In Remembrance of my Namesake

The following was written for my Uncle Dean's memorial service in Dayton, Ohio. He passed away on Tuesday, October 6, 2009. These words only partially capture my feelings of remembrance, for as we know, you can't summarize an entire lifetime into a few paragraphs. He often told me how much he enjoyed reading my blogs, for he was also a kindred spirit of creativity.

"On Ode to Peter Pan"

As a lover of stories, I've always cherished my own exposition into the world as I was born on my Uncle Dean's 21st Birthday, and given my middle name, Deane, in his honor. Most college students would have perhaps sent a card or given a phone call of congratulations, but my uncle marked my entrance into the world by writing me a lullaby that he performed at my dedication, and by copying over 150 hours of "Uncle Dan and Aunt Sue: My Story Hour" on tapes that had individually applied yellow labels all bearing my name. These tapes became well-worn as my uncle vicariously "told" my brother, sister, and myself our bedtime stories each night.

Little did I know that this act would highlight two of my uncle's best and well-known qualities: sharing stories and unapologetically reproducing copy-righted works! I'm sure that there are many in this audience who will continue to come across a random CD or DVD bearing the name of an appreciated music group or show, perhaps even attached to a post-it note with a scrawled joke. A highlight in our family was receiving a video tape containing our favorite Disney movies that my parents never saw the need to buy. Even in college, I would open little packages featuring the latest musical--and when he was particularly enthusiastic I would also receive the music with various parts, the instrumental version, a flyer, the program, ticket stub, and the sheet music just in case I might want to recreate it!

In terms of stories, he was the best at telling them, singing them, joking with them, remembering them, creating them, and perhaps even stretching them a time or two. Being the first grandchild on the Morris side, I became a frequent visitor at Nonnie & Papa's house, and my Uncle Dean took it upon himself to make sure that we created as many stories together as possible. He was always focused on a latest fascination and would involve me in many of these adventures whether it be throwing boomerangs, building and launching model rockets, flying kites, sewing pillows and stuffed toys, gardening, candle-making, and even collecting butterflies. All of the cousins have recounted that while you always knew you were going to have a fun time with Nonnie & Papa, the moment Uncle Dean burst through the door, the fun factor would sky rocket over the roof. It was then we knew that we had hit the jackpot: we didn't just have an uncle, but we had our very own real life Peter Pan who would sprinkle us with fairy dust and whisk us away on his adventures to Never-Never Land where we could stay up as late as our hearts desired, dine on foods forbidden by our parents, and always experience entertainment with bursts of happiness.

My cousin Marcus especially enjoyed the years of Easter Egg decorating in the spring, and pumpkin carving with trick-or-treating in the fall. Marcus lovingly referred to himself as a "lost boy" who looked up to his uncle with utter devotion. His loyalty was sealed when my uncle made him his own Batman cape that he flew around with for years. They also shared a love of movies, and my uncle would take Marcus to ANY film he wanted to see, which later inspired him to enroll in film school. Uncle Dean also gave him his first computer as a young child, and this passion grew in Marcus which has made him an expert in technology as he currently serves as the AV Ministries Director at the White Memorial Church. We've often remarked that when Marcus and Uncle Dean got together, soul mates reunited as they stayed up until the early morning hours while watching TV and eating fried-egg sandwiches.

He had a way of sharing his hobbies with those around him that inspired others to adopt his interests. My brother Brent recalled being fascinated with Uncle Dean's Boat, the SS Snooky Bear, as a young child and was thrilled when he received it as a gift when they made the move to Ohio. Now when Brent comes home from college, many months are spent preparing the boat for its end-of-summer voyage, which has educated him in countless hours of boat repair. It was also Uncle Dean who on our yearly pilgrimage to the Embassy Suites Hotel in Lompoc, Ca, got Brent and Marcus interested in geo-cashing, where you use a GPS device to uncover a specified location where a "treasure'" (and I use this term loosely) is buried. Brent was also thrilled when Uncle Dean took him to the Louisville Factory where he got a personalized baseball bat that remains one of his most prized possessions.

My sister Cheri recalls that Thanksgiving was her favorite holiday because she knew that while most of the guys would watch the football game and the women would be preparing the meal, Uncle Dean and Auntie Bev would be in the family room, playing countless games with all of us. He would instigate the competitiveness among us through many rounds of Balderdash, Taboo, and games he had purchased that we had not heard of yet. Once when Nonnie purchased a sit-down scooter, he made an obstacle course for Brent and Marcus to drive around. In that same spirit, we all recall how our first driving experiences had been sitting on his lap controlling the wheel as he controlled the petals (at very young ages!). He also gave great advice on how to avoid punishment. Our favorite story was when on the advice of his Aunt Dot, he was told to stuff his pants with a magazine to avoid the burn of a spanking. He decided to seek more protection, and put an encyclopedia in his pants, and could not figure out how it became discovered!

Always a joker, he also would share with us practical life information. For example, when flying on Southwest Airlines, always wear Billy Bob Buckteeth , don a cowboy hat and overalls if possible, sit in the middle seat, and greet as many people as possible enthusiastically while begging them to sit next to you. This is how you get an entire aisle to yourself. When I attended his Alma Mater, PUC, he made sure to sit down and tell me about all of his adventures there, including how at the end of the year he donated his and Uncle Kevin's colonial-looking desks to be added to the furniture display at Ellen White's home in Elmshaven. He bragged about how he had told others and even placed a note on the desk to say that Ellen's own writing had been inspired at that very spot. With a wink, he told me to keep my eye out for it. While we all hated being the object of one of his jokes, we would laugh hysterically as we recalled many pranks he had pulled off--including the fake rat he placed under Nonnie's piano, the tape-recorded piano lessons,replacing Auntie Karen's picture with one of the pet dog, and the time he put on a mask, walked up to Nonnie's bedroom and posed as a robber. In actuality, there were several family members who were visited by a masked Uncle Dean at one time or another, and we were always on guard for a possible "pantsing" episode when he was around.

While he loved playing the role of jokester, he was always the happiest among kids, and made it a point to get a laugh out of us no matter what. My Auntie Karen has three little boys, Liam, Ethan and Ewan, and he delighted in chasing them around the house for hours while tickling them to death, just as he had done with us. When we got together this past June for a picnic, my mom remarked on how he never entered the adult conversations, but rather spent the entire day under a blanket with the boys, playing games of hide and seek while entertaining them for hours. My cousins always went on and on about the coolest toys he would send, wrapped in newspaper comics, and just one funny face from him could keep them giggling for hours. He would have them in stitches just by pointing at something and saying, "Now what izzzzzzzz thiiiiiiiiiiiiiis?" We would have countless phrases that he added to our vocabulary that just don't make sense to the outside listener, and truthfully we have a hard time remembering some of their original meanings. He was talented at finding the funny in small things, and not letting those phrases go. EVER! :)

He was also notorious for taking us on adventures and adding, "now don't tell your mother about this"! My sister Cheri recounts how before being taken to a carnival one night, Uncle Dean stopped off at a store and bought her an entire half-quart of chocolate milk and explained, "this is the best chocolate milk you will ever drink in your entire life...drink it all right now, and don't tell your mom"! She was handed a straw and gulped down the entire bottle right there in the aisle, and did her best to ignore the upset stomach she received later while riding carnival rides. She also recalls the time he took us to the fair even when my mom had asked him not to take us, due to my sister's habit of getting lost. She in fact did disappear for quite some time, but later my uncle eloquently pointed out that he had found her, and in the process we had made some great life-lasting memories! Cheri also recounted how even going out to eat with Uncle Dean was an adventure as we experienced many interesting restaurants that our parents would never have ventured to take us to, including one where we ordered our food through a radio right at the table. In true Peter Pan fashion, he championed for the sake of fun, and fun always won.

This past summer when he visited California, we lived out childhood memories as we rode practically all of the rides at California Adventure, purchased our pictures from the roller coaster, and experienced every ride and show the park had to offer. We spent the day listening to him and Marcus exchange Chuck Norris jokes, and laughed as he teased Krystal throughout the day. True to the "never grow up" fashion, we ate all of the junk food we could hold down, compared our video game scores on the Toy Story ride seriously, and even took the interactive quiz to find out which Beauty and the Beast characters we were (he was the comic-relief candlestick, of course!). We also hogged the station were you could voice over Disney songs and scenes, and made several five-year-olds wait as we harmonized to songs he had introduced to all of us as kids.

Later on the next day at dinner, I found myself reverting to my adult "teacher tone" as I scolded him for feeding my little cousins packets of sugar before our meal. He looked at me as if to say, "when did you join the ranks of the grown-ups?" much like Peter Pan had said to Wendy when she decided to leave Neverland. When Wendy says goodbye to Peter at the window, they both realize that while their diverse worlds are comprised by differing rules and goals, they are both better people for the impressions that they made on one another, and for the adventures they took together. My cousins and I, along with everyone who knew my uncle, will never be the same again as Uncle Dean coated us with fairy dust through his stories, jokes, songs and adventures that took us to places that are usually never permitted to exist in the serious affairs of adults. As I reflect on how he inspired so many of the stories within my life and those around me, I feel so fortunate that I was able to be included in the adventure of his life. I hope that you, along with myself, will continue to live out, share, sing, and participate in stories that touch those around us, much like how my uncle did.

May we never forget our Peter, and the spirit of love and a zest for life that he sprinkled on each of us. I can't wait to meet with him on that glorious day as we will fly to the second star on the right, and straight on 'till morning. I'll focus on the joy I'll find when I leave this world behind, and find that I can fly, I can fly, I can fly, I can fly, I can fly. I'll see you in Heaven, Uncle Dean, and I can't wait for the stories that we'll share. Oh, and I'm pretty sure that since we were made in God's image, copy-right laws aren't going to be an issue as we'll share songs over and over again, and be God's children forever.

The Scary Side of Halloween

This past weekend, I found myself in a costume shop helping a friend pick out a Halloween outfit. Picking through racks of packaged costumes, I realized that Halloween can indeed bring up some very scary realizations.

Admittedly, this is something that I have never experienced previously, as through my childhood my mom helped us make costumes or had an excellent eye for using everyday objects to encourage us to create masterful disguises. In my younger years I had the traditional costumes--pumpkin, pilgrim (I hated it, but my mom argues that it would keep me warm and perhaps felt like she was outsmarting Halloween by having me dress as a Puritan), fairy, clown, Queen Esther (the year Halloween fell on Friday night), and Pocahontas (I guess I no longer could pass as a Puritan and had to take the opposing side!). When I got older, I soon got to create my own costumes, and this led to the era of Smurfette (which most people thought resembled a blueberry), Marsha Brady, and a writer. In my opinion, my sister always had unique outfits (with the exception of Ms. America), and I can recall her being a detective and a single mom who lacked sleep complete with drawn-in eyes circles.

To me, Halloween was another extension of "dress-up" time where you got to choose crazy outfits and embrace the characterization of something within that previously you were perhaps afraid to show. My freshmen year of college, I dressed as a Gothic Girl, and put on the black lipstick, white make-up and Hot Topic clothes, and was satisfied with my "scary" image as I looked in the mirror and realized it unlocked in a little bit of a "badass" that I didn't feel comfortable showing to others.

Recently as I've chosen outfits to wear to a costume party or work, I don't have to look to hard, as most agree that my wardrobe already has many strange clothes in it already. Most recently I have been a hippy, a geisha, a flapper, and Lady Bird Johnson, and each outfit required no additional purchases. It's easy for me to reach into my closet and play "dress-up" because that is what I do most everyday!

As I stood with my friend in the costume store, I was surprised by how much the lack of creativity and imagination permeated throughout the selection. My first clue that these were not the costumes of my youth were the names of the designers entitled 'Legs" and "Sexy" (The unique names simply blew me away!). I then looked around and saw that every single costume for women had two things in common: #1: They were hardly any clothes involved (for ridiculous prices) and #2: They were all figures from fantasy, history, and mostly childhood. I saw costumes that immediately took me back 15-20 years: Strawberry Shortcake, Raggedy Anne, Rainbow Brite, and Care Bears. Then came the slutty Cinderellas and Tinkerbells, and finally a big display of Beer Maidens among the Greek Goddesses and the quintessential whorish nurse. (I also managed to see that around 5% of the costumes were for guys, and all of them were fully clothed, baggy, and matched a corresponding female outfit).

As I saw my friend try on a $60.00 Red Riding Hood outfit that was going to cost an additional $30.00 or so in accessories, I realized that my childhood dress-up game was no longer one of innocence, wonder and imagination, but rather it had morphed as an adult into a display of ultimate objectification in a way that most would disagree with if they only stopped to think (something that happens less and less in our culture unfortunately). My critique doesn't come from the fact that I am a giant prude or am against expressing confidence through clothing (my co-workers have joked about the fact that I have no qualms wearing fishnet stockings to work in what I consider a tasteful and creative display of color and texture) but I hate to see how little our imaginations are used when it comes to dressing up, and how satisfied we are to simply buy a packaged costume without thinking further about the implications it contains.

All the costumes presented in that store sold the same myth that Americans are bombarded with everyday: "Wear me, and you'll have the sexy allure that you've always wanted but never could attain wrapped up with childlike innocence that will cause all of your dreams to come true". Now that we are older, it isn't enough to simply read or watch the fairy tales that we were told as a kid, we want to embody them. The psychology behind the costumes are startling: Morph into a childhood play thing, and someone will want to pick you up and coddle you. Try your hand at being a princess, and you'll have your dreams come true. Become a courageous character from history and have people admire your cleavage, courage, ass, and strength. Take on the beer maiden and nurse persona, and you could star in your own porno. I do realize that at its core, dressing up gives us power that we desire, but I have to wonder if we are actually giving up more power through some of our choices.

As mentioned, when it comes to clothes, I do tend to wander outside of the box. Since childhood, I have been fascinated by color, texture, shape, and lines. My style was continually evolving as I experimented with the super trendy along side what some would consider the super ugly, but through the process I wasn't trying to become a different person, but rather experimenting with creating the look that reflected the person I already was. I still get varying reviews on what I choose to wear (as a teacher I find myself with 60 new critics of 7th graders who are always eager to share their views) but the bottom line is that everything I own I truly love, and it tells a story about the type of person I am as it embraces the good, bad and creative parts in unison.

As I stood in that costume shop, I was disenchanted as I realized that every single person was happy to think inside the box and accept the package they were given as they believed it would transform them to the picture of what they aspired to be like. It saddened me to think that as an adult, dress up has stopped becoming the possibility of what we could attain to and dream of being, but rather it has become a process of trying to adhere ourselves to the mold that society tells us is enticing--which arguably means showing more cleavage and legs while returning to an object that has more to do with being dominated than with being powerful. (Or getting laid...but I won't digress down that road!)

I could tell my friend was not happy with her costume the sales lady was desperately trying to sell her, and suggested that we go to a regular store where we pulled from dresses and accessories to make an outfit that exuded creativity, style and glamor for less than what she would have paid. The bonus was that she was truly happy in the process of the creation, and it was great that she could wear the pieces in her everyday life as well.

I haven't yet fully decided what I will be this year, but I'm excited to see what I'll come up with. At least I know that whatever the outcome, for one night I'll get to be someone who I choose to create, rather than trying to fit into that glass slipper that will always rub blisters on my large feet.

I guess I'd rather be outside of the box than try to fit into a pre-packaged one that boasts "one size fits all". I think in the end I'll be happier with the treat I discover, because I know I haven't been tricked.

Happy Halloween!

Be Still; My Beating Heart

I have a new love.

Many who know me well will be shocked to learn that my decisive, logical, and over-analytical nature has allowed me to enter into a state that is known for its irrational behavior and constant variables.

However, (against many odds), I do find myself (and using a cliché I've often chided) falling head-over-heels in love. My new obsession: Ode Magazine for Intelligent Optimists.

Our unlikely union began when I caught sight of the magazine's tag line in a CVS store while browsing the latest Newsweek issue. They always say (whoever they are!) that you fall in love when you least expect it, and I guess I was victim of the same fate.

I re-read the slogan, "for intelligent optimists" and felt my heart start to twitter. While I do consider myself a pure optimist (my life work has been cheering and advocating for the underdogs) the jury is still out on the intelligence issue. Case in point: this afternoon I tried to unlock the front door of my house by pressing the "unlock" button on my car keys. I was standing there a few moments before I figured out the flaw in my thinking. At any rate, I started to develop a crush, and decided to investigate further as I read the magazine's byline and felt my heart start to pound with each sentence read:

"We are an independent international journal, without strings to the world of commerce and power. We believe in progress, ongoing opportunities, and the creativity of humankind. We contribute to the progress by publishing stories about people and ideas that are making a difference. We address society's problems too, because they represent opportunities for positive change. We publish stories that bridge the gap of the rich and poor. By doing so we build peace and sustainability. this is the news we promise to deliver. We offer our readers the chance to link up with an international network of inspiration and cooperation, strengthening the forces devoted to respect, justice and equality. This way we hope to invite them to make their own contributions to a more just and sustainable world Ode Magazine)".

Needless to say, this paragraph was a major turn-on, and I felt my cold, cold heart start to melt.

That was the moment our love affair began.

Like a good love interest, Ode brings new ideas and perspectives into my life, as it causes me to analyze situations in new and challenging ways, while always paying homage to my previous convictions (and allowing me to change at my own pace!). It is smart, witty, full of interesting conversational pieces, and allows my mind to wander to far away places. Its the perfect companion after a long day of tireless work, and it always brings out the best in me without being too preachy or patronizing. However, above all, Ode has the one quality that makes it an irresistible companion above all others: it truly, deeply understands me and my needs! :)

No more do I have to feel inadequate as I yearn for interesting news stories and human interest pieces that are intellectual and meaningful. No longer do I need to feel bombarded by topics that depress me and call for internalization and unsatisfied grappling. Gone are the days of reading articles and feeling our world is a mean, cruel place with no room for growth and prosperity. This one magazine has taken my dreams, and made them a concrete-and not irrational-reality. To me, that is true love.

Now before I take this metaphor too far (perhaps I have already crossed that line!) it is hard to find simple inspiration in a world where negativity (not just sex) sells. I realize that I am in a profession that seems to be in constant turmoil as we face problems and issues that at times seem unsolvable, and I know that our nation is steeped in "bad vibes" (whether it be about the economy, the environment, commerce, safety, prosperity, development, religiosity, politics, education, health, foreign policy or many other topics). In addition, we live in a world where we don't feel as if we have any control, so we complain to regain some of the power that we have lost in order to attempt to deal with our feelings of being unsatisfied (as with any bad relationship).

As a critical thinker, I do realize its a little asinine of me to think that one magazine has the capability to wave a magic wand and change all of the complex issues that we face as citizens of the world, but it does attempt to make us take stock in our meta-cognitive capabilities and think outside of the box instead of just complain about it. I have a lot of friends and colleagues who want to tell me what is wrong with the world, (and think that I live in a utopian bubble of optimistic idealism that could one day qualify me for a psychiatric ward) but very few who help me focus on what is good with this existence that I wake up to each day. I appreciate Ode because it takes theory to a new level and actually doesn't just tell me about what is good in life (or help me tune-out to its negative tendencies through the media's distracting massage), but it illustrates to me people and situations that are beating the odds by making idealism occur everyday. As a bonus, its not as cheesy or unrealistic as a Lifetime movie, either.

As I sit here with a big, toothy, twitterpated grin (procrastinating on all of the undesirable things I have to do today), I find myself realizing that perhaps true love is possible after all. It starts with my ability to be inspired, and the courage to actually live a life on the less-traveled road of optimism. When contemplating the dull humdrum of suburban society, Jack Kerouac in The Dharma Bums said, "You'll see what I mean, when it begins to appear like everybody in the world is soon going to be thinking the same way and the Zen Lunatics have long joined dust, laughter on their dust lips" (104).

Perhaps some may see me as a "Zen Lunatic" but at least I know that now I have an entity in my life that will accept me as I am, and make no harsh judgment.

In the end, THAT is all a single gal could ask for. :)

Ah! Look at all the Lonely People...

Ah! Look at all the Lonely People!
Current mood: contemplative


Disclaimer: This blog would be enhanced by listening to the Beatle's song, "Eleanor Rigby" as I make reference to their lyrical genius.

I found a lonely person this past Sunday morning as I searched for a place to sit at the coffee shop. I wasn't looking for a long conversation to go with my chai tea and un-graded persuasive essays, but I settled into one as I shared a table with Susan, a 50-something modern day Eleanor Rigby who was visiting her parents for the weekend. Her big dilemma for the day revolved around whether or not she was going to venture out for a bike ride, but the wind was intimidating. After hearing several anecdotal stories about her cats and the challenges she faced while substitute teaching, I was ready to brave the wind and find solace in a table outside.

I didn't, for fear that my papers would blow everywhere. After another half hour, my best "listening" smile was beginning to strain, and I reached into my red purse, and made a great show of looking for a grading pen, hoping she could take a hint. As I hunted for my favorite purple gel pen, I saw the book I was savoring to read after work had been done, and was reminded of a passage I had underlined earlier this week:

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to talk, mad to live, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles".

Instantly, my mind flashed to some pages that are taped into the back of my Bible. They had been put there during my freshman year at college as encouraged by our Life and Teachings teacher, a little silver-haired man who loved to have us sing hymns before class started, and never quite caught on that the boys in the back requested extra verses just to waste time. The image of Father McKenzie writing his sermons comes to mind. At any rate, I've always intended to remove them after they had served their purpose after my class final, but I feared that peeling the tape off would ruin the binding.

I've only re-read their contents a few times when I've been in a very boring church service, as they are simply a collection of outlines and quotations revolving around major themes in the book of Matthew. Mostly, they all point to the concept of being a missionary, as they unpack the parables involving people or things hoping to be found, or waiting to be noticed.

As I thought about those pages, I couldn't help but notice the fact that perhaps Jack Kerouac could have been writing words of Jesus. I saw the ten virgins waiting outside as they held their oil that, "burn, burn, burns, like fabulous yellow roman candles". My mind flashed to the prodigal son, wanting and "desirous of everything at the same time". I thought of the colorful characters Jesus associated with who never, "said a commonplace thing", and the lost coin, sheep and son who are, "mad to be saved". I pictured Martha who was, "mad to talk", and the sick who were, "mad to live". As I pondered about how Jack wrote from his experiences on an open road, I couldn't help but draw comparison to Jesus as he went from one shadowy street to another witnessing the lost and lonely.

My mom uses the phrase, "it's a God thing" when she explains the times when the divine meets ordinary. I wish at the time I could have recognized that this was one of those possible moments, but instead of walking across the room and sharing these thoughts with Susan, I reached for my purple pen. She took the hint, and moved to an open table as I began to grade.

A few minutes later I glanced up, and saw her talking to the person she had intended to meet: a blind woman who frequents the coffee shop with her cuddly white dog. I watched their easy conversation as they smiled and shared stories. Later I saw Susan navigate her friend across the street as the wind gently nudged the edges of their clothing, like a child tugging to play.

My ipod drowned out all sounds as I finally had the space I had previously desired. I sipped my lukewarm chai tea as my purple pen flourished advice and correction across the wrinkled pages. Later as I booted up my Mac to enter in the grades, I saw that in a room full of people, I was the only one sitting alone.

Perhaps when we don't take the time to seek the ones who are mad, longing to be saved, or burning like roman candles, we are the lonely people picking up the rice where a wedding has been, left by those virgins who listened.

All the Lonely people...where do they all come from? Where do they all belong?

I believe that both Jesus and Jack know the answer to that one.

I looked out the window, and feared that perhaps I was the one wearing the face that I keep in a jar by the door. Like I was saying earlier, I found a lonely person this past Sunday morning at the coffee shop.

I just didn't think that it was going to be me.

The Great 7th Grade Myth

The Great 7th Grade Myth
Current mood: optimistic

Whenever anyone finds out what I do for a living, they look at me with a sideways glance and reply, "really?", or "I'm sorry" (like I was forced into my job instead of choosing it), and my favorite, "wow...you must be brave".

I never know quite what to say, because I really do like my job, and I'm not lying.

Yes, teaching comes with a stigma, and teaching 7th grade adds to that. Teaching inner city 7th grade in a school where white people are the minority causes alarm.

However, I beg to differ:

Yesterday, I led out my entire class in the "plot chart cheer", and my "baggy-pants-serious-faced-macho boys" where standing up in the front of the room with me, clapping their hands and giving their best cheerleader inpersonation as we chanted about the elements of a plot chart (with a highkick included). If I didn't set a time limit, they could have done that exercise throughout our entire class period.

However I did encourter one disipline issue: I did have to ask one boy to put away his cell phone because he wanted to film our lesson and put it on utube.
This is normal for a day at school.

I can assure you this isn't because of me. I am not a super teacher that merits having a movie made about my life. Aside from fun plot chart cheers and activities, I am known for being strict. I am a gum nazi, (I can spot it a mile away) and there will be consequences if it shows up in my class. My students are also required to sit in "student posture--hands on desk, back straight, feet square on the floor--and if you get an F in my class, there are mandatory study sessions that you have to attend after school with me to catch up. Learning isn't optional; it's mandatory.

What I am willing to propose is that my students--while being inner city 7th graders--are still students. In reality, I find my job easier than most would think, because all 7th graders want to do is follow a leader.

If there is any trick, its being a leader that they are willing to follow.

I do have stiff competition: their favorite music artists, their older crush, their siblings, TV shows, the internet, their beloved X boxes and my biggest rival: their friends.

However, what most of them won't tell you is that they would take a healthy relationship with an adult anyday over those things, because usually that is the one thing that they need more of.

When I look at my classes, I don't look for gangstas, grafetti artists, future abusers and drug users, potential teen parents, intended welfare recipients or criminals. Call me crazy, but I see boys and girls excited about doing a plot chart cheer, who score well on state tests, who sit up straight in my class, and who are happy to be in school away from those realities that do exist in their homes.

The social and psychological pressures of 7th grade are bad enough without having those negative labels thrust on students at such a young age.

Whenever people tell me that they feel bad for me because of what I do, I wish that I could take them into my classroom to experience the positive things that occur at my school and in the lives of these students.

I know if I had to choose between their 9-5 office job (with the luxury of a longer lunch) and my classroom filled with harmonal 7th graders, I would choose my class everyday. Bring on the plot chart cheer! Nothing beats seeing a 7th grade guy do a high kick in the name of characterization.

Wanderlust: My Franco Swiss Adventure

Wanderlust
Current mood: contemplative

Wanderlust.

I love this word...how the syllables roll off of your tongue, and the synonyms it evokes. I'm afraid that it has become a hungry mantra for me that begs me to give into its cravings. Obey I did...and booked myself a ticket to Geneva, Switzerland to see my friends Katherine and Juli Giselle.

March 31, 2007 Los Angeles International Airport

Musings: My mind is full of work, responsibilities and the realization that I am a card-carrying member of the adult world. I'm wanting the plane to transport me not only out of the country, but away from the stress that accompanies a real job, bills, and rude bank tellers who think that being patronizing is a clever way of flirting. I love the feeling of taking off. While some are anxious, I feel my body weight fall into the seat, and savor the feeling of being forced to sit, be still, and relinquish control...if only it wasn't for those two yappy high school girls and their game boy, it would have been the most pleasant plane ride.

March 31, 2007 Amsterdam International Airport

Musings: I'm still thinking about work, and contemplating the finality of decisions that are made while one is still youthful. I think about my future self, and try to imagine her peering at me sitting in the airport, knowing the travels that lay ahead. One of my co-workers made a bad decision when she was young, and now she is sitting in a jail cell. I'm sitting in an orange airport chair, and reflecting on how we get to where we are. At the time those decisions seem small and perhaps insignificant, but I know all too well that every cause must have an effect and vice versa. In fact, its Reading Comprehension standard 2.3: Analyze text that uses cause and effect organizational pattern. Ironically the next standard is 2.4: Identify and trace the development of an author's argument, point of view, or perspective in the text. The greatest text of all is our life, and I think about the chapters that I'm writing and the arguments, points of view and perspectives that are shaping their plot.

All too soon irony is biting me in the ass.

Cause: I bought Clinique make-up to help smooth over my haggard appearance. In my haste, I opened the seal-proof bag and failed to read the tiny letters that warned doing so would make me a criminal and ensure the contents to be confiscated. (I just throught that they were being efficient about theft and shoplifting). I realize my folly, and inquire politely if I can obtain a new vacuum seal bag, since I do have the receipt. I am told that this is impossible, because by opening it, I have taken prime opportunity to inject chemicals into the make-up that I will use to blow up the plane. (chemicals which I would have needed to fashion out of things I could have bought at the terminal, or smuggled with me from California.)
Effect: I boldy decide to await my fate and keep the make-up in my carry-on, (although I would be lying if I didn't contemplate stashing it in a plant so that I could use it during my layover the following week). As luck (or common sense) would have it, it was less than 100 mL, and allowed to be placed into a tiny bag that I could carry with me. As a result, I am no longer a terrorist threat.

April, 1 2007 Café Remor, Geneva Switzerland

Musings: Nothing beats sitting in a café with an espresso, slipping stares at the strangers sitting around. My nose sniffs cigarrette smoke, and I'm reminded that I'm not in California anymore. During the morning we went to the modern art museum "Modem", where I learned that it is possible to build a tower that will cast a shadow on the entire state of North Dakota. I'm not sure which distrurbs me more: the fact that it is possible or the fact that someone took the time to figure it out. I also enjoyed an exhibit entitled, "Lucé, Lucé, Lucé" that took an entire room and filled it with bright, blinding yellow sand. I do have a love affair with light.

Also in the museum was posted a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson that spoke about how beauty isn't something that is manufactured, but rather it springs up between our feet, and we intrinsically know it for what it is. This resonates with me. I look around and see the ideas exchanged in this café as beautiful, even if it is in a language that is not my own. I like how here, people take the time to sit in cafés, and how there is not "take out" food or coffee. In the convience land of America, I think we've forgotten what it feels like to sit and look one another in the eye, rather than slink off to our isolating cars or self-serving TV shows. In creating "instant" we've also manufactured the fear of sitting beside a stranger.



April 2, 2007 Café Remor

Musings: I love the fact that I am at the same café, because it feels for a second that I could be a regular, even though my grand total for staying in this city is about 3 1/2 days. I've just been intorduced to the muscial genius Cibelle, who uses everyday objects such as kitchen spoons and coffee grinds in her music. I've always been a sucker for using the ordinary to obtain extrordinary. As I write, Juli and Katherine are deep in converstation over whether or not understanding the concept of dinosaurs are pivotal to the Christian experience, and there is a greasy, bearded man who is sitting behind them intruding on their space with his musty smell.

I choose to reflect on my day with Katherine, where we set off to discover the city and broke bread and cheese in the botanical gardens, walked up cobblestone streets to a large city plaza, and captured the rays of sunglight in my naturally sweetened iced tea glass.

Soon after, we were at a park near the University of Geneva that boasts life-size chess games where individuals of young and old come to battle wits. I had begged Katherine to take me to these famous swings that resemble a May pole, and I was slightly dismayed to realize that they were right in the middle of the chess action, and we would be on display flying about in skirts and dresses for all to see. I had a moment of self-consciousness, and after a pep-talk on the tire swing, called up the child within me who could care less what others really thought. Besides, when you are in a foreign country, that is the perfect time to let out the person who is kept on a short leash. So we flew.

As I pause to take a sip of espresso, I am aware that the man is now standing up, and heading toward our table. I refuse to give him my eyes, and sneakily observe him ask Juli for a kiss. He seems shocked when she refuses, and she is shocked with his lips inches apart from hers. After he leaves, I speculate that if he was better looking, perhaps his request might have been granted, or at least met with more politeness. I am fully aware of how non "PC" this thought is, but I suppose that there are some situations where human nature wins out, no matter how "equal opportunist" one tries to be.

We leave the café, and observe the handsome strangers on the bus back to Colongé. I suspect if they offered a kiss, my little leash might not be so tight. Afterall, I'm practically a regular.



April 3, 2007 Girls' Dorm, Colongé, France

Musings: If I attended this school, I would be tempted to waste hours simply by staring out the window each day. It is just clear enough to see the snow-capped mountains of Switzerland, and as the sun pulls itself over the mountain and floods the window with light, I'm reminded at what a luxury slow mornings are. Here, I take an hour to get ready, savoring each methodic moment, and taking the time to carefully brush each eyelash with a swipe of mascara, or floss systamatically between each tooth without forcefully shredding my gums. From this routine, you wouldn't know that normally I can get ready in 15 minutes flat, and that more often than not, my "layered" look comes from picking up clothes that are lying around rather than planning out an outfit.

Yesterday we had a bit of rain, and Juli and I cuddled up as we shared her orange umbrella as we walked around the streets of Geneva. For lunch, we had an increadible meal at the "Ethno Café", where we had stuffed eggplant, homemade hummus and a large tray of grilled veggies accompanied with mashed potatoes and spring rolls. With our leek soup appetizer, it was a very ethnic experience indeed. We sat on faded lime green velvet arm chairs, ate off of a coffee table, and the water was served with mint and lemon. The ambiance and cuisine were both so delicious, that I was sorry this was to be a solo dining opportunity.

After meeting up with Katherine, we walked about the University of Geneva, appearing quite girlish as we skipped about and trailed Katherine on her bicycle. Apparently I did more than a "hop and a skip", and suddenly I felt a strand on my beaded necklace break, and head south down my dress. Strangely, nothing "came out" (I won't get into the physics of this situation, but at the movies, sometimes I drop popcorn down my shirt, and its difficult to retrieve the wayward pieces discreatly)! However, after walking up a hill and feeling intact, I thought that perhaps I had imagined the entire incident. An hour later, I was proved wrong when we were strolling through the shopping district when suddenly little beads started to escape from my turquoise baby-doll dress, and roll swiftly down the sidewalk. All I could do was walk steadily forward, and hope that I was not mistaken for a shoplifter or practical joker, for fear that someone would need to inspect my dress! There are some things that are just too absurd to explain.

The day ended with success as I found the exact vitange postcards I was seeking out, and we decided to take dining into our own hands as we made "tomato-ricotta-petso" pasta. (I dare you to say that five times fast!) The best part was the "carmelized" bits of fresh parmesean cheese and basil. If possible, I believe that I love lazy evenings just as much as their morning counterpart. The only flaw was at one point of the meal when I felt something roll down my torso. I guess sometimes footprints aren't the only things that we leave behind.



April 4, 2007 Bed and Breakfast, Evian France

Musings:Juli and I said adieau to both Switzerland and Katherine, and took a train to Evian, France, birthplace of the glamorous water. The idea was to simply check my bags and take a look around, but when we got off the train, we realized that we had three options: 1) carry my luggage on this excursion 2) get on the train and not see Evian 3) beg a hotel to keep my bags. As spontaneous girls, we created our own option 4) Stay in a bed and breakfast for the night.

The manager was very friendly and accomodating, and even gave us the option of joining a gym for a day. Apparently, Evian is percieved as a health and rejuvination destination. As true Americans we declined the gym membership, but opted instead to eat!

We found a café overlooking the water, and sat down in a booth next to an older woman pristinely cutting her steak. Two cuts later, the woman was engaged in conversation with Juli, which lasted for the remainder of the meal. In French, she kept apologizing and admitting she was infringing on social boundaries, but at the same she was not going to lose her captive audience. Apparently, after a certain age you've earned the right to pass on pearls of wisdom, and hers ranged from how to rear children to details about the three residences she owned and gossip about all the workers who were employed at the café. Her and Juli exchanged addresses, and she told us that when we first entered she thought we were teenagers. Her parting advice: "Smiling always makes you look younger". She also told me that she liked my name, and was going to compose a song on the piano using it as the title. Somewhere in Evian, a tune is being played that commemorates my presence in the town. As we watched the waiter put away the pillow that she sat on each day, I was reminded of the gift that is given when we allow ourselves to listen.

Perhaps it was a rejuvinating experience after all.


April 4, 2007 Evian, France
Musings: After leaving the café, we decided to make use of our time to shop around. To me, true vacation is observing patterns of life, which allow me to vacate my familiar routines. Shops that had been closed during the afternoon lunch period now were open, and like small treasure chests they cracked open their doors illumintating the gems that lay inside.

We stopped inside one shop that boasted scarves swinging softly on the sales racks. As soon as we were inside, we were met with a thick, high pitched whiny Texan accent. "Buht hon-ey...I juhst KNOW that zeebrah thing will look fancy next to the fireplace". When she went to purchase the zebra jug (whichlooked like it had been imported from Africa), she became confused when the saleswoman offered her a price different than what she thought it should be. As she protested, we realized that the entire shop was filled with Texan tourists who were picking out cheaply made scarves that clashed with their distracting outfits. After a few moments of confusion, Juli explained that the price was correct, but they had misread the 7, mistaking it for a 1."Thank Gawd you speak English!" said the woman. Her husband added, "We need to take ya'll with us foh the rest of our trip! No one here understands us! (Although there was no doubt that everyone could certainly hear them). Juli and I could hardly stiffle our giggles as another hairsprayed and teased woman bought a scarf, and proceeded to put it on (which provided greater mismatched contrast). She turned to her friends and said, "See girls, this is my French scarf!" When I wear it at home, I'll get to tell everyone I got it in France!"

Nevermind that it was made in Asia.


April 4, 2007 Evian Casino, Evian France

Musings: As if running into the Texan tourists didn't provide us with enough flash, Juli and I decided to kill some time trying our hand at the Casino, which seemed to be one of Evian's most prized attractions. As soon as we stepped into the ringing of electronic machines and mezmerizing neon lights, I felt for the first time that I could be in America, land of excess.

We recieved our plastic change buckets armed with 5 euros in coins, and set off to conquer gambling, although neither of us had any idea how. We tried out the slot machines, and became dismayed when nothing spectacular happened when we put in our money and turned the handle. We then wandered around the casino trying to master anything including computer poker and a game that involved linking neon icons together, but we could not understand how to get the blinking electronic figures to do anything significant. Feeling helpless and out of our league, we tried to watch other gamblers in order to glean their secrets, but no understanding came as we sensed we were making people nervous with our peering eyes.

Determined not to give up easily, we ventured to new slot machines that were perched in their own section with higher stools that looked like thrones. Perhaps we just needed to change environments and get away from the ringing noises. As we sat down in the plush seat, my heart lurched with joy when I saw a mountain of coins in the receptacle. Calculating that there must be at least 30 euros for the taking, I felt that finally our luck had changed. Sadly, I did not see the man three machines down who immediately came to scoop up his treasure, and looked at us like we were insane for thinking someone would leave a pile of money for the taking. I guess gambling makes even the best of us a little naîve.

Defeated and feeling quite anti-climatic, we settled down at some 20 euro cent slot machines to empty our plastic change cups along with our pride. After about five tries, one of us had our first small victory, and the sound of coins clanking into the metal tray was exhilerating. Like the little red devil perched on top of a person's shoulder, it invited us to keep going. Just as one of us was about to empty our buckets, some coins would spill, and we would feel accomplished--like we were defying the world and getting something for free. Soon however, we were left with a single 50 cent euro coin, and everything else had disappeared out of those buckets. As we we were walking out, I placed that final 50 cent piece in a lone slot machine, and to my surprise, recieved five euros in coins. I left with no more--and no less--than what I came with. Feeling relieved, I left the electric noise and smoke behind. No wonder what ever happens in Vagas stays there. I doubt its worth bringing home.



April 5, 2007 Old Town Plaza, Lyon, France

Musings: Juli and I are awaiting our "Floridian" créme de la glacé accompanied with a yellow curry crépe at an outdoor café. My ears are drawn to the sounds of a street band offering lively melodies created with accordion, guitar, and bass. We have just descended from the cathedral Basilique Notre-Dame overlooking the city, and like a slide projector, I continue to play the pristine view in my head over and over again with the click of each footstep that I hear agianst the stones of the street. My mind's eye goes back to the golden murals inside the gothic walls which caught the mixed illumination of both the candles and stained glass windows, as each ornate figure representing stories from the Old Testament seemed to jump off the towering block walls. Built in honor of the Virgin Mary, each one of the four towers stands for cardinal virtue including strength, temperance, prudence and justice. I do yearn for symbolism and art in the decor of the churches that I frequent. Pictures and art sometimes speak volumes more than what we are able to articulate.

Our mint chocolate and mango sorbet ice cream has arrived carefully drizzled with sweet sauces, mint, and whipped creme. As I indulge, I certainly realize that my words cannot do this art form any justice at all.

April 5, 2007 Claire's Apartment, Vienne, France

Musings: This morning I awoke to the sounds of a morning street market as vendors boasted their fresh flowers and produce. This moment was the product of yet another unplanned venture that occured when we met Claire, a friend of Julie's on the train from Lyon to Vienne. Though she did not speak English and I don't converse in French, we both knew enough Spanish to exchange phrases and inquries about our different lives. What became immediately evident was her hospitable and generous heart as Juli and I found ourselves at a small detour to the local grocery store as Claire insisted on cooking us a traditional French dinner called, "raclette". We lugged my suitcase up the three flights of old tile stairs of her apartment building, and were soon munching on appetizers as we talked about our favorite musical artists and movie stars. It has been my experience that as long as there is Hollywood and the Billboard Charts, Americans will have some allure overseas, no matter who we are at war with. I'm not sure which is more disturbing.

Claire's younger sister also joined us, and we partook in a fulfilling meal that involved melting several types of cheese under a personal grill, and pouring it over potatoes and pickles (the vegetarian version). The smokey flavors of the cheese coupled with the soft potatoes melted in my mouth with each bite. After being introduced to the freshness of French cuisine, I understand why they look down on our addiction with processed food.

Our meal turned into a sleep-over, and they introduced Juli and I to a Johnny Depp film entitled, "Cry Baby". After giggling hysterically through the movie which resembled a bad spoof of "Grease", we felt a little bad as Claire's younger sister stared at us with bewilderment. Afterall, she knew each song and cheesy choreographed cartwheel by heart. Apparently, there are things that indeed get lost in translation. Johnny Depp portraying a emotional tough guy (his parents are killed by the electric chair) who falls for the prissy blond just wasn't a movie that we were dying to see when we returned home, except perhaps to mock it.

However, as I glance down at the busy street market, I realize that they probably laugh at our drive-thrus and super size mentality, so I guess it all is relative.



April 6, 2007 On a train heading to a country town, France

Musings: Growing up, I always wished that I could have ice cream for breakfast, and not be required to justify why. My rite of passage was granted as today our breakfast consisted of Häagen-Dazs ice cream cones that we consumed at the Lyon Train Station where we were to meet up with Juli's friend Adam, and his mother who was visiting from Washington, D.C. We had enjoyable conversations as we traversed through the historic part of town. For lunch, we sat outdoors in a quaint café, and had a grand time discussing our past and present travels. As we sat conversing about education, the languages we knew, the places we had seen, and the experiences we have had, I felt quite fortunate and well-rounded. After all, I was finally old enough to eat ice cream for breakfast and answer to no one! :)

We said our goodbyes, and Juli and I went to a puppet theatre where we took in a show, as Lyon is famous for their hand carved and detailed puppets. The plot involved traveling around parts of the world, and it was very entertaining to hear French voices take on other accents, especially a western drawl.

We spent the rest of the day shopping, walking around, and losing ourselves in the alluring pace of having no particular place to go. When our stomachs started to suggest we eat yet again, we settled on yet another café, and our table happened to be next to yet another large group of travelers, whose various accents all spoke English. The pinnacle of the meal was when a tall, awkward 20-something American took on the famous delicacy escargot. This excited him greatly, and much to the chagrin of all those around, he proceeded to loudly disect his food before actually committing to eat it. His fellow travelers added to the spectacle by snapping pictures as he indeed did justice to the stereotype of the clumsy and somewhat ignorant American traveler.

Just as I was admiring how savvy Juli and I were at traveling aboad (afterall, I take great pleasure knowing that I am an aware traveler), irony humbled me again as we realized that we had 18 minutes to run to the metro, get to the train station, purchase our tickets and catch the train to Vienne. Unfortunately, French service isn't exactly rapid (and we still had not recieved our dessert course), and 10 minutes later we were running through the cobblestone streets, skirts flying about, holding our chocolate tarts in hand. Several locals tried to run along beside us, as we made a very unusual sight. As we arrived panting and somewhat sweaty at the metro, we knew that we had missed our train, and the cab fare was equivalent to a hotel. Juli called Adam to get the number of a friend of a friend that he knew who might let us sleep on his floor.

All we could do was shrug our shoulders, mulling over the prospect of asking for the help of a complete stranger, and realizing how ridiculous our situation was. Adam soon called back with another plan: if we ran, we could go back the direction from where we just came, and catch the last train to his town 40 minutes in the other direction, and crash on his floor instead. He was driving with his mom the next morning toward our town, and they would kindly rescue us and dop us off. Afterall, his mom would worry about two young girls wandering about a large city by themselves, or sleeping on the floor of a person that they had never met.

No matter how many rites of passage that I go through, I guess that sometimes I still need to be rescued, despite how grown-up or competent I may percieve myself to be. Perhaps I jumped on "ice cream for breakfast" just a little too soon.



April 7, 2006 Juli's Apartment, Vienne, France

Musings: When given a choice between something old and something new, I almost always prefer the former. I enjoy the imaginative power that comes with trying to figure out the story that coincides with the object, and I do grow quite comfortable with the familiar. Whether it has been books, clothes, home decor or even shoes, I've felt comfortable with something that has had a past.

For example, I've used the same brand of toothbrush for quite some time now (which happens to be the kind that my dentist gives me for free). However, since we arrived at Adam's doorstep and did not bring our toothbrushes, he generously offered us unopened ones for the taking. I was skeptical, but I could still taste the remains of our meal. I pasted up, and as soon as I began to brush, Juli and I looked at each other, and knew that we were both experiencing the same phenomenon of falling in love...with a toothbrush.While they did not say in gold letters, "Richard Parker, DDS" they did boast special areas on the back that cleaned your cheeeks, tounge, and just about anything that resided in your mouth. Gave in I did: out with the old, in with the new...at least when it came to oral care.

Adam and his mom explored the weekend market with us, and again I felt myself drawn to the antique and aged. This time, it came in the form of cheese that carried a flavor which I am not even qualified to describe. I fingered old and rugged cloth through my hands, and admired how the market wrapped around the Roman ruins that Julius Ceasar had once called home.

After yet another lunch at an outdoor café, I finally faced the realization that I was about to leave the comfort of "old', and learn to embrace the "new" head-first. Literally. I had an appointment with a hair dresser, who took the look I had boasted since 6th grade, and turned me into a chic
Cleopatra. In a good way. Not only did I get "fronge" on my forehead, but I had a complete lesson in haircare, as Julie kindly translated for the slick, blond hair mastresse my entire hair history along with tips on how to keep it from gettng haggard. Apparently, my "no-brushing-washing-every-three-to-four-days-minimalist-look" wasn't doing much in way of shine and health.

As I exited the salon, I caught my reflection in a café window and thought, "ooh-la-la". We walked past the Roman ruins, and as much as I admired them, I contemplated that living in them today wouldn't be the smartest thing to do.

When I returned to Juli's apartment, I tossed my old toothbrush and reached up to run my fingers through my newly-cut bangs. Admittedly, it feels good sometimes to let go.

April 8, 2007 Somewhere in the sky over the Atlantic Ocean

Musings: I've always disliked the time it takes to travel from one place to another, because it is those moments when I feel most displaced. I am no longer where I was, yet I have not arrived at where I am going. I'm simply suspended.

During this suspension, I've met three strangers, and was presented each time with a mirror charting a different perspective of myself.

After leaving Juli at the Vienne train station, I met a Chinese American woman who was living in Switzerland working in the corporate world. She had also worked in Malaysia, and we talked about Asian culture, our dreams, our work, and the importance of traveling along while exposing ourselves to outside perspectives and cultures. He parting words to me: "travel shapes you as an individual much more than staying in one place will. Your soul will always react to the changes it senses, but become complacent by the routines that it is often surrounded with".

At the airport in Geneva, I befriended a British woman returning from a skiing holiday in Germany. We discussed Boots pharmacy, the value of single life, and the differences between culture in America and England. We even got around to talking about the weather. Her parting words to me: "You are really quite nice for an American".

On the plane on my way to Los Angeles, the Iranian man sitting in the aisle seat in my row was up figeting for the entire plane trip. He would nervously rolls his fingers, and could not get into a comfortable position. I tried to push politically incorrect thoughts from my brain, but I did think about what my reaction would be if he was a suicide terroist. As we became close to landing, he confessed to me that he was not able to sleep, as over $3000 and his wife's heirloom jewelery including her wedding ring had been stolen the night before on a train to the airport. He had come from the middle east visiting his mother, and now he had to return to America a poorer man. Instantly, the guilt welled up inside me for my previous thoughts, and I listened as he poured out his lament. Talk soon turned to jobs and where we lived, and ironically we discovered that we resided both in Redlands, approximately 5 mintues away from one another. His parting words to me: "Are you sure that you have a ride from the airport? It would be no trouble for my son and I to take you home."

It is a small world, afterall.

April 9, 2007 Regal Court, Redlands, California

Musings: My bags are packed, but they are not about to go anywhere. Instead, I am sitting on my suitcase, trying to gather up all of my experiences from the past week so that I can have something to hold onto when life starts getting mundane.

Wanderlust.

I still love the way that those syllables roll off of my tounge.

It is the promise that there is something outside myself calling me to new adventures, new people, and new cups of espresso to accompany my thoughts.

It begs me to forget about the rude bank teller, the stresses at work, the dust on my picture frames, and the papers I have yet to grade. It is the promise that one plane ride can transport me not only into another country, but into another reality that teaches me lessons and offers revelations that did not exist the week before. It gives the gift of being anonymous, and looking at yourself through a new angle as you pour over the photos.

I know that I'll always lust after wandering. Even though my body resides in one geographic area most of the time, my spirit longs for packed bags, my passport, and my worn travel journal resting inside my satchel. These are my favorite things, as they are symbolic of all the new stories yet to be told, and the new me waiting to be discovered.

Growing Pains

Growing Pains
Current mood: calm
Category: Goals, Plans, Hopes

Growing up.

This phrase has continued to baffle me as I make the great change from being claimed on my parents' taxes as a dependant, and now listing my own name under "head of household". In many ways, I now have the life that most consider to be an adult one: I have a real teaching job that includes benefits and my own set of keys, I recieve my mail addressed to a 1920s Spanish style cottage where I now reside and I have a finance book where I not only log my earnings, but make decisions about investments and future vacations I will take.

These things seem to qualify me as an adult , but there are still moments when I wish I could be a kid again. I long for someone to tell me to "play outside until dark" for my own good, and I wish my mom would make me homemade juice bars and bring them to me by the pool. I'm past the age when I can vent my feelings through a temper tantrum, or spend the entire day without worrying about the adult pressures of deadlines and future plans.

I guess the funny thing about growing up is that it is never stabilized until death, because it is something that you spend every moment partaking in. So I'll guess I'll just file my own taxes, and try to make time for that juicebar, and revel in the small victory of making it this far, with so much more to look forward to. Afterall, my days of being a senior citizen are WAY into the future!