precedence, and my anxiety took a different turn.  Instead of disturbing my sleep, I saw some physical manifestations.  My shoulders and neck started tightening up with increased time at the computer.   My office floor, clean for the entire summer, started sprouting stacks of books and multicolored folders brimming with articles and lesson plans from Classes Past. 

My dreams were no longer about teaching but about airports and crowded public bathrooms.  I would wake up before the alarm, strangely alert, which was completely different from July when I would groan at waking up at 5 a.m. (which you have to do if you are going to get a decent run in before the sun cranked up full blast by 6:30 a.m.).   Now it’s comfortably dark at that hour as the days grow shorter.  August may not be friendly to teachers, but it is to runners.

The most disturbing indication that I was actually anxious did not manifest in its usual ways:  no road rage, no refusal to watch True Blood or Episodes or Weeds because I had to work.  Instead, my left eye, or more accurately, my left eyelid, regained its tic.  This tic used to only happen rarely, and only in spring, when the pressure of driving all over the state supervising student teachers, completing projects, writing recommendation letters, and other projects gain an urgency that seems more pronounced than  in the fall. 

I remember exactly when and where this tic started.  It was spring of 2008 in the English Department hallway of a Rhode Island high school.  I had just observed one of my student teachers for the third time.  She had done an excellent job, but we had a prickly relationship.  We were talking, and all of the sudden there went my eyelid—pulsing away as if it had a heart of its own.  I kept up my side of the conversation, hoping that although I could feel this bizarre, violent motion in such a tiny space, nobody could see it.  Instead, the student teacher, not known to be particularly affectionate, or to even like me, gave me a huge hug.  I can only think she thought I was going to cry, and then when she hugged me, I almost did.  Her act of compassion has always stayed with me, and we kept in touch for a long time afterward.  She is a classy and talented young woman.

That tic has served as a physical signal of inner turmoil ever since.  And in spite of having a strong first week—collaborating with my one of friends for the first time on one class, recovering from one bad session to a strong second session in another class, with a third class going better than expected—the tic has arrived, months early. 

Apparently, it doesn’t matter that I have taught for 17 years straight.  It doesn’t matter that I felt ready (syllabi done in advance) and supported (my colleagues amaze me with their words of wisdom).  It doesn’t matter that my husband is taking care of the grocery shopping, cooking, and cleaning so I don’t have to worry about it.   My anxieties were once private, mostly laughable affairs (cue the can’t-find-the-classroom nightmare scenario) but now have become frequent, visible manifestations.  Sure, my husband says nobody can see my quivering eyelid unless they are a foot away from me, but when I feel that thing going like a tiny heartbeat when I’m in front of a class, I want to punch myself in the face.   

This too shall pass, no doubt.  I’ll remember that I actually know what I’m doing (see that remark about 17 years).  I’ll get to know my students.  I’ll get into a routine of planning and grading.  I’ll realize the joys of thoughtful classroom conversations and responses to texts.  I’ll quit worrying so much about how I’m coming across and more about how to make this a useful and productive experience for my students.

So if you see me, and my eyelid is twitching, don’t feel like you have to give me a hug.  But it might be nice, anyway.

Steroids in August: A Cautionary Tale

The last several times we have visited Indiana, the ancestral homeland for three out of four of our parents and the place we met, fell in love, and lived happily for 13 years, I have gotten sick.  I didn’t throw up, I didn’t get hives, I just managed to catch the flu.  Nels and I argue about the flu.  He says you only have the flu if you are puking up your guts.  I say that there is another kind of flu—the kind when a common cold goes on steroids.  But more on steroids later. 

I’m not sure what it is about Indiana that makes me sick.  I told a fellow Hoosier about this phenomenon and she said that the state has toxic air.  Every time her nephew visits from Texas he gets sick.  But she does live in Highland, near East Chicago, which is, for you non-Hoosiers, where all the factories and mills used to be.  I remember going to Chicago with my family and holding my nose as we drove through that section. 

It might also be because of the stress of visiting our families, which we do only twice a year.  While both sets of parents and siblings have conveniently located themselves in just two cities, albeit three hours apart, it means we try to sweep in and visit both in our trips.  While I don’t envy my friends with relatives scattered across the country, trying to figure out whom to visit for the holidays, maybe we are trying to do too much.  Or maybe my getting sick is part of the grieving process as I watch our parents age, and my parents, on this particular occasion, part with many of their belongings, including the house in which I grew up and they spent the last 43 years of their marriage. 

On the 13 hour drive home, I managed to survive on tissues, multiple bottles of water, three doses of aspirin spaced at four hour intervals (it’s weird how aspirin quits working exactly when they tell you it’s safe to have more), and a McDonald’s cheeseburger and fries.  At the time, I didn’t realize my sense of taste had been removed from my body, because the heat and salt and texture of fat made up for it. 

The next day was the nadir.  I woke up stuffy, swollen, feverish, and headed to the clinic after a shower, two cups of tea, and three crackers.   Luckily, nobody was in line ahead of me, but apparently I wasn’t the doctor’s only patient.  I had to wait an excruciating five minutes for her to tell me that the x-rays didn’t indicate pneumonia (yay), and that it would take about 45 minutes for my prescription to be ready (boo).   This is the first incident that reminded me that Janet being sick is similar to Janet having low blood sugar:  irritable and irrational.  As I listened to the doctor giving precise directions to her patient on the phone, I was sure she was deliberately making me wait in the freezing curtained room.  Should I take off the hospital gown and put on my clothes?   Would she want to examine me again?  Who the hell puts phone patients ahead of actual patients?  I am going to leave.  Right.  Now.  Luckily, the doctor wrapped up her phone call before I could storm out.  She informed me my prescription would be ready at Walgreens in 45 minutes.  45 minutes?  What?  Are they flying the pills in from Canada? 

I went home to lie on the couch and texted Nels that he could pick up my meds.  Luckily, he had just gotten a new cell phone so I could reach him even though he was running errands.  Here was the context of our conversation (please remember what I said about low blood sugar): 

Me: I just left a message for the pharmacist to let u pick up the prescription.

Him: Who is this?

Me: Spock.  Please fill my scrip for a wheelbarrow full of pounces [Spock is our cat.  I thought he was trying to be funny and wanted to go with it]

Him: I don’t think this is who you think it is.  Leighton here

Me: Yikes!  My bad.  Sorry L

Him: No worries.  Ha

Me: You’re an asshole.

Me: Which is mean and I’m sorry, but my sense of humor is not working. 

So.  When Nels came home, he didn’t mention the text exchange, but insisted on going to the drugstore right away, bringing back my meds, and then going to the grocery store, instead of doing all of that in one fell swoop.  I interpreted that to mean he was sorry for being a jerk while texting, so I didn’t mention it either.  Clearly he was apologetic, and that was all I wanted.

That was Wednesday.  The next day, Nels went out of town and I called him late in the day to see when he would be home.  Some guy said, “Who IS this?” and I hung up immediately.  Through a feverish fog, I realized that PERHAPS Nels wasn’t the one I had texted.  I checked again and realized I had transposed one number.  Whoops. 

Me: I am SO sorry about this msg from yesterday.  My husband got a new phone with a very similar number and I thought he was playing tricks on me.  I apologize for being a jerk.

Him:

I can only hope that he accepted my mea culpa. 

Which brings me to steroids.  The day after not being able to do anything but lie prone until it was time to sit up and eat soup and crackers, I felt like I had kicked this thing.  Sure, I was still sniffly and coughy, but I felt ready to work.  I dragged all the books and papers downstairs needed for one of the classes I was teaching and happily planned what I am pretty sure is an amazing syllabus (I admit I haven’t looked at it yet for editing purposes).  I felt magical and capable, busy planning my running and yoga schedule for the next day.  Then I talked to my sister.  She said, “You have to watch the steroids.  They make you feel better than you really are.”  The next morning, my neighbor said the same thing.  Then my mom called and gave me a similar warning.  But I was totally like, “I’m on the ROIDS!  I feel GREAT!  No wonder baseball players use this stuff!”  Nels scoffed at their warnings too.  He said, “They are steroids, not heroin.”  Damn straight! John Hiatt and Steve Earle in Hyannis Friday night?  No problem.  Cracker, Big Head Todd, Blues Traveler, and Barenaked Ladies in Boston on Saturday night?  Let’s party! 

There were some odd side effects, though.  I tried a few bites of a ripe avocado and threw it away because it had no taste.  Then we were at the Melody Tent having a beer and I realized I literally couldn’t taste it.  There was a little sharpness on my tongue from the carbonation, but other than that, I couldn’t tell a Sam’s Summer from a Fosters.  What a disappointment. 

Fast forward to Monday.  I was ready to be well.  After all, I had finished the roids and the Z-Pac.  Once the drugs are done, you’re done being sick, at least that’s how I remembered it.  I don’t get sick very often, and when I do, I rarely go to the doctor, but this was my memory.  So I decided I would get back to my weekly mileage of 45-50 miles, starting with eight on Monday.  That went okay, probably due to the vestiges of steroids.  Of course, I was pretty sure my watch battery was dying, because I did my customary eight miles about seven minutes slower than usual, even though it felt like the same level of effort.  I even did yoga that night and felt “cleansed” afterward. 

So the next day I was going to do eight miles again; after all, I needed to make up some miles.  I did six at a snail’s pace with multiple walks.  Suffice to say, the steroids had worn off, just as I had been warned.  I was left hot, sniffly…and maybe a little bit grumpy.  Sure, steroids are not heroin, but damn if they don’t promise more than they can deliver.      

After a second trip to the doctor and a different antibiotic, I am finally feeling better in the real way, not in the steroid way.  No way am I going to take that steroid decongestant.  I can’t bear the letdown twice in a row. 

Ode to My Right Arm

Ode to My Right Arm

Part I

Years ago, a motivational speaker advised that breaking habits should start with something easy 

Such as

placing one’s watch

(this was back when people used watches instead of phones to tell time)

On one’s opposite wrist.

I lasted about two hours.  It just didn’t make sense! My watch was on my right wrist

For a reason.

As a southpaw, my left arm had more important things to do. 

And that is how I have lived my life ever since.  Until a few months ago, that is.

Part II

Dear right arm:

I held you in contempt

Or maybe just neglect

Seeing that you were weaker

And less agile

Than your twin sister, the left. 

When I needed strength

Or mobility

Or balance

I chose her over you,

Even moving the computer mouse to her side. 

Writing, eating, cooking, driving, planting flowers,  cleaning bathtubs, washing windows

Unlocking doors

I chose her over you.

Brushing my hair and my teeth

Putting in my contacts

Applying makeup, taking off makeup

I chose her over you.

As a counter to these finely tuned tasks,

You got to carry my book bag, computer bag, grocery bag, and lunch bag

All at the same time. 

I ignored the signals of your distress

Until a simple yawn and stretch

Sent shooting agony

From shoulder to elbow

Radiating pain so bright

I couldn’t believe my skin stayed pale and cool to the touch.

As any child of neglect

Would righteously do

You spoke out firmly and vigorously.

So now we work together, cautiously.

You’ve got your mouse back.

You are becoming better at brushing my teeth and hair, and

I even let you drive when there’s not much traffic. 

Still haven’t moved my watch, though.

The balance still tips toward the left out of habit, but the dialogue

Has begun—

A halting conversation with frequent pauses. 

Ego versus Body: A Dialogue

Ego versus Body: A Dialogue

Do you live your life in the should realm?  As in “I should be grading my students’ papers instead of writing this blog” or “I should have a clean house like my neighbor does because if she has a husband, two kids, one foreign exchange student, two cats, a beagle, and can do it, why can’t I with my husband and cat who sleeps all the time (the cat, not the husband)? 

I have spent most of my life in this realm, and I would like to move.  You can have it, rent-free, forever. 

The dangers of should have been apparent to me for awhile now, but it is insidious, lurking around corners and leaping out to surprise me with me its knowing and judging eye, just waiting to catch me lollygagging around the bases.  On a recent long run that was shortened through circumstances described below, I realized that should, which is rooted in the normative claim of what is “correct” or “right” according to some standard—either cultural, psychological, or a bit of both—is on a first-name basis with my ego.  In fact, I’m pretty sure they have been sleeping together.  Just when I thought my ego had my best interests at heart, I realized it doesn’t care about me; it only cares about what others think about me.  It thinks that I should do what it projects others expect of me.  These aren’t real expectations on the part of others, mind you, only the ego’s interpretation. 

Like any lover who fears her partner is stepping out on her, I hired a detective, whom I will call the Witness.  Here is what she heard on this run last Sunday, as my Ego and Body duked it out.

Ego:  Let’s go 16 miles today!  If you run 16 miles today, 18 next Sunday, and then 20 the following week, you will have reached my goal of running doing a 20 miler in June! 

Body:  It looks good so far, but I haven’t done more than 13.5 miles since late April.  Plus I ran 8 miles Friday and 8 again on Saturday.

Ego: Pish-posh!  You should be able to do this just fine.  You felt amazing on both of those runs. 

Body: That’s true.  But I did drink last night, and stayed up late.  Didn’t get started until 7:20 a.m. and the sun is already bright. 

Ego: Remember that beer is all carbs and that gigantic burger was all protein!  I’m telling you, you should be able to do this, no sweat. 

Body: “No sweat?”  Have you looked at me lately?  I’m drenched and it’s only been 10 miles.  I have had to stop and get water several times already. 

Ego: C’mon now.   The sun is making you gloriously tan!  Quit moving toward the shade.  Hey, why is that guy asking you how you’re doing?

Body: Probably because my face is purple and I look like I’m moving underwater.  We need to find a bathroom.  Stomach is sending emergency signals. 

Ego:   Just have a gel and I know we can get the rest of those miles!

Body: I can’t even think about eating a chocolate gel, especially with caffeine.  Do you want me to throw up right here in front of all these kids? 

Ego: But we have to get to 16 miles!  That was our goal for today.

Body:  That was your goal.  I’m walking home, which is 2 miles away, and I’m lucky I can still walk.

Ego:  But you can pass that old grandpa dude up there who is barely moving!  C’mon now, don’t you have any pride?

Witness Analysis:

The Ego has strong ideas about what must/should take place, but is at the mercy of the capabilities of her compatriots; in this case, the Body.  This is why the Body is such a good teacher to the Ego:  the Body cannot be coerced.  Well, she can, but only to an extent.  In this case, passing the “grandpa dude” at mile 11, but then seeing him pass us at mile 12 as we were walking, was what I would call humbling, and what the Ego would call a “disaster” (her words, not mine).  In a fight to the finish, the score is: Body: Sick, Ego: Chastened.  No winners here, except that both were laughing about this and having leftover pizza soon after.      

What I’ve been reading…

Rogue Island by Bruce DeSilva.  If you are a fan of hard-boiled detective fiction and actively mourned the recent death of one of the best in the genre, Robert B. Parker (forgive the insouciance, but he’s Jesus to the God(s) Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett), then you will appreciate writers like DeSilva.  What makes him even better is that he’s a native Rhode Islander and former Providence Journal writer, so his take on the politics of this state feels authentic.  Rhode Islanders like to think they are special in lots of ways—as if they are the only ones who like personalized license plates and buy bread and milk at any threat of a snowstorm—but in political malfeasance, this state has few rivals (Chicago comes to mind).  Every day, there’s an aging mobster known as “Chippy” or “Whitey” who is finally going to jail or died in jail.  But I digress.  The protagonist in Rogue Island is a newspaperman with his flaws (endearing of course), an aging car he calls Secretariat, and a flair for choosing the wrong women, drinking the right beer, and getting into a fair amount of trouble investigating State House machinations.  This book came out a couple of years ago, and he has a new one called Cliff Walk that I will swipe from Nels’ bedside table when he falls asleep tonight.

Starboard Sea by Amber Dermott.   Jason Prosper is a privileged white boy trying to make it through prep school and into Princeton.  Trouble is, he’s of this milieu but doesn’t really belong there.  Sound familiar?  I am not sure we need an updated (1980’s style) version of Catcher in the Rye, and I have my doubts as to the authenticity of a middle-aged woman writing as a teenage boy, regardless of her familiarity with this world.  Holden’s voice in Catcher was so clear and smart and in pain.  In this book, Jason’s voice is not as immediate or raw, despite having experienced just as much tragedy.  To not know what happened with best friend Cal who committed suicide, or even with Aidan in the Swan Boat until the final pages, meant that the narrator himself was withholding something from us.  That distance may have served the story from a plot perspective, and I’m sure Amber Dermott agonized over that choice, but it didn’t serve my connection or understanding of Jason.  That being said, I enjoyed learning about sailing as a sport, East Coast prep school privilege, and refamiliarizing myself with 80’s culture.

The Power of Habit by Charles Duhigg.  I heard Terry Gross interview Duhigg on “Fresh Air” and A.J. Jacobs name-checked him in his newest one, Drop Dead Healthy.  The book is basically about how we acquire habits as individuals, institutions, and organizations.  I found Habit useful but a bit redundant and limited.  Duhigg seems to be using a purely cognitivist approach when it comes to habit, ignoring deep sociocultural and psychological needs that lead to habits.  I like that he has a framework for changing bad habits, which is: 

1.       Identify the routine

2.       Experiment with rewards

3.       Isolate a cue (location, time, emotional state, other people, and/or immediately preceding action)

4.       Have a plan

But how do I cultivate good habits?  And how are these habits connected to my identities and deeply scripted personal and political discourses?

On another literary note, my parents are getting ready to downsize and my mom sent me some of my childhood favorites, most of which were her childhood favorites.  I dipped back into Little Women and sat mesmerized for an hour reading the last chapters of the book.  I won’t reread the whole thing—it’s a bit preachy for me--but do plan to reread the sequel Little Men, which I loved.  In Alcott’s world, boys may act worse but are forgiven more easily, so there is less preachiness.  Makes me want to go back to Concord…

Little Women

Little Men

Saratoga Trunk

Queenie Peavey

True Grit

Black Beauty

Hans Brinker (or the Silver Skates)

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

Bambi

A Wrinkle in Time

The Incredible Journey

My summer reading will definitely include many of these.  I wonder how these will feel to me as an adult?  The animal books (Black Beauty, Bambi, The Incredible Journey) were often painful to read, so I’m not sure I want to revisit them, but maybe I should anyway.

Ahimsa: Taking My Own Ripe Journey

The eight yamas and niyamas are a set of yogic guidelines that are similar in purpose to Christianity’s Ten Commandments.  Both serve as a set of rules or laws that support the functioning of relationships and society through tasking the individual to act in certain ways.  However, the yamas and niyamas are not undergirded by the threat of “Thou shalt not…” with the implication being “Or else!”  There is nobody to be afraid of with these restraints, whereas the Ten Commandments are based on the fear of God’s—and by extension, society’s—wrath. 

This is a good thing, because if ahimsa, which is often translated to “nonviolence,” were an actual law, I would be on Death Row.    I violate it multiple times a day toward myself, hopefully less often toward others.  For me, this translates into the fear of not being good enough and not doing enough.  One result is that I have become a slave to my planner and email inbox.   Deborah Adele talks about this very thing: “I had created a violent inner world of pushing, overdoing and under-sleeping…” which leads to this:  “…how we treat ourselves is in truth how we treat those around us.  If you are a taskmaster with yourself, others will feel your whip.” 

I believe that these pressures are not just personality traits that she and I share, but are also deeply political.  The emotions I feel are partially internal, but they are also external, resulting from gendered and cultural forces outside myself.  For example, there is the guilt for not meeting certain expectations for professional women, like being good at my job, having a clean house, and being nice, all on the same day.  That pressure, and then the subsequent anxiety, anger, and guilt at not living up to some invisible, unreachable standard, are socially driven.  Thus, that violence I commit against myself, and subsequently others as I take the role of stern taskmaster, is fed upon by socially constructed cues about what it means to be a woman, a teacher educator, a wife, a sister, a daughter, a friend. 

Ahimsa, and other elements of yoga practice, provides a counternarrative to these pressures.  The idea that I am okay—not just okay, even, but perfect--just the way I am, is radical in western thought.  How can I be perfect when I forgot to shave my legs, dirty dishes are in the sink, and there are 114 unanswered messages in my inbox?  Self-acceptance feels Stuart Smalley-ish:  “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me.”  This seems faintly ridiculous because our culture provides archetypes of perfect women, wives, mothers, etc., and it is clear that I most certainly am not “good enough.” Instead, yoga tells me that the external does not matter; that I am indeed a worthy human being, just like everyone else.

Running and yoga are good lessons in ahimsa, as my expectations are necessarily limited by my physical body.  My lungs, heart, and legs can only be taxed so far, so fast.  My hips and hamstrings will only stretch to a certain point.  Wise coaches and yoga teachers tell me to listen to my body.  This listening has become part of my running and yoga practice, and as a result, I have been able to push my own perceived boundaries in unexpected ways.

If I am to practice ahimsa, this acceptance of my physical boundaries will necessarily carry over to the rest of my life by recognizing and respecting my personal and professional boundaries as well.  I have a job in which, as one colleague said, there is no end.  I could work 24 hours a day, and there would still be emails to answer, proposals to write, papers to grade, classes to plan, ideas to consider, students to support, colleagues to share.  This is what drew me to this work in the first place:  it requires engagement of my mind and my heart.  I cannot imagine a better fit for my personality than this profession. 

In order to have the energy to do my life’s work, then, it seems I must try to understand and appreciate all that is mine to do, and all that is others’ to do.   One of the ways I violate ahimsa is that I try to fix things for people instead of letting them figure it out for themselves.  Deborah Adele suggests that being a fixer and worrier is a violation of ahimsa, because when we worry about others, we imply that they are not capable of, as one of my student teachers said, “taking their own ripe journey.”  When I consciously withdraw my worries and fears on behalf of others, I have more positive energy to give to the world.  

In this way, ahimsa is both personal and political.  It is personal, because it means living with integrity through recognizing and respecting my own boundaries.  It is also political in that it asks me to resist gendered and classed pressures that are implicit and explicit in this culture. However, ahimsa does not require that I withdraw from the world; just that I make deliberate, thoughtful, and compassionate choices.   It is both freeing and frightening to step outside the familiar zone governed by fear and judgment.  Like everything, this will be a nonlinear, recursive process, in which I get it right sometimes, and fail miserably at other times.  I may not have Stuart Smalley’s confidence, but at least I can get off my own personal Death Row.    

A Runner's Valentine

This year, I knew I would be at a conference for my class that was scheduled to meet from 4-6 p.m. on Valentine’s Day.  I asked a colleague to cover for me, and she said, “Sorry, I can’t.  My husband is a romantic and I know he will have made wonderful plans for us!” 

You would think that she was a newlywed in the first throes of early love.  But no, she has been married for many years and has a grandchild in high school.  I began thinking about the role of romance in my own marriage.  We will be married 18 years in June, and the romance, as traditionally constructed, has been gone for awhile now.  My birthday is within a few days of Valentine’s Day, and Nels has been known to ask, “Do I have to buy a Valentine’s Day card too?”  If he has to ask, there can be only one answer.  On a Valentine’s Day a long time ago, I shamed him into buying me flowers, and it was just all wrong.  Instead of being a gesture of love, it was a gesture of guilt based on my culturally constructed feeling that flowers=romance=love.

Ironically, I have received the most beautiful flower arrangements from him for my last few birthdays, even when he is out of town, as he was last week.  This is from a guy whose normal idea of a gift for me (and anyone else) is from the clearance rack at Marshall’s.  The bargain is part of the narrative of gift-buying for him. 

Over the years, my ideas about romance have changed.  I love the pure beauty and riotous scents that my birthday flowers bring to our late-winter, scratchy-heat home.  Not only are they an expression of Nels’ recognition and appreciation of what I enjoy, but they contain the early promise of spring.

 However, the real romance occurs not in a fancy restaurant or B&B, but on the East Bay Bike Path.  When we are running, we can talk about all the easy and hard things we are experiencing as individuals and together.  For some reason, hard truths are more palatable while running; maybe because we are not looking at each other, or because we are both engaged in physical effort, or because we are engaged in a shared experience even as we are talking about something potentially polarizing. 

In addition to these potentially difficult conversations, though, there is also the encouragement Nels provides for me as a runner.  He can compute numbers in his head (I love to test his actuarial skills by throwing out random equations about money or running times) and his newest calculation indicates that it is possible for me to run a BQ (Boston Qualifier) in my late 40’s.  “All you have to do is get down to 3:45!”  he enthuses.  I ran my last marathon in 4:26.  I have my doubts, but he does not.

For me, the ultimate in romance is someone who believes in me more than I do myself.  So, no, honey, you never, ever, have to buy me another Valentine’s Day card.  I love you.