Soapbox: The Way I see Things

At the Edge of Wild, Part 2

You may want to read part 1 before this post. Or not. Who knows? It just may stand on its own. But I’m trying a hybrid fiction-poetry piece, and to be honest? I’m kind of digging it.

she sat
there,
a pixel
suggesting a curve in the road,

away from her lines
and her lists
and her rules
and her places
and her things

and she worried
about opening up
to this space

and she worried
would the ground hold her feet?
would gravity still hold her
to her moorings?

what if

when she stepped,
she stepped out,
her world fell away, if
she plunged into wild?

or what if

when she stepped,
she stepped in,
her world came alight, if
she had at once
arrived?

to be continued…

thanks again to Memoir of a Writer for the inspiration!

At the Edge of Wild, Part 1

thanks to Memoir of a Writer for providing the inspiration for this post.

“Something will have gone out of us as a people if we ever let the remaining wilderness be destroyed … We simply need that wild country available to us, even if we never do more than drive to its edge and look in.”
― Wallace Stegner, The Sound of Mountain Water

Had she been driving with the windows down, playlist off, phone notifications silenced, she might have felt at one with the growl of tires on loose gravel, or allowed the matted damp musk of a forest after the just-rain to even her keel.

But she, hands at ten and two, cruise control set, knew by her navigation app that this place, this pixel on her screen, was not the programmed destination. That this space of curved routes, of buffering coverage, would give way to the comfort of lines upon lines, to the contentment of street names and strip malls and traffic lights. Of places to go, things to do.

Until the fox.

She almost missed it, shaggy and sauntering, trotting its way at the side of the road. But there it was. And she had never seen a fox before, not one outside of a cage, or an exhibit, or a museum display. Not one ever in its intended space. And all of a sudden, she was not sure if she’d never seen one because they’d been elusive, or if she had simply never looked.

Despite herself, she found herself off-course.

She broke. Shifted. Killed her engine.

There, in that very particular silence that fell, in that very stillness she had guarded herself from, in that very quiet she had for so long kept at bay, she now sat.

(to be continued)

Emptying My Pockets

of the seeds that rattle around,
the ones that want to grow:

the poem about my wilderness
within

that story about the Wife
going out into that world

that entry about school stuff being
just like chores

the poem about
recipes
written in the hands
of those I love

that letter expressing my
profound gratitude

that other story
about the woman
who carries
the weight of the world

I sometimes roll them around
my palm
or my mind
feeling them grow
shiny and smooth
as river stones

And it helps to think

they don’t care
when they’re watered
or how much sunlight
or how fertile the soil –

they wait
til I am ready
to dig.

Advice to a Young Writer of Fiction

The secret, she said,
with a wink

is to remember that this world is yours:

how
does the protagonist emerge
and what
has he gained
and what
has he won

that is up to you,

and it does not matter

how strange the setting
how twisty the plot
how odd the character
how silly the events

you can take us anywhere

as long as you can see it
as long as you can feel it
as long as you believe it

and we will be along for the ride.

Old Dogs

Today I taught myself a new trick.

If I weren’t ~~too cheap to do~~ so thrifty about WordPress Premium, what you’d see below is video of me putting a sweatshirt on while doing a handstand against a wall.

Instead you’ll get my play-by-play.

Why, on God’s green earth, should I put it into my head that THIS is something I would want to do? Because I saw someone else do it. It looked challenging. And I like being upside-down. And I like learning things.

It starts with the sweatshirt on the ground, and me bucking up my resolve.

And then I work to get the first sleeve on. I’m not going to lie. This part took a LOT of practice. It was one thing to get my hand in, but to work my way all the way until I could see fingers poking through? HEAVENS.

Were I not ~~cheap~~ so thrifty, and were I to have WordPress Premium, you would note at this point in the video that I am somewhat out of breath. But I am ~~cheap~~ thrifty, so I can just let you think it’s all really easy as I fight the second sleeve – which, to my surprise, was less challenging once I realized I could wiggle my arm around without losing balance.

From there it was a matter of poking my head through:

Then straightening everything out:

Gravity is REALLY working against me here.

And calling this a win:

I try not to be THAT PERSON who posts every workout to social media, but here’s why I’m talking about it in this post.

I was never physically fit as a kid. I never even valued being physically fit, probably because I never believed that I could be both smart AND athletic at the same time.

And now, as a teacher of really smart kids, I think it’s my obligation to make sure my kiddos know that they can be more than one thing. That they can try things that scare them. That they can take something they feel terrible at and turn it into something they are good at.

So, no. You aren’t going to see me posting every single workout or athletic endeavor. Still, I like being able to put myself in the role of learner and come out on top.

Or…upside-down, as the case may be.

Cooking Something Up

Today, I was talking with a colleague about wanting to set up a writing community with some teachers in my district. Just a place where teachers who like to write can share their work, get feedback, troubleshoot and commiserate.

Part of that is because after participating in the Slice of Life story challenge, I’ve made a commitment to writing every day. And since the beginning of March, I’ve kept up on that.

I’ve gained a lot as a writer:
-I’m better at fiction than I give myself credit for
-I realize how much I crave and welcome feedback
-I like it when my writing makes other people think
-I’m better at putting things out into the world, even if I haven’t revised them a million times or feel 100% about them.

And that’s helped me in so many ways as a teacher, including:
-I was able to encourage a kid to post her work for others’ feedback, even though she didn’t think she spent enough time on it.
-I validated my students’ complaints that fiction is hard to write because it’s so hard to produce our mental image for others on paper.
-I convinced a student to drop a story that went nowhere in favor of a plot that had a clear focus.

And the best bonus? I now remember why I like to write.

I want that for my colleagues who write.

I don’t know what it would look like.

I don’t know who would even want to do it.

But I have to think there would be someone – even one – who would get something out of the experience, as I have.

Wish me luck.

Passover: A Mom’s Timeline

HOW TO REALLY DO PASSOVER LIKE A BOSS:

T minus one month:
Walk through the grocery stores. Marvel at the passover displays. Liken them to the Christmas decorations that go up the day after Halloween.

T minus two weeks:
Walk through same grocery stores. Consider that it’s probably time to develop a shopping list by figuring out how many boxes of matzo and matzo products are still hiding in the pantry from last year, still awaiting their redemption (and probably still just as fresh as the date of manufacture).

T minus one week:
Finally do the grocery shopping. Pick up another five pounds of matzo because it is, inexplicably, less expensive than a single box. Buy all of the stuff you’ll need to put a passover seder together.

T minus five days:
Watch your husband as he scampers around assembling the ingredients he’ll need to put the dinner portion of the seder together. Have fun texting him every four minutes as you randomly discover all those ingredients you forgot to get the first time you went shopping. Pro tip: try and get him just as he’s making his way to the cash register. Multiple times.

T minus three days:
Make the chicken soup. Pretend there’s enough room in the refrigerator to hold the stock pot once you’re done. It may involve moving the brisket your husband has made in advance, but don’t tell him that.

T minus one day:
Put together a list of all the things you are going to do to stay organized so that this year things go off without a hitch. Laugh at yourself because things never go off without a hitch. Bake the desserts because that’s your stress response to everything anyway.

T minus 12 hours:
Put together the matzo ball dough. Congratulate yourself for always having light and fluffy matzo balls. Remember, as soon as you do, that pride is the kiss of death. Boil the matzo balls for the requisite 40 minutes. Boil them for another 90 minutes, just to be on the safe side. Test them. Realize it will take another hour for them to actually be done.

T minus 10 hours:
Start to set the table with the tablecloth, candles and seder plates. Marvel at how together you really are.

T minus 9 hours:
Prepare the hard-boiled eggs. Make sure you forget to start the timer so it’s anybody’s guess how done they really are. Everyone likes a surprise!

T minus 2 hours:
Gasp because you have now let life completely interfere with preparing for the seder. Begin tossing together charoset and all the other random things that need to go on the table.

T minus 30 minutes:
Finish setting the table because SOMEONE needs to. Remember that there is not yet any mention of a vegetable for dinner. Come up with something from the fridge and throw it on the rack in the oven under the kugel. Promise yourself that everything will be all right.

T minus 15 minutes:
Remember that project you swore you’d complete last year? The one where you decided you were going to create your own cool haggadah for next year’s seder? Let it cross your mind as you fumble through your bookshelves for something to use this year. Forgo the kiddie books in favor of the passover card game you used last year.

T minus 10 minutes:
Separate the passover cards by “actual seder stuff” and “extra conversation stuff.” Deal out the actual seder cards to each place at the table. Save the extra conversation cards to use as punishment cards. Any time someone says something rude or cusses, they will need to pick up a conversation card and share it. Do not stop to think of the repercussions of this choice.

GO TIME!
Spend the first 20 minutes alternately going through the first four parts of the seder and fiddling with the Zoom features on your computer so that a grandparent can be seen or heard along with your family.

5 minutes in:
Secretly congratulate yourself for having put out olives and veggies to keep everyone happy while you perform the service. Also congratulate yourself for spreading the wealth and making everyone else help lead the service.

15 minutes in:
Feel your anxiety ratchet up as you watch the punishment card pile rapidly depleting. Perhaps this was not the best life choice.

45 minutes in:
Stagger through to the blessings over the food. Consider how quiet things get as soon as people actually get to eat. Say a prayer of gratitude that the punishment cards, while running dangerously low, have not yet run out.

1 hour 15 minutes in:
Meal is over. All bets are off. No one wants to look for the afikomen. Nobody wants to clear the table. Nobody wants to finish the service. Forget the passover cards. It is now time to play your mom card.

90 minutes in:
Punishment cards are long gone. Stumble through the last parts of the service in what can only be deemed as a land speed record. Wrap it up and Let Your People Go, for the love of all that’s right and good.

1 hour 40 minutes in:
Sneak all of the lime fruit slices that your family forgot to eat tonight. No one’s watching.

T minus one Hebrew calendar year:
Marvel, upon seeing your now-empty kitchen, what a fun time you had. Resolve to create an even more fun haggadah for next year.

Under the Wire

Today’s writing
will get snuck in

Like bites of chocolate
from the pantry
when the kids aren’t looking

Or the trip to the bathroom
only made possible
by the teacher across the hall
who will watch to make sure
no child explodes
in my absence

Or the extra steps I gain
by parking in the
very last spot
at the grocery store

Or the moment of sleep
I can manage
right before
the next summons for help
to find a shoe
or whatever it is
RIGHT THERE
on the shelf

A Burden I’ll Gladly Bear

Today
I could reach into my bag
Deepdeepdeep
And rustle up
Something good:

My teen guy,
Shambling into the kitchen
For one of those
Rare and
Charming
Extended chats about
Nothing
Out of nowhere
That reminds me how
Teen parenting
Is a lot like being on call

A video chat
With sweet kiddos
Who need help with
Organizationmanagementfollowthrough
But really need
Time to connect
About udon noodles
Or stuffies
Or ways to hide salmon in mashed potatoes

Reach my hand around in there
And I can also probably pull out

A walk in sunshine
With the dog who
Won’t leave my side
Except to sniff
At
Every
Little
Thing

This sack full,
This burden
I will gladly shoulder.

Ode to the Dinner Table

Now that so many of us are home, perhaps it’s time to once again write an ode to an ordinary object that just doesn’t get its due.

Most of the time,
You don’t notice me –
You just see
That water from last night’s dinner
Pretending someone will drink it
Or
The mail, sorted on people’s
Worn placemats until
It’s put out of its misery

I’m not where anyone
Chooses to work
Or wants to relax,
But

Each night
You’re home
I gather you
Across the corners
For conversation
And communion
Weaving you together
Like the fringes of those
Worn placemats