close to the sun

two things and more

2011-12-12T21:44:00.007-07:00

My husband has been gone these past two evenings, leaving home around six-thirty, to be up at his mother's before seven, the time at which the shift of "Bill's Girls" ends...
But that's another story.

Having this time "alone" with my boys, I forget to:
1. think about Dinner,
2. prepare Dinner,
3. clean up after Dinner, and
4. clean up after cleaning up after Dinner.

Don't get me wrong here, my husband appreciates everything (just about) and anything (almost) I manage to get on the table. And likewise. And I really do enjoy it when we all sit down to Dinner, and light the candle, and say nummy-nummies, and talk non-stop about our days. Or at least try to. Usually the conversation does a degenerate doublebackhandspringdismount off the table and into the sewer by the time Dinner is over. Such is family life with three boys.

For the past two nights, though, it's been dinner. Frozen pizza. Michelina's microwaveables, single-serving yogurts, Wheat Thins and cream cheese, juice....whatever else they can scavenge for themselves in the kitchen that requires the bare minimum of preparation. Can't say as I blame them.

Meanwhile, I take a bath. When Bennett interrupts my bath to tell me he wants to listen to Christmas carols, I ask him to ask Grant to put on the Traditional Christmas Carols Pandora station for him. He wants the music on to help him finish up his GT geocity project that's due tomorrow. Grant robotically does what is asked, then returns to his Manga book, which he borrowed from his friend Mika who borrowed it from a friend. In the back of my mind, I think, "That's what makes a book truly good." Even though I could never read it.

You people who have no kids, yeah, I'm talking to YOU! You have NO EARTHLY IDEA what parents and teachers go through during the weeks before Christmas. It's just one deadline and due date after another. Book Project? Check. Final GT project? Check. Scrooge Musical? Check. Orchestra Concert? Check. Concert Band Performance? Check. Poem Memorized? Check. Goodies baked for teachers? Check. Goodies packaged and labeled for teachers? Check. Goodies in backpack to take to teachers? Check.

And those are simply the activities that my family experiences outside the bounds of The Little School. LSV has its own built-in stressor (not counting The Ball and Medieval Day and Robin Hood Family Book Club!): The Beta Quadrant Show. In Three Days. I know what overwhelming satisfaction and happiness will come after we've successfully pulled it off, so it's worth it. But the working up to it....... it's just so much.......work.

After my bath, I plan tomorrow's LSV schedule with an attention to detail that would make someone with ADD proud (because they do, you know, pay exasperating attention to detail. When they want to.).

What was the main idea of this story again?

Oh yeah, I got to spend time with my boys this evening, just helping them with projects, and hanging out. Which brings me to the fact that all I originally started out to say in this blog post is that I would like to share two funny things that made me laugh tonight, one involving each of my sons.

Bennett's gem: Up in his bunkbed, while hugging me good night, he asks, "What, exactly, is the meaning of humbug?"

"It means when you.....you know, when you feel.....well, it means...it means humbug."

Seriously, that was my answer. Good thing the boys thought it was hilarious. Remember when you first realized that some words truly have no definitions? They just ARE? And that to know the word, you have to know so much more than the word? You need its context, its story, its period, its character. Having just played the young man Ebenezer in Scrooge, and actually getting to say "humbug", well... he realized he already knew what it meant.

As for Grant, tonight he finished writing the entire Desiderata in calligraphy. Of course, it's not in any kind of font I tried to teach him, like Carolingian or Gothic. No, of course not. Instead, it's his own script he "invented". Then he refused to use lines under his parchment (ugh!)..... , and refused to start over if he made a mistake (ugh!), but damn! he wrote THE WHOLE FUCKING DESIDERATA in calligraphy! By candlelight. And now he wants to make copies of it, bind them, and sell them at SPQR on Thursday night during the Medieval Fair portion of the show.

Only one small problem while trying to make the copies ... the printer wouldn't work. Grant had just replaced the ink cartridge, and something was wacky. Right at the point when he was most peeved at the printer, I casually, only a bit cruelly, said, "You know, there's a low-tech answer for every high-tech question."

He turned on me as if I were a vampire and he had a wooden stake in his hand. "No. Way. I am so NOT copying this whole thing over ten times. No Way."

It was at that moment, I think, that he truly got the whole "Writing During the Middle Ages" thing. Oh, he knew it on an intellectual level, how monks spent years of their lives copying manuscripts, and about the importance of words and the significance of access to them. But this was visceral. And it was terrifying.

And it was very, very funny.

a letter that turned into a poem

2011-11-26T21:41:00.011-07:00

cornered
your pants down
while from your mouth, pain
ricochets
from the wall to the mirror to your second son to me
like khet
with the eye of horus
splitting your 84 years of shit into angry lasers

no longer will i
after 5 pm
endure the bombardment of
vodka-laced two-way tasers
killing
your anubis

Givingthanks

2011-11-24T22:28:00.009-07:00

Most days, I wake up, head directly downstairs, and make coffee. After my cup is poured, I carry it upstairs, throw on some clothes, and pull my hair back into a pony tail. I might brush on some blush, or don some jewelry, but preparing for my day is certainly not slow and deliberate. Getting ready in the morning is a chore. It doesn't help that I really, really hate to get out of bed. Sometimes I wish I could just go to sleep in my clothes; it would make mornings that much easier. No one loves Pajama Day at LSV better than me!

But today, I took the time to take care of myself. While prepping and primping, I realized that I am thankful for:

semi-eyebrows
eyebrow pencils
eyebrow pencil sharpeners

eyelashes
mascara
q-tips

body hair
Quattro razors
warm water

head hair
hair brushes
cute barrettes

Yup, this Thanksgiving, I'm grateful that I am hairy. I'm grateful for all the things I can do to my hair. I'm grateful, even, for the fact that I can remove it.
If I so choose.

an aching kind of growing

2011-06-13T00:31:00.002-06:00

When a child first catches adults out — when it first walks into his grave little head that adults do not have divine intelligence, that their judgments are not always wise, their thinking true, their sentences just — his world falls into panic desolation. The gods are fallen and all safety gone. And there is one sure thing about the fall of gods: they do not fall a little; they crash and shatter or sink deeply into green muck. It is a tedious job to build them up again; they never quite shine. And the child’s world is never quite whole again. It is an aching kind of growing.

John Steinbeck

me as an ape

2011-03-27T13:27:00.002-06:00

Well......, I suppose that "Drawing" could be considered an "Elective", right? And during the time it is being taught to my students by Chris Alvarez in his Second Floor Studio, I could be having my "Planning Time" downstairs at Jive's. An hour and a half twice a week to actually plan lessons, complete with all the espresso and breve I could want!

But, no. Instead, I straddle the horse seat thingy, struggle my 18"x24" pad of newsprint onto the easel, embrace my unforgiving Sharpie, and ready myself to listen to the Master.

Drawing. It's something I've never been able to do. Never done. Never learned.

The 90 minutes spent drawing on Tuesdays and Thursdays is the reward I get for planning outside of school hours. I also, of course, hope to show the kids that learning is a life-long journey...... we say it, but do we really model it?

Anyway, Chris's homework was to draw a self-portrait of our face, while looking in the mirror, in a single-line contour drawing. Here's how mine started. Feel free to laugh! I did! Then Bennett came to check it out, and he laughed, too! :)

Then Bennett and I had a conversation that went like this:

And so I continued:

I'm going to try it again, and this time, start at the eyes (the worst part, in my opinion). I'll put on some music as well. And I'll slow down.

I hope, in the words of Mr. Chris, to "fail better".

unsolicited advice from a woman with no daughters

2011-01-29T15:03:00.005-07:00

a poem for Audrey, Meme, Ruby, Finn, and Sophia

they'll say
"Just Be Yourself"
as if that were THE ANSWER
but
i say
"Be your Many Selves"
keep your closet full of the different
yous and change as often as you like
accept and love them all
your girl friends will be
your source
for everything
this never changes.

words of wisdom

2010-08-20T23:41:00.007-06:00

My more-often-than-not awesome husband, while reclining in bed, in response to our discussion of The Chosen in which I said, "You know, that was the first religious book I read that had a profound effect on me", promptly retorted:

"The first religious book I read that had a profound effect on me was Mad Magazine.

letting this one go.....

2010-06-28T14:10:00.008-06:00

She was sleight of frame but strong in form. Her sparse long hair, the same drab color as mine when without highlights, hung down her back in a thoughtless ponytail. She asked me if I was "about ready to check out?" I supplied the openness she was looking for when I replied, "Why, yes, I am. Why do you ask?"

She produced a Kroeger gift card with 20.43 scribbled in black ink on the front of it. "I was wondering if you could use this card to pay for your groceries, so I could get cash to put gas in my car." Here I was, with a cart half full of cereal boxes and baby shower non-necessities.... how could I say no to a woman whose only need at the moment was gas in her car?

"Um... sure... how does it work?"

"Here, I'll take you through the line and show you."

"So wouldn't it just be easier if I traded you the card for the cash?" I uttered foolishly as I opened my wallet and searched out the lone twenty buried within a dozen smaller bills.

As I handed it to her and received the gift card in return, I offered her an extra dollar to cover the remaining 43 cents. She declined, and mumbled something about maybe getting a bottle of water with it.

She then led me like a lamb to the self-checkout slaughter, and proceeded to pretend to be interested in bagging my excesses. She must have been viewing me with that particular combination of envy and disgust that has forged and fed most every revolution in history.

I continued to occupy myself with a temperamental self-checkout station ("Please scan your Soopercard now." "Please remove the last item from the bag." "Please place the item on the scanner.") which I had made even more cumbersome by having the audacity to bring two of my own shopping bags, which required an intercessory prayer to the lone clerk (who, I'm sure, deals with the idiocies of inept humans all day, and yet still manages to smile patiently) who did something mysterious to the scales and added two 5-cent credits to the little screen in front of me.

In the middle of all this chaos, my middle-aged con-woman excused herself to the restroom, saying she'd "be right back", but that she "really had to go", and that she would help me check out when she returned.

It was then, of course, that the doubts tiptoed into my dreadfully unmindful mind, as I struggled to look up cucumber codes, keep an eye on my purse, play bagging Tetris with my scanned items, and try to stop thinking about all the time I was wasting when people would be arriving at my house for Elise's baby blessing in less than an hour!

Lo and behold, she showed up again magically at my side to help organize the last of my goods into the two bags I had brought, and begin the check-out process.

Let's just skip the details and asides for now, shall we, as we arrive at the inevitable: the gift card had a balance of zero. She didn't appear to be too mystified, and actually said, "Well, I just kinda found it and figgered it had the money on it that it said." Then she asked the clerk if there was a way to check the balance. He asked for the card, and said he could make a phone call. While he was dialing, and before giving me time to process this new revelation, she asked our clerk where the water was, as she was quite thirsty, and disappeared, 20 dollars richer, down a brightly lit aisle that could have just as easily been a dark alley.

I would wait for another four or five minutes, as the kind clerk made his phone call that confirmed the zero balance. After he returned the card to me, I related my story, embarrassed though I was, to him. He reviewed aloud with me her appearance, so that he would be able to recognize her in the future.

In my mind, of course, I believe she had it all planned out, every single detail of the operation, beginning with the spotting of the ideal victim and ending with $20 in her pocket. And so I have to applaud, really, her resourcefulness. She made in ten minutes what most panhandlers make in several days. Was it dishonest as hell? Yes. Did she intentionally want to hurt me or make me angry? I don't think so. I told the clerk before leaving, "Well, I think I'll just chalk that one up to my naivete, and let it go."

Once again, what Odysseus pronounces in The Odyssey proves to be true: "All-seeing Zeus takes half the good out of a man on the day when he becomes a slave."

pretty in pink

2010-05-16T22:34:00.014-06:00

Occasionally I wander back through my blog, usually when looking for something in particular. I rarely remember post titles, so I often search using key words. If I know I accorded a post a certain label, then sometimes I'll simply click on it and sift. Obviously, my searches take awhile.

Today, I typed the word "pink" in the search engine, since I never bothered to make a label out of it.

It all started here. Then later it traveled to here. And last year at this time: here.

Pink Panther cartoons still entertain to this day. This afternoon I cruised north on Chelton next to a spotless duo-tone pink Mercedes. Deunan dons a pink robosuit for the final battle in Appleseed Ex-Machina. You can even buy pink Legos now.

I mean, it's not pink's fault that its wimpiest shade got co-opted by the cancer industry and anyone else wanting to make a buck(et), now, is it?

It's time for the next generation of Survivors.

undercover

2010-04-30T21:44:00.010-06:00

Objective: Today we will seal our fate, as evidenced by a multiple-choice questionless quiz.

a.
not now
i'm too busy remembering
where i met you
and how

b.
and why i remember
some so clearly
and others
not at all the first time

c.
is sacred

d.
perhaps i got that
wrong it is the
one ephemeral eon
now i see

d.
a pink-cored cosmology
i dare not offend your
nimble and exceptional
mind by

e.
writing anymore

2010-04-30T15:43:00.003-06:00

geometry is death math
a one-degree-at-a-time backwards death march
from one hundred eighty to zero in a lifetime
infinite possibility and perpendicular pomposity
end at the forty-fifth parallel while waiting for results
that don't come

because
once again
we have failed
to ask
the right-angled
questions

rough craft

2010-04-28T12:42:00.004-06:00

i wonder what poem to put in my pocket
after i secret the life of bees and i
live the secrets of me
under the vespering prelilac trees
causing my eyes to itch and i
want a cigarette
to help me remember from which
i used to be

a bath and an artichoke

2010-04-18T10:23:00.007-06:00

I wish I could express to you how honored I felt to bathe Phid, with the help of the CNA, of course, in the monster jacuzzi tub they have at Pikes Peak Hospice. It is an amazing piece of machinery. To see it in action made me momentarily super grateful to be living in the first world in the twenty-first century.

While I was washing her hair, trying to be gentle, she said, "Oh, Sue, give it a good scrub!" So I dug my fingertips into her scalp, and massaged the heck out of it. Then I rinsed off the shampoo with the shower nozzle and watched the water cascade over her face and neck and shoulders and I could imagine how cleansing that must feel. After a good long bubbly bath, and a washing of the feet, we swaddled her in about a dozen warm blankets, wheeled her back to her room, and applied lotion all over her 83-year-old body. The CNA (also named Sue) and I worked well together, as she is one of those people who recognizes that she is not just doing a job, but performing a sacred duty.

After Phid was all tucked into her fresh linens (the bed seemed to miraculously make itself while we were in the tub room) and about to slumber off, she opened her eyes, looked straight at me, and asked, "What about my arteechock?"

Crap!

She had mentioned wanting an artichoke twice before, and we just hadn't done it yet! I told her I'd go right away and make her one. I'd be back at 6:30. I bought three artichokes at Safeway, while a friend explained on the phone how to prepare and cook them. I had never cooked an artichoke before.

At 6:15 I called her and she answered with a smile behind her voice: "Artichokes take longer than you thought, don't they?" Yes, they do. I told her I was picking Sarah up at 7:15 and I would be there at 7:30 with her artichoke and her daughter!

Sarah and I "set the table", placed the mayonnaise and melted butter nearby, and let her at it. It was a pleasure to watch her hands, as they nimbly performed the duty they had obviously done so many times in the past. Sarah and I shared another. Then John and the boys showed up with grilled Korean steak from a neighbor's barbecue. I tore some of the tender meat into little pieces for her, and she devoured them ever so slowly. Then the strawberries she had ordered three hours ago finally arrived!

After living on toast, a few bites of tomato soup and a few spoonfuls of pomegranate applesauce for a couple of days, this meal was a veritable feast!

why i love my mother-in-law

2010-04-16T21:14:00.001-06:00

Nurse: Are you in any pain? Do you need any medication?
Phid: Only emotional pain... and morphine won't help that.
Nurse: You'd tell me if you were in any physical pain, though, right?
Phid: By George, I'd raise the roof!

phiddy

2010-04-14T08:49:00.005-06:00

Phillis Watkins Spengler is dying. I am honored to sit beside her, doing nothing. If I even try to gently cover her exposed left foot with a warm blanket, she quips, "Oh Sue, stop fussing!" There is nothing left for me to do but sit and wonder.

I wonder about the secrets she is taking with her off into her afterlife.

I wonder what she sees in her mind's eye.

I wonder what it feels like to know that you are dying.

I wonder about the cruel, beautiful irony of crossing over just as the apricot trees blossom here on earth.

I wonder at the miracle of being able to stand on two feet, and then to walk, and then to run.

I wonder how long it will be now.

for bettina

2010-04-07T21:54:00.012-06:00

unfinished

spring!
from a common stem come
crocus, hyacinth, tulip
all up
for us

yes us!
we believe
frozen limbs stretch and
awaken within mimic mortuary
to ease the ego and
please Charon

but no!
this colorful refutation
of temporary slumber
simply
whispers,

"it's time!"
time to go now
time to grow now
time to grow up now
crocus, hyacinth, tulip
spring from a common stem

can u follow?

2010-03-30T22:45:00.001-06:00

because when i say "bunker's cabin", i want you to know what i'm talking about

2010-03-26T22:25:00.017-06:00

summer, '09:

It's where John proposed to me. One of the tattered old log books still holds proof of that Labor Day weekend, 1995.

It's where I asked him, "If a bear came and attacked me, what would you do?" and he answered, "Run like hell!" Which at first I misunderstood entirely to mean he would run away, but after a thorough explanation from him, I learned that he meant that he would sacrifice his life for mine.

It's where we took my mom once when she came to visit Colorado. Before she got cancer. We cross country skied for several miles up Burnt Creek.

It's where I spent Thanksgiving, 1998, with friends I don't see much any more, but still hold close in my heart, because they are friends who have known my husband longer than I have.

It's where I baked a pumpkin pie from scratch when I was six months pregnant with my firstborn for previously mentioned Thanksgiving dinner.

It's where we passed the Summer Solstice of 2009, after I had just finished a year's worth of cancer hell. (pics above)

It's where the latest log book now holds entries from my sons.

It's where, during Spring Break of 2010, we froze our butts off at night, skied while the world was advesperating, and tried to forget (for a little while) about all the life changes coming our way very, very soon. (pics below)

spring break, '10:

It's where, next summer, we will return with fishing gear, and the boys will catch some trout while I rest on a log beside Cliff Lake and do nothing but watch and listen to them.

live blogging of the irish soda bread

2010-03-18T12:51:00.015-06:00

12:51: Oven preheating at 425. Cast iron skillet oiled and warming in oven.

12:55 pm: Assemble ingredients, mindfully recollecting the recipe from yesterday so I don't have to look it up. Three cups flour, 1 t. baking soda, 1 t. salt, 1 1/2 cups buttermilk. That's it, really. The recipe is so simple even a home ec. teacher could teach adolescents to bake it.

Here's what I look at while getting everything ready:

I stare for awhile at the watercolor of our house that Cheryl painted, and I feel nostalgic for something I haven't even left yet.

12:56: Detect the odor of lightly burning oil. Take skillet out of oven and set on top of stove. Note that oven isn't yet preheated.

12:58: Dance a little in the kitchen to Blue Plate Special, which I normally don't like, but am kind of in the mood for right now. Plus, I do like the sound of Jeff Bieri's voice.

12:59: Wash hands. Dry them on a clean towel. Throw towel over right shoulder with left hand, and wish once again that I possessed an apron. Think once again about sewing one. Excited to bring out Grandma's sewing machine table once we move a bunch of stuff out of our house. Realize the moment I start typing this that I've gotten computer keyboard germs all over my hands. Shit! No more live blogging until bread is in the oven!

1:01: Wash hands again. Accidentally dry them on the old towels. Throw old towels in laundry. Wash hands again.

1:19: I look up at the digital clock to see what time it is, and it says 1:19. I realize that I failed to start the timer (after taking the picture of it), and instead, turned it off. Reset timer for 30 minutes, remembering that yesterday I cooked it a little less than the prescribed 35 minutes anyway.

Here's what happened between 1:01 and 1:19:

Measured flour carefully. Dismayed to find that I didn't have much Mountain Mama white pastry flour left, so it winds up being about a half white/half whole wheat mixture.

Added the teaspoon (plus a little extra 'cause I like it) salt. Marina turned me on to this gray sea salt:

Added the teaspoon (minus a little for high altitude) of baking soda.

Stirred it up and dug a hole in the center. Only had one cup of buttermilk; no worries-substituted a little plain yogurt and milk.

Poured buttermilk/yogurt/milk mixture into the flour/salt/soda crater. Mixed just until moist. Turned out onto floured board and kneaded gently a few times. Formed the dough into a ball in my hands, and placed it prayerfully in the receiving skillet. Pressed the dough ball into a giant, fat pancake.

Cut the pancake into quarters, and placed it into preheated oven.

Set timer for 35 minutes.

1:42: Waiting not-so-patiently, with butter and jam, and reading this. Then I start reading this, and begin to rethink my decision to take cooking out of my curriculum for next year. Cooking is science and history and math and a whole lot of other things, all in one.

2010-03-01T21:58:00.001-07:00

done

2010-02-25T12:54:00.009-07:00

I guess I'm getting a new car! But it won't be a prize. Or a rental.

I'm going to have to buy it. The price is not more than I can afford.

I'd love to take you for a ride in it. As long as you don't mind traveling mapless.

My old, trusted auto no longer drives like it used to, and all the tinkering in the world won't help.

The only thing it is good for now is scrap metal.

I like scrap metal.

Now I just need a blow torch.

interpretations welcome

2010-02-22T21:19:00.007-07:00

I enter the large room and sit. Across a large, dark, antique-feeling desk, he sits: the man who denied my leave of absence application, and who I must convince to change his mind. This is my only chance.

I thought it would be only us, yet I am not surprised to see so many. On my right sit members of the Board. I glance at Keith, who gives me a small, knowing nod, and a barely perceptible grin. I know, if he could, he'd be flashing me the "thumbs up" sign. I smile back. I look further over to the right, for Rick, but do not see him. Not so much disappointment as wonderment. Where is he? On my left sit at least a dozen other people; I'm not sure who they are, but know they are part of the administration. I feel supported by their presence nonetheless.

I begin to state my case, which is full of all kinds of things I did while teaching sixth grade at Carmel. I mention the Student Council created from nothing, and the school store built by students. The Egyptian Museum. Comer facilitating. It's all irrelevant, but I feel the need to convey a sense of history, and to somehow make him know that I have given my heart and soul to this district for fourteen years and deserve to be treated better than this.

I find myself at the part where I want to bring up cancer, the role it plays in my decision, and its transformational power over my life. I realize that, against all recommendations, I'm going to get emotional. I sit up taller, look right and left, and suddenly realize that I can share the story objectively, without tears, and so I do. I'm not sure what I say; I only know that I am confident and self-assured when I say it.

Finally, it is the end of our time together. We both stand, and shake hands across the table. The others gather round and begin to discuss the situation. I await the verdict. It's unclear. Do I get the leave of absence? Or not? Everybody's talking, but no one seems to know the answer. I am confused, but happy. It's like not winning a medal at the Olympics, but knowing you skated your best.

I am ushered outside, and there, before my eyes, parked on the street, sits a white convertible. Just like the '67 Datsun Fairlady I had my eye on at Concourse Auto for awhile. They're giving it to me as a prize! I'm not sure what I've done to win it, but I assume it means that I have been granted my sabbatical. I admire the well-worn leather interior, reach in and touch the steering wheel, marvel at the old dials, and wonder what it will be like to drive it.

portland

2010-02-21T19:35:00.008-07:00

thicker than rain-drops on November thorn,
fleshy tongue meets pink petal.
roundabout rose gardens 'round here
remind us to yield with
absent umbrellas
and
step lightly over the well-tended grass.
ensconced in the long-abandoned
playhouse,
rotten wood will conceal our stolen
kiss while the circus
passes by

priceless

2010-02-18T15:20:00.008-07:00

Today, as we stepped out of the car at about 2:45 pm, the air smelled of rain. Not just any rain, but the rain after a long, long dry spell. It was magnificent. But what came out of my 10-year-old's mouth was even more magnificent.

Me: You know what? There's actually a word for this smell.... I don't remember what it is though. I heard about it on NPR from that guy who read the OED.

Grant: Really? Well, it's not really a smell.... it's an emotion we take in through our nose.

what is new is old

2010-02-16T22:39:00.011-07:00

If you have a reader in your family between the ages of about seven and eleven, then you will certainly have heard of Percy Jackson and the Olympians. The story's the same as always: young outcast finds out he is the chosen one. It's been called a rip off by so many; there is no need to add my voice to the critics.

What matters to me is this: Percy Jackson and the Olympians-The Lightning Thief is the first novel (besides the graphic novels of classics he reads at school) that my 9-year-old son finished on his own. In anticipation of the movie release on Feb. 12th, I began reading it to him. About 3/4 of the way through, I realized we would never finish in time--if he wanted to see the film, he would have to finish the book on his own. He wasn't happy about this. And yet, inspired by his friends Ursen and Albert, he persisted.

Today, Bennett proudly proclaimed to me that he is on chapter 4 in the next book in the series (there are five). It will most likely be the first book he will have read from cover to cover. I knew his time would come.

Because of Percy Jackson, my older son's knowledge of Greek mythology is far superior to mine. Recently, while admiring a painting with me in a local gallery (it's number 4), he had the opportunity to fill in my knowledge gaps on the subject of Morpheus. Nothing like being lectured to by a 10-year-old in front of a group of strangers!

Last Friday, a group of us took the afternoon off from school in order to be the first ones to see the film. The boys made their own Camp Half-Blood t-shirts and beaded necklaces. Suzanne found her inner Medusa, and I had no problem being "the fury hiding inside the teacher". Together, our geeky fun-loving clan took up an entire row of the theater!

The movie, quite frankly, was pretty mediocre. Enough has been written about that as well. But I have found you can pretty much enjoy anything, as long as you lower your expectations, and smuggle chocolate into the show! After the movie, over bagels and cream cheese, the kids and grown ups discussed the differences between the book and the movie. (Far too many to even begin!)

There will be time enough to become serious critics of literature and film. Until then, we will continue to be inspired and entertained by the same old story. Inspired to dress up, to make believe, and to dream our lives into bigger possibilities.

here we go

2010-02-07T21:06:00.007-07:00

Sorry, blogspot, I've been away for awhile. Don't take it personally, it's just that I've learned pretty much everything you have to teach me for now, and it seemed time to move on and explore strange new worlds. There are so many. Edublogs is where I've been working and playing lately; please don't be jealous.

Feeling challenged and excited, I click on words and icons, follow drop down menus
to wherever they might lead, and just, you know, try stuff. I am obsessed with learning, with unlocking the mystery. When failure comes, I try something else.
It is this kind of curiosity and courage, more than anything else, that needs to be developed in young students.

On the corner of Lancaster Drive and Hayesville Avenue, there was a little store. It must have had a name, but I don’t remember it. All I remember is that we called it “The Little Store”. It was where my friends and I bought Charleston Chews and candy cigarettes with the cash we would get in exchange for the cans and bottles we had collected from our neighbors. It was the place where, a day or two before payday when the cupboards were bare, my single mother would purchase hot dogs and buns on credit. Mr. Frey always knew she’d be back in a day or two, when she would pay off her bill and buy a few more items. And he knew where we lived. And I still remember his name.

And so, in memory of The Little Store, I have named my project The Little School. Because community matters. Because smaller is better. Because "Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted." (Albert Einstein) Because I can.

Because I have to.

The Little School Project: Tava Mountain Middle School

coming soon to a neighborhood near you

yep

2010-02-01T16:11:00.001-07:00

Crossroads

The second half of my life will be black
to the white rind of the old and fading moon.
The second half of my life will be water
over the cracked floor of these desert years.
I will land on my feet this time,
knowing at least two languages and who
my friends are. I will dress for the
occasion, and my hair shall be
whatever color I please.
Everyone will go on celebrating the old
birthday, counting the years as usual,
but I will count myself new from this
inception, this imprint of my own desire.

The second half of my life will be swift,
past leaning fenceposts, a gravel shoulder,
asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road.
The second half of my life will be wide-eyed,
fingers shifting through fine sands,
arms loose at my sides, wandering feet.
There will be new dreams every night,
and the drapes will never be closed.
I will toss my string of keys into a deep
well and old letters into the grate.

The second half of my life will be ice
breaking up on the river, rain
soaking the fields, a hand
held out, a fire,
and smoke going
upward, always up.

Joyce Sutphen

the journey

2010-01-03T09:23:00.001-07:00

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.
-Mary Oliver

i'd like to add sword fighting...

2009-12-17T15:40:00.001-07:00

a penny for your thoughts

2009-12-16T22:08:00.013-07:00

I poured 18,953 pennies out of six different containers into the counting machine at Air Academy Federal Credit Union today. Ok, so there were a few nickels and dimes, but for the most part, people did as my students asked and only put in pennies.

Back in September, my students and I began reading Three Cups of Tea: One Man’s Journey to Change the World...One Child at a Time, the Young Readers edition of Greg Mortenson's bestseller. It has everything a Pre-GED diverse adult education class could ever want: perfect reading level (6/7th grade), the power of persistence, a hero, family, the value of education, religion, current events, foreign lands, guns, war, hope. We have had some amazing class discussions this semester. There were many times when I just let them go and listened....

After watching some videos, my students became ever more interested and inspired to do something. So I let them.

Pennies for Peace is deceptively simple: collect pennies and donate them to help build more schools in Afghanistan and Pakistan. But the lessons learned by those who plan and carry out and participate in the penny collecting go deep. My students range in age from 17-54, and they are either immigrants for whom English is their second language, or native speakers for whom the system simply never worked. For most of them, philanthropic giving is the absolute last thing on their minds. Some of the other teachers were even leery of the idea of a penny drive at first, because they didn't want to impose upon the already economically fragile lives of many of our students.

What I found, however, is that having the opportunity to be the GIVER is so very empowering! Remembering that someone is struggling even more than you can be a great motivator to not give up yourself. Alone, we can't do much, but together, we can. I know it sounds cheesy, and it is, but it's REAL. Just like the Velveteen Rabbit.

And organizing a campaign is a way to learn all kinds of real-life, valuable skills (NONE of which I wrote an objective on the board for, mind you).

Tomorrow, the "Pennies for Peace Committee" will make an on-line donation to the Central Asia Institute for $189.53. A drop in the ocean. Their drop. Who knows how far the ripples will travel.

thursday

2009-12-12T14:05:00.005-07:00

it was only a
lymph node, but it was enough
to ruin my day

2009-12-09T21:52:00.001-07:00

the future and the past

2009-12-07T20:37:00.015-07:00

I taught my 10-year-old son how to text last week. I figured it was "time". It took him about 2.3 seconds to learn, of course. By the time he had played with the new phone (it's not his, it's the home phone) for about 10 minutes, he had installed a photo of BB as wallpaper, and entered three contacts (Kaiden, Mom, Dad).

Yesterday evening, John and I were in the kitchen, grinding spices and julienning onions respectively. Red Lentil Dhal was on the menu. I knew Grant wouldn't eat it, so I offered him the choice of grilled cheese sandwiches or cheese and crackers (which we would all have with our soup).

Suddenly, my phone chimed. I read the message, and sat down to reply. For the next 10 minutes or so, Grant and I had a conversation via text messaging, even though we were in the same house! I'd see him sitting on the couch, cross-legged, the phone in his hands and a look of concentration on his face. A few minutes later, I'd wash my hands, sit in the kitchen chair, and start tapping the keyboard. It was like having our own private conversation in our little house!

What follows is a transcription of the text conversation between Grant and me. It may not seem as hilarious to you as it does to me, but here it is anyway for your entertainment:

hellom mom may i have grild chease for dinner?
p.s. cani also have cereal with them

GriLled cheese aok!
dubliner or cheddar?

1 whole cheder, 1/2 dubliner.what about cereal? can i have cereal to?

Ok but only if u try 3bites of soup. please??? and if also if u use the correct version of the word *to*
check your last msg to me.

Which version of the word*to*? I will try 1 bite of soup. If I like it, I will have 2 more. then I will have cereal.

No deal. sorry. :) at the end u should have the word *too* as in *also*.
love u!

OK! Love you too! 'Bye.

:)

After dinner, I found him on the floor, writing a pencil-and-paper message to his brother. In runes.

coloring mandalas with my boys on a snowy sunday morning

2009-12-06T20:58:00.016-07:00

"Only gradually did I discover what the mandala really is: 'Formation, Transformation, Eternal Mind’s eternal recreation'. And that is the self, the wholeness of the personality, which if all goes well is harmonious, but which cannot tolerate self-deceptions” (MDR 195-196).
-Carl G. Jung

The Master of the Mandala quotes Mephistopheles!

Faust [inspired]. Good! Gripping it, I feel new strength arise,
My breast expands. On, to the great emprise!
Mephistopheles. When you at last a glowing tripod see,
Then in the deepest of all realms you'll be.
You'll see the Mothers in the tripod's glow,
Some of them sitting, others stand and go,
As it may chance. Formation, transformation,
Eternal Mind's eternal re-creation.
Images of all creatures hover free,
They will not see you, only wraiths they see.
So, then, take courage, for the danger's great.
Go to that tripod, do not hesitate,
And touch it with the key!

Grant's:

In the Preface of the book that Ursen gave to Bennett for his 9th birthday, the author/artist says: "When coloring these mandalas children intuitively know what to do: they easily choose a design they like and the colors they want to use. By the time we are adults, most of us have lost this spontaneity and often ask: what should I do? My answer is to forget your 'shoulds'."

Bennett's:

While forgetting my shoulds, I also shunned my duties and ignored my lists. I had hot coffee, a kitchen table littered with colored pencils, and my two boys. 'Twas lovely.

Mine:

I was amazed not only by the meditative state-of-mind I found myself in, but also by the lines of communication that were suddenly opened up between myself, Grant, and Bennett. We talked about life, the universe, and everything in a way we never had before. Maybe it's because they're getting older, (and therefore, let's face it, more interesting to talk to!), but I have no doubt that some of it was due to the magic of the mandala.

After our mandalas were cut out and taped to the walls, G and B walked to the Farm Crest by themselves for the first time (in the snow!), and bought a dozen eggs.

There's a correlation there, I swear.

i do like visiting graves...

2009-12-03T16:24:00.002-07:00

You're The Canterbury Tales!

by Geoffrey Chaucer

You are extremely old. Somewhat lyrical in your approach to life,
you prefer that most things are said in rhythm. At the same time, you are known for
using words that the common people would know, rather than speaking in a more
elaborate tongue. This gives you credibility with the working class, who you would
give an equal voice alongside the wealthy or powerful. You like contests, long walks
on the road, and visiting graves.

Take the Book Quiz II
at the Blue Pyramid.

2009-12-01T22:08:00.010-07:00

You know, sometimes it's good to question statistics. To closely examine the method behind the numbers. To be a critical thinker. But when somebody I love (Hi, Nancy!) sent me these percentages recently, I just took them on faith. Sadly enough, they just felt correct.

During my father's years on this earth, our nation was at war 13.5% of the time.

During my years on this earth, our nation has been at war 17.5% of the time.

During my son's years on this earth, our nation has been at war 37% of the time.

During my grandchild's years on this earth, our nation has been at war 63% of the time.

To think that our nation has been at war for almost two-thirds of my children's lives is just so..... so..... so..... fucking crazy! And now Obama is committing more troops to Afghanistan. Thirty billion dollars and a year and a half later, where will we be?

As many of you know, my husband spent much of his childhood in Afghanistan and Pakistan as the son of a diplomat. I love to sit at his mother's table and listen to her and John remember. I marvel at the adventures of a young family in a foreign land. Unpronounceable (to me!) names of people and places roll off their smiling tongues and then, somewhere between the first and second martini, it all turns into one gigantic sigh.

I experienced this same phenomenon last month, when my family and I went out for dinner at Rumi's Kabab to celebrate our 14th wedding anniversary. By the end of the night, Shams (the owner) had pulled up a chair, and the boys and I listened to more stories of the glory days of Afghanistan. Again that happiness, as John and Shams shared stories of markets and travels and mountains. And then, eventually, that same heaviness, the profound melancholy of something lost.

I know we can never get the Bamiyan Buddhas back, but I just hope, one day, that the people in that region will know some sort of relative peace. And when they do, I am fairly certain that it will have nothing at all to do with us.

2009-11-30T21:38:00.008-07:00

it was my big art show opening
the one with my published painted poems
multi-fonted gargantuan words filled the space
beautifully
mine, yes
but not poems
just blog bits picked by a stranger
fraudly hung on four walls
faces i have loved
sketched by one i love
you were there
squared
in black and white
with no words
and in the gift shop
a calendar of photos
mine, yes
but not the ones i would have chosen

this i believe

2009-11-29T00:18:00.002-07:00

It is not enough to teach a man a specialty. Through it he may become a kind of useful machine but not a harmoniously developed personality. It is essential that the student acquire an understanding of and a lively feeling for values. He must acquire a vivid sense of the beautiful and of the morally good. Otherwise he - with his specialized knowledge - more closely resembles a well-trained dog than a harmoniously developed person. He must learn to understand the motives of human beings, their illusions and their sufferings, in order to acquire a proper relationship to individual fellow men and to the community.

These precious things are conveyed to the younger generation through personal contact with those who teach, not - or at least not in the main - through textbooks. It is this that primarily constitutes and preserves culture. This is what I have in mind when I recommend the 'humanities' as important, not just dry specialized knowledge in the fields of history and philosophy.

Overemphasis on the competitive system and premature specialization on the ground of immediate usefulness kill the spirit on which all cultural life depends, specialized knowledge included.

It is also vital to a valuable education that independent critical thinking be developed in the young human being, a development that is greatly jeopardized by overburdening him with too much and with too varied subjects (point system). Overburdening necessarily leads to superficiality. Teaching should be such that what is offered is perceived as a valuable gift and not as a hard duty.

—Albert Einstein, "Education for Independent Thought"
New York Times, Oct. 5, 1952

meet the new boss....

2009-11-25T00:08:00.002-07:00

worse than the old boss
the unlistening powerful
think they can change everything at once
anger has to go somewhere
neighbors will wonder
who smashed the squashes
bruised head
from brick wall
tired, so tired

love haiku

2009-11-23T21:59:00.006-07:00

love in the same place
not unexpected but still
surprised to find it

fake fist fight

2009-11-22T08:14:00.003-07:00

These were taken awhile back. A long while back. When Grant still had braces.
All punches and photos courtesy of Bennett A. Spengler.

growing up is hard to do

2009-11-20T21:49:00.014-07:00

I left my 10-year old son home alone (his brother was spending the night with a friend) for about half an hour today while my friend Elise drove me to my car. For the second Friday in a row, I had managed to lock my keys in the car. For the second Friday in a row, a friend bailed me out. Never mind the hows and the whys.

Before leaving the house, I hugged him quickly, told him to practice piano while I was gone, and of course, as always, no computer. He's a good kid. I trust him. I know it is impossible for him to lie to me. He wears guilt on his face like a caricature.

But today, I heard it in his voice. After successfully retrieving my car, and feeling a newfound sense of optimism, I called to check in with Grant.

- Hey, kiddo, I just called to tell you I'm on my way home.
- Ok. Did you get the car?
- Yep. I think I'll stop by Boriello's on the way home and get us a pizza to have during the movie.
- I'd rather have Blackjack.
- Well, I'd like Boriellos's.
- Oh, well.... I guess that's ok with me. Hey, will you call me when you get there?
- Sure, Bug. Talk to you in a little bit.
- Ok, Mom. Bye!
- Bye.

Suddenly, I just knew. The way a witch knows it's Samhain. The way my grandmother knew my father. The way you know without my insulting insertion of italicized adjectives or adverbs.

I've done this before: known things. Mostly with rather exhausting consequences. But this time, it's my own child, and it feels vastly different. I am in control. I know exactly what to do.

Dial up Blackjack. Drive straight home. Don't call.

And then there's that moment when you realize that you're no longer Sally in The Cat in the Hat. You're the mother. And you want the ending to be very, very different.

He intercepted me in the only-area-in-our-westside-bungalow-that-could-vaguely-be-called-a hallway with a hug. The kind of hug that says, "Hi Mom! I'm so glad you're home," while muttering, "Oh, please, please, stop right here... please don't go any further..."

I peered over his head, into the dusk-tinted living room, to the top of the bookcase where my MacBook should be. It wasn't. In the sternest, yet calmest voice I think I have ever managed, I asked, "So, where's my computer?" He hung his head, and stepped aside. I walked straight through the living room towards the faint bluish glow of radiation, reflected on the beige carpet, the orange walls and the back of the recliner. I picked up my computer, returned it to the bookshelf, and said, "Get your shoes on and get in the car."
"Where are we going?"
"Don't ask. Just do it."

I've never seen him move so quickly to comply with an order. On the short drive to pick up our pizza, I asked him why. His pure and heartfelt confession came spilling over to me in the dark from the back seat.

Through sobs and sniffles, he related to me how his desire to play Battle for Wesnoth had led him to "disobey" me. After his story, I really wanted to say something about him not taking responsibility for his own actions! But I couldn't.

I understood.

We talked about addiction, about feeling out of control, about how awful it feels, about solutions. It's so much less threatening for a boy to talk to his mama from the back seat of a car, I think. I let him know the consequences would come later. I actually think I heard him say something like, "Yes, Mom."

He understood.

I made him give the man behind the counter our name. I made him carry the pizza. I didn't open the car door for him when he asked for my help. Once we were home and safely inside the kitchen, I looked him square in the face and said, "Here's the deal. No staying home alone for awhile; everywhere I go, you are going with me. No computer all weekend. On Monday, you can use the computer, but no Battle for Wesnoth until a date that you decide on, and I agree to. Got that?"
"Yeah."
"Good, now repeat it to me."

Which he did, accurately, to the very last word, while successfully interchanging the i's and you's. Without prompting, he went straight to his own calendar (we hung it up just a week ago), came back, and said, "January 15th. Is that ok?" I said I thought it was perfect.

- One last question, Bug.
- What?
- Do you want to tell Dad?
- Not right now.
- Ok. He'll be home in a few minutes. Let's make it like a party in here!

After that, I didn't need to tell him a thing. He put the pizza in the oven, and set the oven to 250. He put his shoes and coat away. He cleaned off the coffee table (no small feat) and laid out 3 plates. With napkins! John arrived home. Grant gave him a big hug, and asked him what he wanted to drink. After he had poured the juice and set the pizza on the coffee table, he asked us each what kind we wanted, and served it up.

The Two Towers began, the three of us snuggled up on the couch together.

It was, perhaps, an over-eager and childish attempt at atonement. Yet it was also natural and beautiful and mature. We crossed into new territory today. I can't believe I get the privilege of watching my son grow into a man.

can i write about love yet?

2009-11-20T21:42:00.002-07:00

Yes. Yes, you can.

in the end
we shall turn back and see:

an integral dna strand
a loving double helix
a nonentity
for such a short,
short,
short,
sweet,
time

the art of her and her husband, Jeanne-Claude said, expressed “ the quality of love and tenderness that we human beings have for what does not last.”

back to the blog

2009-11-15T13:37:00.004-07:00

I've been away for awhile.
It's good to be back.
I'll write more later.

2009-10-11T13:27:00.000-06:00

i could listen to her all day

2009-09-22T13:48:00.001-06:00

a free grocery store without any meat

2009-09-14T17:58:00.012-06:00

School has begun in earnest. For all of us. The mornings are chilly, the afternoons warm. Camping requires every piece of clothing. I have had a hard time in 2009 accepting the onset of autumn. Most years, it is a welcome change; this year, not so much.

I am no longer free to get on my pink Cruiser at any time of the day, and pedal to the garden. Now, the garden has become an errand, a location that we "stop by" on our way to someplace else.

Nevertheless, yesterday, on our way home from Up (an absolute DELIGHT!), we dropped in on the Old Colorado City Community Garden to inspect our plot. The first thing to catch my eye were the pumpkins! In July, they were nearly invisible, green-striped globes hidden by monster-sized leaves; now, they were bursts of orange through withering brown. Next - the Brussels sprouts! Petite little adorable things.... they make such a satisfying *snap* when removed from the stalk. Finally - the tomatoes. Now... that whole idea about pulling a ripe tomato off the vine and simply biting into it has no appeal to me whatsoever. But leaning over our six tomato bushes, inhaling, and reaching in for the prize, is like some kinda magic.

As my sons and I were harvesting (yellow beans, purple beans, onions, beets, broccoli, carrots, several varieties of peppers, Brussels sprouts, tomatoes, basil, thyme):

Me: This is better than the grocery store.
Bennett: Yeah, it's like a free grocery store without any meat.

Tonight, I turned this....

into this.

16: moments

2009-08-28T21:17:00.001-06:00

i'm playing the trombone!

2009-08-27T19:57:00.007-06:00

So there I am, standing in the kitchen trying to clear off some counter space so I will have room to prepare the lasagne that I've been planning on making now for about a week. It's that after school time, when I make sure the boys have had a snack, and then Grant buries his nose in a book and Bennett wanders outside with a pocketknife and a stick.

I knew Grant was having his first band practice that day, and I also knew that he was all set on playing the flute. Or so he told me. But on this particular afternoon, Grant wandered into the kitchen, and the conversation went something like this:

Me: Hey kiddo. Did you have band today? How'd the flute playing go?
Grant: Oh no Mom, I'm not playing the flute; I'm playing the trombone!

I just started laughing... poor kid, he thought I was laughing at him. It was just so unexpected, and the instant visual of my firstborn in the living room with a slide trombone in his hand just cracked me up! Parenting is an adventure, and you just never really know where it is going to take you.

After I calmed down, he explained to me that the band teacher had pulled out the instruments and let the kids try them all. (Thank god the piggy flu hasn't hit quite yet, I suppose, but still... eewww). Grant said he couldn't make a single sound come out of the flute, but "I can do this really well!" and he puckered his lips and made that raspberry sound we use on babies' bellies. I'm sure there's a more technical term for it.

Yeah, upon hearing him, I laughed again, realizing that the trombone really is the perfect instrument for him. I just wonder how he's going to get it to and from school on his bicycle.

happy frickin' anniversary

2009-07-31T10:47:00.005-06:00

June 23, 2009
Last day of a 30-day course of radiation. No Problem! Piece o' cake compared to chemo! Feel great! Garden sprouts! Hair and a Tan! New pink bicycle! Summer! Dancing!

REWIND (cue scratchy backwards record sound)

July 24, 2008
Husband informs me (as soon as I am all happy-dreamy-post-orgasmic) that he felt an abnormal lump in my breast while we were having sex. He shows concern. I choose to go into instant denial, and don't even dare look at or touch myself until the next day.

July 25, 2008
Leave for a two-night camping trip near Princeton Hot Springs for the weekend. Spend the time soaking and hiking and trying not to touch it or to worry. It's the weekend, and figure can't get in to see the doc 'til Monday anyway. Still in denial.

July 27, 2008 - late Sunday night in my own bed after two nights of camping
Cry. Because I know.

July 28th - early Monday morn
Call to make an appointment with Dr. Zirkle, my young and handsome PCP. He's not there, so I see a woman NP who fondles my right breast with a questioning look on her face. Don't remember her name, but she makes an appointment straight away for a diagnostic ultrasound the next day. Call Sara on the way home. Cry. Pick up boys at the Burkles for what they thought was a playdate.

July 29, 2008
Diagnostic ultrasound. Suzanne shows up. I thought I wouldn't need anyone. It's just a little test, after all. Glad she's there, after all.

"Right breast diagnostic ultrasound dated July 29, 2008, shows a dense breast parenchymal pattern with an abnormality corresponding to a 2.1 cm cm in greatest dimension, hypoechoic lesion with irregular margins." Oh crap, a whole new vocabulary to learn; the exact one I never ever wanted to learn. They want to schedule a needle biopsy next week... the only way to know for sure if it is cancerous or not.

Hysterically, tearfully, tell whoever will listen that I DON'T HAVE TIME! BY THE TIME MY MOTHER WAS DIAGNOSED, SHE WAS AT STAGE 4! DON'T YOU GET IT PEOPLE?! I DON'T. HAVE. TIME! Get biopsy scheduled for 31st.

Dammit, I think to myself, here we go...

July 30, 2008
Wait.

I decide to tell no one else until I get the biopsy results...no sense worrying others about something that may turn out to be nothing. There's a pretty good chance, I keep telling myself, that it might be, you know, like a cyst or something.

Get mad at husband for telling his mother, because I don't want her to worry about me. Then quickly realize that he needs someone to tell as well.

July 31, 2008
I return for an "uncomplicated" ultrasound-guided needle biopsy. John comes with me this time. I learn another new vocabulary word: Axilla. Think it would make a great name for a Sci-Fi badass female character or a Derby Dame. Learn it's really just a complicated word for "armpit". Still think it would make a great name.

July 31-August 5th
Wait.

Try to do the laundry and talk with friends and read to the boys before bed. Every day is an eternity. I remember a band called 'Til Tuesday. I just have to make it 'til Tuesday. Because that's the day I'll get the results.

Spend my waiting days with a 2 cm secret, a stoic smile, a welcoming kitchen table and an even-keeled telephone voice. I am not one for holding in anything, so this is a particularly difficult time for me. For once, I ask more questions of others, instead of talking about myself. Lying in bed at night, I barely hold on to my sanity. Give me chemotherapy any day over this hell of not-knowing!

Saturday, August 2nd, 2008
The second anniversary of my mother's death from breast cancer. I'm invited to what sounds like a lovely garden party, but I just can't make myself go. I can't believe that the world keeps spinning, that people keep going to work and making love and having parties. It just doesn't seem right.

Morning of August 5th, 2008. Tuesday.
I know the moment the nurse opens that door into the waiting room and calls my name. I can see it in her face, hear it in her voice. John and I stumble through the door, take a thousand steps down the hall, and are ushered into a tiny conference room on the right. The wonderful, motherly, optimistic ("this doesn't really look like cancer") radiologist who performed the biopsy all those years (6 days!?) ago isn't in the office today, so a man who knows absolutely nothing about me presents me with a huge white binder and these words: "You have invasive ductal carcinoma." Just like that. They don't even say cancer. Bastards.

Afternoon of August 5th, 2008
In order to occupy my mind, I try and accomplish some menial household tasks. I empty the dishwasher, slowly, dish by dish, taking note of each one, how it feels in the hand, how it shines in the light. After that, I simply end up pacing the house or lying on my bed. Doing "normal" things takes on a surreal edge. A hyper awareness permeates my every move, every step, every breath, every word. I am restless, and in shock, and don't know what to do with myself.

Evening of August 5th, 2008
I call Mike Carsten to see if he is working. He is. I ask him to make me a Cosmo and tell him I will be there soon. John stays home with the boys. I predict this will be the first time I ever sit at a bar alone and tell the bartender my problems. When I walk in to 15C, I am somewhat relieved to see Bettina and Aaron sitting at the bar. I sit down in front of my drink, and ask Bettina for a cigarette. After a slow sip and a deep inhale, I look at Mike across the bar and utter, matter-of-factly, "I have breast cancer." That singular moment will be etched in my brain forever.

Sara shows up. I drink another pink Cosmo. Bettina tells me I have a "pass", so I smoke one more, or maybe several more, of her pink Camels.

August 6, 2008
My first day of school. I am hungover and miserable and sitting in a meeting at 8 am. At least my boss knows, as Sara had the forethought to call her from the bar last night and tell her.

I want to drink and throw beer bottles out into the street and hear them crash.

July 31, 2009
So you see, here we are now, exactly a year later. From the end of radiation until about a week ago, I felt like a million bucks. Reborn. Then last week, emotions (but not necessarily memories) began surfacing, unbidden, and at inopportune and unexpected times.

Perhaps I felt them more because we were on vacation, relaxed, and I was more in tune with myself and not engaged in the daily duties of home.

In the "tummy of the Earth" (as Grant called it-otherwise known as Wind Cave), my body went into shock, and I cried for the stillness and the darkness of it all, yet happy in the knowledge that our complex planet has no concern for our trivial human problems.

My anger resurfaced for no apparent reason one morning at the Coach House (John's childhood vacation home in Wisconsin). In the process of making scrambled eggs, I went out onto the porch and threw an egg at a tree with every bit of strength I had. To hear it splat gave me great satisfaction!

While riding on country roads, I felt again that hyper awareness, that surreal edge. I felt as if I could ride forever among the cornfields and silos and old cemeteries.

Now I'm home. The summer is coming to a close, and another school year is about to begin. My mind and body are sorting out the events of the past year.

Welcome to Year 2.

the perfect yellow

2009-07-03T20:43:00.017-06:00

My best friend in high school had this poster on her wall, right where we could lie on her water bed and stare at it, dreamy-eyed, for hours. It was 1983. I wonder if she still has it, stored away in some dark place with all the other relics of youth. Seeing it now, I can almost feel the adolescent idolatrous idealist inside of me.

Last night, I danced with two friends to a whole set of nothing but Michael Jackson tunes, at a Denver club where most of the patrons were half our age. They ate sushi; I ate edamame. We were overdressed and didn't give a shit, because we were all wearing something that made us happy. The young men could tell we were dancing in our own little worlds, and they mostly seemed to respect that somehow, even as they joined in. Smiles and just plain fun all around.

Tonight, my sons and I stayed up way past our bedtimes, watching videos of "Beat It" (followed, of course, by "Eat It", at which they laughed hysterically), "Billie Jean", "ABC", and others. A cultural history lesson via youtube. Tomorrow morning, when night has turned to day once again, and the world feels just a little bit safer, we will watch "Thriller". Zombies. Dancing. How could that NOT be good?! Revolutionary, even.

It's all pretty messed up, I know, what with the whole Michael Jackson corpse extravaganza thing and all. Believe me, I KNOW people die every single goddamn day from all sorts of causes: some naturally tragic, some insanely stupid, others completely preventable.

But I really can't get all worked up about either the fanaticism of it all, or the criticism of it all.

All that matters to me, at this moment, is that he be remembered for his music. And the memories he has gifted, at great expense to himself, to an entire generation. That was some kinda magic. Let us all be judged on what we did well. On whatever bit of magic we managed to bring into the world.

I have been contemplating my beige-walled kitchen for awhile. Someday soon, I will go out and search for the perfect yellow: the yellow of Michael Jackson's sweater vest.

bennettism #101

2009-06-26T15:53:00.008-06:00

In an honestly frustrated, nearly angry voice: "But I just don't get it, why is it named after a magazine?!"

Bennett - while discussing whether or not we should go see Battle of the Smithsonian this afternoon.

Grandma's influence on my children will be everlasting. At our house, they read Horrible Harry and Harry Potter; at Grandma's house, they read The New Yorker, Tintin, National Geographic, and, yes, Smithsonian..

The Color Pink

2009-06-24T22:14:00.011-06:00

I have reconciled myself to the color pink. This pink. My new bike pink. The color my hair might be in a few weeks, if I can find the right shade of pink. The color of Olwyn's pink tiara I wore at my Done With Chemo Party. The Pink Brick Box my boys bought me for Mothers Day.

The bike is a new cruiser, fashioned to look like an old one. I drove past it every day on my way from school to radiation at the end of May. Finally, one day, I stopped. Test rode (this pic). Bought. No deliberation necessary.

It makes me happy to ride it. Happy to go at the speed of one speed. Happy to be a Rose Parade, with myself as the only entry. Happy to throw everything into the front basket (purchased later) and just go.

Today, I filled my basket and headed out to do some errands at about 4:00 pm. First stop, the post office, where I mailed my husband's 12-inch braid to Locks of Love. Two nights ago he let me cut it, and shave his head with the 1/2 inch attachment. Wow. He's had that hair for 20 years. Now he has hair that looks like mine.

While at the post office, I left the bike unlocked, but it was out of sight. A real lesson in trust. I only got out of line once to check on it. But I refuse to lock it up everywhere I stop, because it's impractical! Especially if I've got four or five places to get to before dinner.

Next stop: The Medicine Shoppe on Colorado Ave. I parked my bike out front (it has a kickstand!), and carried in my wallet and new scrip for Tamoxifen I had gotten from my oncologist earlier that day. While waiting, I decided to browse The Bookman. The pharmacist said the bike would be safer in front of his store, and he could watch it for me. When I came out of the bookstore and looked towards the pharmacy, my bike was nowhere to be seen! For a brief nano-second, I feared the worst. But when I looked in, there it was, parked in the middle of the pharmacy. The pharmacist had brought it in! I love my neighborhood.

I placed the bottle of pills in my basket, as well as the book I had picked up for Bennett for two bucks, and rode off towards the garden. We have a small but useful plot in the new Old Colorado City Community Garden, which is about six blocks from our house.

At the garden, I discovered new locks on the gates, and it just didn't feel quite right. They were definitely not Locks of Love. They felt like locks of exclusion. Even though we've got a deranged crazy lady roaming through, picking onions, and calling people names, that still didn't seem like reason enough to put locks on all three of the gates. Anyway, after calling Elise and getting the combo, I went in and picked some spinach and some greens, which I placed in a plastic container I had brought with me. Again, in the front basket of my unlocked bicycle. Needless to say, the salad I made for dinner, with some boiled eggs on top for protein, was second to none.

Baskets on bikes are not "cute"; they are PRACTICAL! It's so easy to just throw in what I need, and pedal out the driveway. No special shoes or dorky neon shirts with pockets in the back. I prefer skirts.

At some point in our recent history, "biking" became a sport, and not a way of life. I hate exercising, but going to the post office, the pharmacy, and the garden (I was also going to return a book to the library, but my neighbor I stopped to talk to was on her way there and said she would drop it off for me) on my new pink cruiser is just fun. I look for a reason to ride it every day.

I have a lock for it, but I lost the directions on how to set the combo. At some point, I will call the bike shop and have them help me figure it out. I will most likely use it if I park downtown and have to leave the bike for a few hours (yoga, for example). Until then, I will continue to roam the Westside lockless. With love. Like my husband.

overwhelmed by goodness

2009-06-12T22:36:00.010-06:00

The past week or two has been jam-packed with amazing experiences. I marvel sometimes at how so many good things can happen in such a short time! Life has found me smiling more often than not these days....

A simple yet thrilling four-hour rafting trip down the Arkansas River returned my lost sense of strength and bravery. The next day, I wandered alone around Valley View Hot Springs until I found the pool where John and I sat nearly 14 years ago on the day before he proposed.

A week ago Friday, I had an amazing "love from strangers" day.... I held drawings of me and my mom in my hand, sketched by a woman who had seen our pictures on the blog. I received a bracelet with the word "HOPE" on it from another radiation patient. Later that afternoon, I met a woman in King Soopers who said, "I made your skirt."

Last Sunday night I hiked half-way up the Sand Dunes with two friends under the light of the full moon.

Yesterday, I took the time to teach my boys how to make scrambled eggs and french toast, instead of just doing it for them. Cooking is so much more than just food.

This evening, I danced barefoot on green grass in the pouring rain to the sound of Quetzal.... some cuban-latin-funk-fun.

Each one of these events would be worthy of its own blog post. Filled with details and photos and lessons learned. The problem is, I never seem to have enough time to reflect and write about them, because each and every day is filled with something special and magical. And I can't seem to choose which event is most worthy of a story. And I don't have time to write them all! I really shouldn't complain about this abundance, of course, but it's getting frustrating that I never seem to sit down long enough to actually record and reflect.

What to blame it on?

Facebook? That's an easy scapegoat.

The end-of-school-year/beginning-of-summer/middle-of-radiation madness? Perhaps.

Mostly, though, it's this strange feeling that if I can't share it all, then I shouldn't share any.
This needs to stop.....

....... Oh yeah, did I tell you about the purple penstemon and prolific peas? Or about how I swam 12 laps and did a back dive at the pool today? Or about the pleasantly slow speed of life on my new pink cruiser? Or about the fact that I have completed 23 out of 30 days of radiation?

poem in facebook status update format

2009-06-10T20:35:00.004-06:00

Sue Spengler
wants a job which would require her to drive a Chevy pickup on dirt roads, wear gloves, and look through some sort of lens
has amazing experiences, because she expects to
likes going to places that feel like foreign countries but that are only a half-day's drive away
is writing while driving on roads she's never been on before
slipped, fell down, brushed herself off, and remembered to slow down
thinks wars should be forgotten
picked things up and put them in her pockets
communed quietly with two winter coat-shedding deer
pulled over to take some photos; didn't pull over to take some others
is following a silvery sleek Airstream dream
worries that she missed the turnoff
has a thing for boxcars and junkyards
should not have doubted her instinct
has proved her intersecting point

mom and me

2009-05-10T17:02:00.021-06:00

My mother occasionally took it upon herself to sew or crochet us matching outfits. I remember how I felt while my brother was taking each of these photos. In the first one (1972) we were on our way to my kindergarten graduation. My bangs were straight (which wasn't always the case), my mother had pulled my hair up into a pony, I was wearing my favorite scuffed shoes, and I loved how the crocheted poncho enveloped me. I can still feel the comfort of the red-green-yellow fringes in my fingers. I thought my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world.

Fast forward to 1975. I'm in a quilted skirt with a scratchy liner and a matching too-tight neckerchief. My white blouse felt too big and bulky and made me feel ugly. My teeth were crooked. It was near Christmas, which was never an easy time for our three-person family. Mostly, I remember that I didn't feel like smiling or holding my mother's hand. But I was aware that doing so would make her happy, so I tried. Sort of.

In 2000, my mother was diagnosed with stage IV metastatic breast cancer. She would live another five and a half years before finally succumbing on August 2, 2006. This photo is from a New York Times article about Oregon's Death with Dignity Law. I remember how excited she was when she told me that the NYT was coming out to Oregon to do a story about HER. She just couldn't believe it.

Fast forward to 2009. Yes, today I donned my mother's orange sweater and Mayan earrings, and had my children take a picture of me "just like Granny". It's never too late to have matching outfits.

fline swu

2009-05-01T11:58:00.005-06:00

One other note on this whole exaggerated flu thing: One of my Hispanic student's young sons was out playing yesterday. A little Black boy insulted him, and told him to go back to Mexico. I hate what fear does to people.

the end

2009-04-29T20:18:00.011-06:00

So chemo is over. Twelve infusions and 28 weeks later, I can safely say I have arrived. Still intact. A bit more fragile. A bit stronger.

I had my first experience of running into someone I hadn't seen for awhile, and giving the abridged version when she asked me how chemo went. Yeah, I was hospitalized with a neutropenic fever over Christmas break, had severe neuropathy, shingles, and lymph cording... it was hell, but I made it.

It was strange, looking back on it like that. The day was sunny, I was strolling rather happily around the neighborhood taking in the tulips, and the fuzz on my head was as downy as a newborn chick. All of the sudden, it seemed as if I had awoken from a really bad dream, the details a bit hazy.

And now to the most Frequently Asked Question That I Am Getting Tired Of Answering. It comes in various forms.

Is it all gone now?
Did they get it all?
So, there's no more cancer?

I know what they mean. They want to know if I'm going to live. And for how long. Cancer is all about "how to talk around death". I appreciate most the people who have understood that to be diagnosed with cancer is to look mortality in the face and have a serious come-to-Jesus talk.

Anyway, here's the answer, as well as I can explain it:
First, the data, from a handy computer program that takes into account your age, general health, size and grade of tumor, and number of lymph nodes affected: With no treatment except surgery, I would have had a 62% chance of being alive with no recurrence in ten years. With chemo, it brought it up to 82%. If I choose to take Tamoxifen, it will bring that up to an 88% chance of seeing the year 2019. Chemotherapy doesn't "get it all". It gets about 99.9% of any cancer cells that might have leaked out of the tumor into my lymph system. It only takes one rogue cell, traveling around and deciding to lodge itself in my bones or lungs or liver X number of years in the future, for the cancer to return. There are no guarantees. It will never be "all gone".

I am an idealist at heart, yes. I see the bright side of just about every godddamn problem there is. I believe the best about everyone. Pollyanna should have been my middle name. If I had to, I could find something positive to say about cat poop!

But that doesn't take away the fact that there's a 12% chance that I won't see my youngest son off to college. You see, this is where cancer takes your mind in the darkness. It's not to be dwelt upon, but it is also not to be ignored.

When one is in the middle of treatment, there is focus, purpose, a singular task. Now that I have been released from chemo and have more decisions to make (more on that later), I find myself in a strange tormented limbo once again.

barb spencer

2009-04-23T22:45:00.007-06:00

difficult problems
in full bloom
through seasons of sweat and chill
a breakthrough may only be a small step away
all in good time
you can count
on
the power
of
God
to
ease the
experience
day be day,
finally,
you win.

1997-1998.....In my second year of teaching sixth grade at Carmel Middle School, I was working with an amazing team of teachers. There were three of us. We all taught a Reading/Language Arts Block, and then the kids rotated through for Social Studies (me), Math (Lisa), and Science (Barb). In February of that year, Barb informed us that her breast cancer had returned, and she would be undergoing intense treatment for the rest of the school year. She would be taking the rest of the year off. For two young teachers, the news was hard; for our kids, it was devastating. Somehow, we made it through to the end of the school year, having lost a teacher the kids loved, and having to make due with a substitute they could barely tolerate.

Over Spring Break that year, I made Barb a journal. For the cover, I cut out various pictures and phrases from magazines, and arranged them together with some homemade paper I had left over from the days when I made homemade paper. She told me that it would be her gratitude journal.

In September of this year, after my breast cancer diagnosis, Barb returned that journal cover to me. She had somehow cut if off of hers, and glued it onto the cover of another. I take it with me to every doctor appointment, jotting down notes, unfamiliar words, statistics, observations of waiting rooms, phone numbers, and occasionally, things for which I am grateful.

Today, I am grateful for a found poem.

moving day

2009-04-22T16:58:00.004-06:00

it was the
shrink-wrapped tubs
of tiny treasures
that finally did me in
that, and the multi-colored
metallic dragon
unnecessary as a hundred
and eleven friends
but still
you wouldn't want to unfriend
a dragon
sometimes there's no need for
small boxes to
pack, check, x, stack
volume is fascinating
with its emptiness and
howtofillitness
and imsorryifilostitness
patience I mean
with those too young to understand
friendship is never easy
and full of ums

WWYS - What Would Yoda Say?

2009-04-21T13:10:00.013-06:00

Cancer makes impossible-to-ignore demands-
rearrange your priorities
be content to be who you are
let go of the illusion of control

Cancer shines a light on what really matters

I try not to think trite thoughts
(Do or do not; there is no try)
but I can't get
Pachelbel's Canon in D or
Klimt's Kiss or
That which doesn't kill us....
out of my head

I could even
throw
a party now
with the
theme of "pink"
without
throwing up

Neitzsche was wrong-
I don't feel any stronger
At least not yet

Even the cliched could sound sagacious
if conveyed from the mouth of Yoda:

"Your priorities, rearrange you must."

"Be who you are, if content you wish to be."

"Illusion of control, let go of you must."

"On what really matters, a light cancer shines."

Beings are wise, not because they can
comprehend the complicated, but
because they can
simplify it
for the rest of us

"Makes us stronger, hmm?, that which kills us not."

number 12

2009-04-20T21:30:00.012-06:00

Today, 4/20/09, at 4:20 PM, the IV machine beep-beeped for the last time. I thought I would cry, but I didn't. The boys were all there, I had had a good two-hour nap in the chair, and I just wanted the hell out at that point. I told the nurses no offense, but I never wanted to see them again. (I'm sure they've never heard THAT one before!)

When John and I arrived this morning at 9:15 AM, I was weepy without end. Brownie, 92-year-old Brownie, who volunteers in oncology, who brings me warm blankets and hot lunch and cold applesauce, and, when asked the secret to a long life doesn't hesitate when she answers: "I guess I just don't worry very much"....... anyway, Brownie was the first to say good morning, and unfortunately she got the brunt of my didn't-get-enough-sleep-last-night tears.

Gunda took my weight and blood pressure, and Susan drew my blood. That hour and a half wait for the lab reports was one of the longest of my life. Luckily, all was well, and my twelfth chemo infusion was under way. After some IV Pepcid, steroid, and Benadryl, the last bag of Taxol was hung. At that point, I knew that freedom from having my port poked was a mere three hours away. I slept through most of it, thanks to the Benadryl.

I became particularly close to one nurse, Anne. She was the witness to several of my breakdowns, as well as the one who broke the news to me that Matt, a 20-something young man I sat next to on occasion, had died. When she hugged me on the way out today, I did shed a few tears, and told her that I couldn't have done it without her.

That evening, Grant, Bennett, John, and I ate sopapillas from La Casita and drank Ibarra Mexican Hot Chocolate around the fire pit, each making a little celebratory, ceremonial toast. Then Grant and Bennett light sabered around the backyard. How I love watching them become Jedi in their minds and bodies and souls. It was after 9 PM before we finally came in; if you know me, letting my kids stay up that late on a school night is virtually unheard of! But I've learned a lot, and one of the things I've learned is that special events allow us all to break the rules. I've also learned how easy it is to take a sick day (thanks Klayton and Suzanne!), and that I should do it more often.

So I've come to end of this chapter, and am going to close the book for awhile. There will be more..... radiation, hormone therapy, lab tests for ever and ever, but I'm letting all that go for now. At least for the couple three weeks until radiation begins.

For now, here's a toast to 82%! According the stats, I have an 82% chance of living 10 years with no relapse. I'm going to make sure and take Brownie's advice, and not worry about the other 18%!

At about 9:15 PM, 12 hours after arriving in oncology this morning, we popped the final balloon:

arundhati roy

2009-04-19T13:54:00.004-06:00

Author of one of my favorite novels, The God of Small Things, and now there's this:

and this:

trapped

2009-04-19T12:50:00.002-06:00

When she is upstairs, she is petrified
That if she goes down, she will get
Distracted by the too-many-things
When she is downstairs, she worries
That if she goes up, she will miss
Hearing the doorbell's opportunities

Where the hell is the Mezzanine, she
wonders, when you really need it?

Cancer Snuck In

2009-04-15T17:35:00.004-06:00

In her black overcoat
nudging open the door
like a stealth robber
and she has been here ever since.

she changes everything
crowds the bookshelves with unwanted binders
her hand hovers over the jewelry box;
she will steal now, she says;
just like she stole your mother’s

Tonight, she climbs
into the shower and taunts, “Truth or Dare?”
before daring me to
look down at the truth
later, she crawls under the covers
between us
stripping sexy from the lexicon
and whispering whatifs
in my ear

Even as I sit here,
she lurks behind me
threatening to
invade every conversation
and bends over my naked dome
and quietly demands,
From now on,
you write about me.

[using the poem “Death Barges In” by Kathleen Sheeder Bonanno as a template]

number 5

2009-04-14T12:01:00.001-06:00

Mothers' Day
in Mexico
is always on May 10th
5/10
predictable
like mothers should be
but frequently are not

light of day

2009-04-13T08:44:00.008-06:00

through sleep-shifted eyes, the room appears
picassoesque, water color effects-
highways and high seas wandering beyond...

into spaces perhaps they oughtn't

words (too thin) fly through air (too thick) and
settle
like dust on the dresser
reminder
of duties left undone

[suggestions for titles welcome]

eurich's steampunk dragon

2009-04-12T20:42:00.001-06:00

ferrus interruptus 10

2009-04-12T10:22:00.015-06:00

he remembers the winter
when patches appeared on his too-short trousers
and his mother often found
food on their porch-
origin known or unknown, they ate

the dinner table talk was harder to
hold onto that year, but still he listened,
for he discovered he could hear
even behind tone
and gesture

that year, he became Harry Potter for the third time,
Anakin for the fourth,
and a Dragonborn Paladin for the first.

that year, his mother left for mysterious places;
he missed her more than he was able to show,
and sometimes more than she was able to see

that year, he put metal in the microwave,
never returned the lid to the litter box,
and mismatched the socks.

that year, magic was real,
and there was still-
real maple syrup
clean clothes
the symphony
a wedding
solo flight
and
trust

the morning

2009-04-11T21:59:00.007-06:00

perhaps
it began with
a peeling open of the eyelids
to see a clementine on fire

or

maybe
it was a suffusion of
gray and unwinding dreams

either way
it was
perfect

for deposit only

2009-04-10T18:17:00.005-06:00

just for today, i will
grow skin as thick as
century-old cedars, guard
my heart from
cupid's arrow and
my breast from
cancer's lust. i will not
cry for unknown loss nor
weep for the unblossomed

[written on the back of a deposit slip in the car while waiting for the boys to get out of school]

poem-a-day

2009-04-09T10:41:00.007-06:00

Being that it's poetry month and all, I have decided to challenge myself to write a poem a day. I will post it here. Even if it's bad. Which it probably will be. But I need some sort of external motivation, you know? Something to make me get up off the couch and grab a pen when the first (or usually, the last) line pops into my head. I have missed so many. We'll see.....

So for today, just to get me started, I'll post an old one:

hwy 101 with dad

It takes time, yes, for
liquid lies to solidify into stories
of Alaskan icebergs-
impervious to the truth of our
emotions, hidden somewhere in
the mist of Oregon’s
simplified seventies psychobabble
poured out as
rationalization for falling
in love and out of love and in love

"you’ve changed", she said
it takes time, yes, but
we all change-
the world changes
not even global warming can melt these
lies turned into truths by the telling
over and over and over

tell me something about the nature of
the human heart
that doesn’t fit into a box-
but rather
an endless curving road
miles stretching ahead and behind
we drive forwards, you know, to get
to where we’re going
and rarely ever look back

stephen colbert on motherhood

2009-04-05T20:00:00.004-06:00

Being a mom is no picnic. Raising the kids is the mother's responsibility. It's a thankless, solitary job, like sheriff or Pope.

On the plus side, they do get to wear cool hats.

just when you think it can't get any more absurd....

2009-04-05T16:12:00.000-06:00

it does!

too much

2009-04-02T12:36:00.009-06:00

The day started out rough enough.... an argument with my oldest over his science project (whoever invented "Science Fair" anyway?!) Truce drawn, we managed to get out the door with all four potted radishes, grown under different light conditions, only to find out there was a two-hour delay. Part of the reason for the argument was that my son has had two miserable nights of sleep in a row. Seems that they were telling scary stories in class day before yesterday, in preparation for a "Fourth Grade Camp-in" while the fifth graders are away at Outdoor School. Being the sweet sensitive soul that he is, with a thin fantasy/reality line, he has had a hard time getting to sleep the past two nights. Last night, he woke up screaming at 3 AM, and I had to camp out in his room for about two hours until he finally managed to relax and drift off to dreamland. The worst part is that he felt sorry for ME, and his brother, for keeping us up.

Later that day, while my students were working in the computer lab on their blogs, I took some time to read some blogs of friends I hadn't visited for awhile. Turns out another one of my blog friends was recently diagnosed with DCIS, and had surgery. That's number three! Three blog friends who have had cancer after me! I feel fucking contagious or something! If you don't want breast cancer, don't read my blog!

After class, one of my students, one of my favorite students, stayed after class to tell me that her 14-year-old daughter, who she had been struggling with, is pregnant. (Don't think all teachers do is teach!) The girl has no choice but to have the baby. My student is a single mother of FOUR teenagers, who has always tried her best to keep them involved in school, give them a good life, etc.., and now she feels as if she has failed. Having no tissues in my room, I had to watch her wipe her eyes repeatedly with the sleeve of her red sweater. The cuff of my sleeve holds evidence of my tears as well.

To top off the morning, on the drive home, I kept thinking about Timber, who I didn't know but many of my friends did. Suicide. Having to read others' outpourings of love and regret and loss is incredibly difficult.

I just wish there were something to take away the pain. Not my own.
Everybody else's.

earth hour

2009-03-31T18:46:00.001-06:00

2009-03-30T21:05:00.011-06:00

The only thing that Bennett wanted for Christmas this year was a sled. A real one. Made from wood and metal, with a steering mechanism. He didn't beg for Pirates or Pokemon or Playmobile.

Santa was kind, and brought him exactly what he wanted. For two weeks after Christmas, the sled lived in our living room. Bennett pretended to ride it: face first, on his knees, on his bum, all the while making swooshing noises and fake screams. Sad thing is, it hasn't snowed enough here this winter to do much of anything........
Until now.

On Friday of Spring Break, after the infamous "Blizzard of '09!", we met up with several friends for a spontaneous sled-fest. In the words of John's immortal grandfather, "You can't beat fun!"

grammar rules!

2009-03-29T22:05:00.004-06:00

For Halloween of 2007, I was a "Grammar Nazi". Part AP English Teacher (grey wool suit, glasses, hair in a bun) and part SS Officer (swastika arm band, SS lapel pin), complete with red pens and white out in my pockets. I don't think I will ever top that costume. Even the punk rock fairy godmother from 2008 pales in comparison. So here's this:

inhaling apricot

2009-03-28T08:15:00.003-06:00

vernal equinox

2009-03-20T17:15:00.005-06:00

For some reason, it just doesn't seem right that the first day of spring should coincide with the 6th anniversary of the Iraq War. But that's how it is. Perhaps that's why, after so many days of sunshine, today finally feels like rain.

seven random shingly things

2009-03-15T21:25:00.004-06:00

1. I always thought shingles was an old-lady disease, on account of the fact that the only person I ever knew who had it was my grandmother. Turns out LOTS of people I know have had it! And they're not old.

2. Because I have shingles, chemo has been postponed AGAIN!

3. Tomorrow should have been my last round, number 12, if all had gone as planned. But because of all the delays (neuropathy, liver functions, low WBC, and now shingles) I still have three left. That's six more weeks.

4. They hurt. Kind of like having a knife jabbed into your back.

5. I'm banned from hot springs and swimming pools, two of my most favorite places.

6. I don't really even care anymore about chemo being postponed, or not being able to soak at Mt. Princeton. I'm not sure if that means I'm less depressed, or more depressed.

7. I am learning to live beyond "should have" and "as planned".

my first rejection email

2009-03-11T20:16:00.000-06:00

Hi, Sue.

Thank you for sending your work, which I really did enjoy reading.

Because the volume of work received (over 1,000 poems) far exceeds the
space available in the Poetry While You Wait book, I have had to make
difficult decisions regarding which poems among so many fine ones to
include.

I am sorry to say that we will not be able to include your work.

Please do, though, keep writing and supporting poetry in our community.

Sincerely,

Aaron Anstett

2009-03-08T20:36:00.008-06:00

On the suburban street where I grew up in the 70's, there were many kids. We played together in the park that was situated in the middle of our neighborhood. For some reason, it had 100 foot Douglas Fir trees, and I realize now that the whole area must have been covered with a forest, before they cut the trees down to build our houses and streets.

But this was not meant to be a post about my park, amazing though it was. It was supposed to be about friendship.

Picture me, age 10. Scrawny body, long blond hair, hand-me-downs. 1977. Purple bike with banana seat and big handlebars. Quiet suburban neighborhood, born into existence the same year as me.

At the far end of 39th Avenue was my friend Holly's house. Around the corner and down a few houses was my friend Lynn's house. My house was pretty much equidistant from both of them.

I was friends with Lynn. I was friends with Holly. Lynn and Holly were not friends.

Or they tried to be, sometimes, if we all happened to be together for some reason. But those moments I remember as awkward, and filled with meanness. I could not figure out how, when they were both my friends, they couldn't manage to be friends themselves. So for the most part, I kept these two friendships separate. It was as if there were two circles, and I was the point where they intersected. My house was the literal and figurative center.

Fast forward to high school, with its cliques and cliches. I was lucky enough to have a "best friend" at this time, but beyond that, I never had a group of friends that I hung out with exclusively. I had "volleyball friends", but didn't do much with them outside of practice, bus rides, and games. We might hang out together during the season, but after it was over, not so much. I had "waver friends", but didn't do much with them outside of dancing in clubs and smoking clove cigarettes and discussing music. There were the popular kids, of course, and though I was certainly never ostracized, and was sometimes even included in party invitations, I was never truly a part of them (as evidenced by the fact that I was never voted onto Prom Court!)

I had friends who were jocks, preps, punks, waver, and outcasts. (I loved the outcasts best.)

I seemed to exist on the edge of many circles.

I was the place where several circles intersected.

This is what I have been thinking about lately. Especially tonight, after hosting my son's 10th birthday party earlier today, and seeing children and adults from several different "circles" in my present life, all together in one place.

For several years, when I first moved to Colorado, and during the first few years of my sons' lives, I didn't really have any friends at all. I had an infant, a toddler, a husband, and a mother-in-law, and that was about it. I look back on those days and wonder how I ever managed. Then I met Sara at my new teaching job (Hi Sara!), and knew instantly that I wanted to be her friend. Now, eight years later, I think I would call her my "best friend".

But just like with my best friend in high school, Sara and I don't necessarily have the same friends.

In my present life, I have managed to surround myself with several circles of friends. I value them all. Each circle. Each individual. Each one brings something unique and special into my life. Some are for dancing. Some are for crying. Some are for sharing soup. Some are for spiritual kinship. Some are for creative inspiration. Some are for fun. Some are for shared interests. Some are for the neighborhood. Some are for art. Some are for the intellect. Some just are. And of course, these are not exclusive categories!

And I never tire of meeting new people, and getting to know them, and expanding the circle, or creating a new one. Most of all, I enjoy bringing the circles together. They overlap in all kinds of places, not just me.

But sometimes I wonder if it isn't all too much. Sometimes I see myself on the edge of circles, and not really a part of any of them. At these times, I long for the relationships you read about in books, you know, the four women that have been friends forever and ever........

But then I look back on my past, and I realize: I am not that person, the one who has the same friends forever and ever. I live within and among many. It's just who I am.

Today, I observed this same phenomenon with my son. At the party this afternoon, there were his old friends, his school friends, his Dungeons and Dragons friends, his neighborhood friends. Like mine, some of these overlap in several places, but others are completely separate, joined only together by HIM.

I hope he can see himself, not on the edge of many circles, but as the center of them all.

bye-bye nine!

2009-03-02T21:12:00.005-07:00

I'm ashamed to admit that my first thought upon opening my eyes this morning and reentering the world of light and life was not, "Hey, it's my son's tenth birthday!!!" but rather it was, "Oh, chemo."

I lay there for a short while. After I had slowly crawled out of my own ego, John and I walked downstairs and sang Grant awake.

Later, after taking the boys to school, Brandy drove me to chemo. It was, thankfully, uneventful. Grandma came over for Chinese food and cake. At the end of the night, Grant popped balloon number nine. He's no longer nine. I'm no longer stuck at nine. These two events, his birthday and my chemo, will be inextricably linked in my memory for as long as I live.

it's all about the process

2009-03-01T13:13:00.032-07:00

Too often, I don't think I give myself enough credit for my creativity. I see it so readily in others, perhaps because I tend to surround myself with so many talented and creative people.

Here, though, is an example of what I can do (with a little help from my friends and family) when I put my mind to it. It's taken roughly two years, but the tile mosaic in my bathroom is FINISHED!

The shell angel(above) is a tribute to my mother, who, I believe, really did see angels once.

The sun was the first design to go in (of course!). Followed shortly by the volcano that Bennett helped to create.

Thanks to Sara, who assisted me with this lupine. But mostly she helped me get over my self-doubt and sluggish mentality. To the right of the lupine, you will see pieces from my mother's broken hotplate from Alaska, with Mt. McKinley in the center.

Into this blue-green montage went the pieces of a small bowl I broke. It was one of my husband's favorites, a piece of Russian Gardner porcelain passed down from his parents. I still feel horrible about it. (Advice: never, ever, get a stone kitchen floor! Everything breaks instantly when it hits.) Also some cool polished glass found in the creek bed behind our park.

"Mad-Eye Moody", named by Grant who assisted with this design, is made from some pieces I bought last summer from a local guy. I wish I knew his name so I could give him credit. He makes tiles and magnets and jewelry and barrettes from plastic he finds in the streets and paints with fingernail polish. Is that cool or what? If you look closely, he has a wand in his hand.
And the moon, of course.

Finally, in the corner, a trilobite and fish fossil, surrounded by some leftover tiles given to me by Chris Alvarez. They gave me the inspiration I needed to finally finish it off.

So now it's finished!

Well... almost. I still need to decide whether to use white or gray grout. Then I need to grout it. Then I need to clean up after myself. Then we need to get a shower curtain (clear, of course). Then perhaps, we'll actually be able to shower in it! Could take another year or so. Don't hold your breath.

confession

2009-02-28T23:09:00.002-07:00

I love my blog far more than I love Facebook. After I spend some time on Facebook, I come back here, and issue a little sigh of relief. It's peaceful and quiet here. And mine.

navasana

2009-02-27T11:18:00.008-07:00

there's always
movement
the leaving and the returning
through doors
without locks
never enough kisses
welcome....farewell...come home....see you soon...goodbye.....

boat. stop. moment.

(photos by Kat Tudor)

morning haiku

2009-02-19T23:11:00.006-07:00

mascara attempt
not one eyelash remaining
close the lid and cry

penalty

2009-02-17T11:16:00.010-07:00

The most common question asked by well-meaning friends is, "How much longer?" or sometimes it's, "When are you going to be done?" They mean treatment, of course, but my brain always turns to the long haul, the forever, because you're never done fighting, once you have cancer.

As for the treatment, I am sick and tired of not knowing the answer to those questions. There are too many uncontrollable variables. This time, it was my liver. Yesterday, it threw me a "delay of game" penalty. I arrived at oncology with my sister-in-law Gwen (all the way from Ithaca, NY), mentally prepared and with a bag full of diversions. I was ready for round number nine, only to be told that my chemotherapy appointment had been canceled, and.... "Didn't anyone call you?"

No! They didn't!

My brother and family are visiting from New York! It's a holiday! Everyone else is skiing! I could have gone too! Why didn't anyone call me Friday to tell me my lab results!? (After I had calmed down a bit, I apologized to all the other chemo patients for my outburst, which I'm sure contained many a swear word.)

So Gwen and I headed up to Monarch on a bluebird day to join my brother, my husband, my niece, and my sons, for a day (half-day by the time we arrived) of skiing and then relaxing at Mt. Princeton Hot Springs. Was it better than sitting in the chemo chair all day? In the words of my 9-going-on-13-year-old son, "Well, duh!"

But would I rather have been in the chair with blood poison number nine?

"Well, duh!"

i wish i knew more about opera

2009-02-14T10:21:00.008-07:00

Just click the little triangle, take a thank-god-it's-nearing-the-end-of-winter-but-isn't-the-white-still-beautiful deep breath, and close your eyes for about as much time as it would take you to empty the dishwasher and wipe down the counters.

Happy Valentine's Day. I love you.

on the origin of inspiration

2009-02-12T20:53:00.015-07:00

I'm not sure if it's because I'm feeling overwhelmed by the passage of time, or if I'm just damn lazy, but I feel like reposting this picture and quotes, from two years ago today. If you know my husband, you will know that he is never at a loss for words when it comes to the topic of Evolution. It is his pet. His purpose. His motivating force. His life's work in his Biology classes at Pine Creek High School. Honestly, I get tired of hearing about it, but I respect him for the passion and the knowledge he brings to his profession. If I had had a science teacher like him when I was in high school, I very well might have enjoyed it. So here's to Charles Darwin, and here's to John Spengler, and here's to a new administration, with all its ugly imperfectness, that at least understands the importance of science.

"Doing what little one can to increase the general stock of knowledge is as respectable an object of life, as one can in any likelihood pursue."

HAPPY BDAY MR. DARWIN!

"Ignorance more frequently begets confidence than does knowledge: it is those who know little, not those who know much, who so positively assert that this or that problem will never be solved by science."

as frank rich says.........

2009-02-08T21:47:00.008-07:00

there's a reason Slumdog Millionaire has become America's movie of the year:

Slumdogs Unite!

keebler elves = stoners

2009-02-08T21:02:00.001-07:00

not just another issue

2009-02-07T09:18:00.015-07:00

I have been informed and educated by my friend Brandy about the CPSIA, and wanted to pass along some information to you. She makes the most adorable hand-embroidered magical little people, with all natural materials, while sitting at her kitchen table. Seriously, your heart smiles just to hold them in the palm of your hand!

Here's the problem. I think I'll just let her explain it in her own words:

"Due to the terrible importing of lead-laden children's products that was brought to the public's attention in 2007, the CPSIA is trying to mandate testing on all children's products that would be sold here in the United States. This is good, but not good enough, because this law affects ALL children's products, including all handmade items, like the toys I make. Each component will cost $70 to be tested for lead and since my Gnomes have 6 components (wool felt, glue, cotton thread, linen thread, wood base and carded wool…) that comes to $420. Add in the additional $350 per component for phthalates testing and I would have to add $2100. Making my once $18 gnome a whopping $2565.

And really, this affects everyone who knows anyone with children under the age of twelve, and that includes those of you who are aunts, uncles, teachers, friends, grandparents, and God parents alike."

At the very least, read a bit about the Handmade Toy Alliance, pass along the word, and sign the petition.

{And just so you know, I really didn't write this to promote Brandy's little creations, but of course, you're always welcome to let her know you'd like a little gnome in your life! :-)}

"If this law had been applied to the food industry, every farmers market in the country would be forced to close while Kraft and Dole prospered." (from the Handmade Toy Alliance website)

it's about time

2009-02-07T09:04:00.003-07:00

It makes me feel a bit more hopeful about our future when I read articles like this one.

henna!

2009-02-05T21:12:00.002-07:00

all things considered

2009-02-05T09:48:00.023-07:00

They may simply look like bottles and pills to you, but to me, they have become a life-saving ritual.

Every morning and evening, the same. Swallow 21 pills. (For those of you watching the numbers, that's 42 a day, my age... again) Then there's the flaxseed-grinding, the smoothie-blending, the green-drinking, and the tincture-swilling.

The natural-colored herbal gel caps are from my neighborhood witch. The unnatural-colored yellow pills are from my oncologist. I used to house them in different places in my kitchen, until I realized that they all belonged together.
What's inside all those gel caps, you ask? Here's a sampling of some of their exotic and everyday ingredients:

Manchurian spikenard
Turmeric
Quercetin
Luo han gou
Indian Gooseberry
Boron
Vanadium
Goat weed
Vitamin B6
Royal jelly
Korean ginseng
Suma
Rosemary
Ashwagandha
Black pepper
Cordyceps mushroom
Eleuthero root and leaf
Japanese Knotweed
Licorice
Holy Basil
Bromelain
Creatnine
Chromium

In addition to swallowing all those pills, Heide also has me drinking a green concoction composed of brussel sprouts and kale and cabbage and spinach. It's lemon-lime flavored. Really. The smoothie protein powder she gives me contains (gasp!) colostrum! (It's from cows, not humans, of course, but still... weird.)

The yellow ones you see are prescribed Potassium and Protonix. And then there are the toughest and cruelest of them all, the ones you can't see here, the chemo drugs: Adriamycin, Cytoxin, Taxol.

The way I look at it, I've got to use everything under the sun available to me.

As a teacher, I've drawn from diverse sources: ITIP, Kagan, Love and Logic.

But those are all systems; it's the people, of course, that have had the most influence on who I am as a teacher.

I have had many guiding forces, from my nazi-like advisor when I was a student teacher, to my paternal first grade teacher, and many more in between. Mrs. Phelps (advisor) taught me how to direct instruct and maintain discipline, and kept her kids loving her and learning much with a strange but effective mix of toughness and love. Mostly, she demonstrated the self-sacrifice and hard work it takes to make sure every single kid "gets it". Mr. Witham (first grade teacher) allowed me to call him "daddy" (my parents were recently divorced), told fractured fairy tales from his imagination before they were popular in books, and made everyone feel safe. I can't remember a word of criticism ever leaving his lips. (My mother sent me his obituary when I was 24 and in my first year of teaching. When I read that he had died of AIDS, I cried like a baby).

I believe what makes me such a great teacher (humble, too, aren't I?) is that I draw upon a variety of teaching techniques and influences, as long as they feel mostly true to me. If it works, use it! We get so bogged down in the "right way" of teaching or parenting or medicating that we lose sight of the ultimate goal. And as every parent knows..... every child is different. As every doctor knows.... every patient is different. What works for one might not necessarily works for another.

I guess that's why I instinctively mistrust parenting experts, politicians, priests and educational consultants (yes, especially them..... and their publishing companies). They are only selling one product, it's the answer, and you have to believe in it. Period.

I don't buy it. And so my arsenal of healing includes it all. Chemo, pills, tinctures, MRI's, EKG's, plants from around the world, yoga, flaxseed, and $5,000 shots of Neulasta.

All things considered, the most important factor, I suppose, just like in teaching, is the people. That'd be you. Thanks for being a part of my treatment plan!

not just another wordle

2009-02-01T22:19:00.008-07:00

Wanna see it bigger? HERE!

It's simply a word cloud of the most used words from my blog, I'm guessing from 2009 only. The words that are used most often are larger than the rest, excluding ordinary words like the, A, etc....

You can make one too!

I just gotta stop using the word just so much, though, but I just don't know how. Hmmm... maybe if I just became more aware of it, and every time I wrote just, I could just try and find a better word. I think it just might work!

there's a tax on everything these days!

2009-01-30T14:00:00.008-07:00

Even Liberty......

I think it's called The Patriot Act.

Freedom ain't free, ya know!

(Sorry for the poor photo quality; click on it for a better view. I whipped out my cell phone while waiting to make a left hand turn, and snapped this one. I've been trying to capture it for weeks, ever since the Liberty Tax Service store started its annual charade on Uintah.)

he says he doesn't want drawing lessons, but............

2009-01-28T22:31:00.008-07:00

he's always so pleased with himself after a lesson (he's only had two so far). Later, of course, he does the requisite complaining about his "homework", but then I see his face after he is done, and hear him say, "Dad! Come! Look!"

The pride is practically measurable.

I know he loves to draw, and so I ignore his complaints. You may think I am ignoring my child's needs, but I will tell you that I am doing just the opposite. I am listening to his whole body, not just his words. The sense of accomplishment he feels at the end comes from being pushed to face his insecurities, and it is up to me to do the pushing. It's a fine line, I know.

But isn't there something you wish YOUR parents had pushed you to do? And don't you regret it now?

Perhaps some day, Bennett will be as good as his teacher.