The Things we Put On

I had a great idea for a Halloween costume to wear to my school for today's parade. I was planning to get it all together last night. Then our water was turned off by the water company for a "misunderstanding" about the bill. So instead of costume-preparation, I spent a good part of the evening straightening that out, and had to sleep at boyfriend's place (where there are no costume-making materials) so I could take a shower and brush my teeth. Needless to say, I walked in to school today woefully un-costumed. I was the fuddy-duddy teacher who didn't dress up. :( But my students, in their brilliance, came up with a perfect idea for me - "Melanie! You should be your desk!" The second I nodded in assent, there was a flurry of chaos around me as little hands started taping post-its, pens, highlighters, and paper clips on to every part of my body. They made a great costume for me, and just in time for the parade!

Watching all the kids run around in their costumes at recess today was kind of a trippy sight. There was a fluffy pink princess chasing a cowboy, chasing a jar of peanut butter. Harry Potter was shooting hoops, and there was a jump-roping Sarah Palin. One kindergarten Spiderman gave me (unrequested) lessons on how to shoot spiderwebs from my hands. (He eventually walked away, shaking his head. I think he gave up on me.) All the kids seemed so much more confident today. Just a few tweaks to their everyday appearance, and they were invincible.

It reminded me of something one of my room mate's said to me recently. I think was talking about single-hood, and how badly it seemed to suit me. I was saying how I didn't think I liked being married, but now that I'm single, I realize I'm even worse at that. I was whining about not knowing who I was or where I belonged and waah, waah, waah.

I said something like, "Well, I like you guys and all (my roommates, that is), but I just don't seem to do this single-girl thing as well as you. I don't know if it works for me. I don't think it's me."

Laura said, "Melanie, sometimes you just try things on for awhile - like a costume. You put it on, move around it, and see how it feels. It doesn't have to be you forever. It can just be you right now."

So I was standing out in the howling wind on the field today, watching these superheros and fairies chase each other, and I wondered what things we put on. I guess I'm wearing the single-girl costume now. Boyfriend or not, I'm still "single" instead of "married." (I choose to ignore the "divorced" box.) I'm walking around and talking in it, I'm playing the part. Maybe there's pieces of this costume that will stick with me when I take it off and put on a new one. Maybe this will be my costume for a long time. I guess thinking of this stage in my life as a costume makes me feel a little more powerful; like I can almost fool myself into thinking I'm choosing this state, and I'm still in control.

blustery days

When I was a kid, I had this computer game for our old-school Apple computer called "Winnie the Pooh & the Blustery Day." The premise was that a blustery day had blown through the Hundred Acre Wood and scattered everyone's belongings all over the place. You had to follow clues to find everyone's things, then return them to their rightful owner in time for Christopher Robin's big birthday picnic at the end. It was timed, so it was very stressful (well, for an 8 year old).

This morning, as I was drinking coffee at my kitchen table, I noticed the way the wind was blowing the leaves outside the window. It was one of those indecisive winds, moving one way, then the next, without any warning. The leaves were not blowing from one side of the yard to the other. Instead, they danced in circles and swoops, controlled by the wind's finicky path. It was definitely a blustery day.

A lot of people I know seemed to have very odd, life-changing weeks this past week. One of my room mates decided that she is going to move to Hawaii next summer. My other room mate is helping her mother move this weekend. Another friend heard from a serious old flame that she hadn't spoken to in four years and it has thrown her world up in the air. Another friend confronted many of his demons and has been working them through for the first time in awhile. As for me. . . well, I've just had a very soul-searching week in terms of love gained and love lost and love found again. It was also the first really, truly cold week of the season. One morning, my windshield even had scrape-worthy frost on it.

So I'm sitting here thinking about blustery days; what they cause us to find, and what they may cause us to lose. What has this autumn wind scattered around for my friends and me? What pieces of us are lying scattered around, waiting to be found? But more importantly, should we go find them, or should we just let the blustery wind carry them away?

Looking for Love at the DMV: a short story

"Man in the red jacket!" the throaty female voice shouted towards the long line of disgruntled faces in front of her. "You the last one to walk in. Next person behind you gonna need ta' wait ri' here till I call all the rest of y'all." She responded to the collective sigh of the group by shouting, "Y'all are gonna get served, you just gotta wait out here 'till there's room for yous." And with that, she turned around and went back into the warmth behind the clear glass door. I watched her step laboriously to her little stool, where she had probably been perched for the better part of the day. Her large, round backside threatened to squeeze through her government-issued, mud-colored pants. Her wooden billy club banged against her thigh with each shift of her step. (Why did she need a billy club?) She resumed talking to the equally uninterested employee beside her. I watched their bored mouths make words through the glass.

I shivered against the quick, autumn air. I turned back to my cell phone and sent another text, trying to pass the time until I would be lucky enough to grace the doorway of the DMV with my fellow DC residents. I heard a "What's up sweetie?" behind me, and decided to ignore it. It went away - back to its place at the corner, probably to try out the brilliant pick-up line on other unsuspecting females.

The voice was enough to make me glance around a bit, though. The DMV was in what appeared to be an old McDonald's building. (I had a sudden craving for a Big Mac. . . no a McFlurry. . . no a sausage McGriddle. . .) I was certainly the only white person as far as I could see, not an uncommon situation to be in in this part of Northeast. Without commenting too much on race, let me just say that when you're one of the only woman in a sea of bored, urban, male faces, it's a not a good idea to make eye contact, lest you mistakenly convey interest in a sexual relationship to commence immediately. I accidentally met a few gazes as my eyes swept my surroundings, and now I had lots of smiles and nods and "Mmm hmms" coming my way. Sigh. Great. Maybe at least this will be entertaining.

I checked my phone again for a new text. Nothing.

At last I was called in. To my surprise, I was met with a metal detector of airport-security-caliber right inside the door. I laid my purse on the conveyor belt and tried to walk through. BEEP BEEP BEEP. Right. The watch. Try again. BEEP BEEP BEEP. "Are you wearin' a belt, m'am?" I gave a gracious smile and thought, is this really necessary? Removal of belt. One more time. . . and . . . we're clear.

"Proceed to the desk right there wit' your papers, m'am." I proceeded to the desk, arms overflowing with a belt, a watch, a bulky winter jacket, a purse, and every paper that bears my name on god's green earth. (I've been sent home from the DMV one too many times for forgetting some ridiculous proof-of-something, and I wasn't taking any chances.)

"Can I help you?" All of their voices sounded the same. All had that same, hollow, exhausted air to them. It was as though their words barely had the energy to make it out, and so fell, splattered on the floor just inches from their launching point.

"Yes," I responded cheerfully, still trying to re-dress myself in public, which was slightly humiliating. (No one else seemed to have the belt problem.) "I recently moved from Maryland to DC and I need to get a new license and register my car so I can park in front of my house in Northwest." She looked at me as though she just couldn't deal with this chipper white girl right now. Perhaps my sentences were too complete? "I'm not sure what you need, but I brought my old license, my passport, social security card, birth certificate, lease, utility bill, vehicle title, registration, proof of ins -"

"Just gimme all'a it," she cut me off, hand outstretched, waiting for the pile of documents. She took one quick glance through them. "You ain't got DC insurance. Can't help you." She handed all the documents back to me and motioned for the next person in line to step forward.

"I'm sorry?" I said, more patiently than I felt. I had been putting this trip off for two months, racking up parking tickets in front of my own house rather than face the harsh human reality at the DMV. I wasn't going to go quietly. "When I called my insurance, they said I had to get my new license & registration from you guys before they could give me DC insurance. Surely you can help me." Lovely smile. Batted eyes.

"Nope." Helpful. Thanks.

"Well, couldn't I at least switch my license today, and come back another time to register my vehicle?"

Sigh. "Fine. Gimme your stuff again." Sigh. Gee, how magnanimous. She loudly snapped all of my documents down to a white, plastic clipboard along with a form to fill out, and motioned me to have a seat and wait for my number.

I squeezed my way through the rows of black, dented chairs, bumping into several knees. They didn't even look as I passed. All eyes were glued lazily to the tiny TV, hanging precipitously from a corner of the ceiling. The news reporter on the screen updated us on the campaigns for the upcoming elections. She was so far away, in her red pantsuit, crown of soft, brown hair, and mask of carefully-placed makeup. So far from this dirty place. Her voice won out over the impatient murmur and mumble bubbling up and falling again all around me.

I decided not to get upset that I'd have to come back a second time to register my car. At least I could get my new license today. It will not have been a total waste. I started to fill out the form with the standard, externally identifying answers about myself. The woman next to me cursed under her breath each time a new number was called that was not hers. She said aloud, to no one in particular, "How come they callin' C47 when they ain't even call B47 yet? Shit. They ain't even call any B's. This is whack. I don't think no one's payin' attention. I been waiting here all day. Shit." And on she went, gradually dying out as no one gave her the sympathy she was hoping for. But then the next number would appear, and it was not hers, and she would begin the tirade all over again.

My number was called just as I finished writing down all the other states in which I had previously held licenses, and all the other names I may have used. (PA, MD, and Cobb. . . I think that's it.) This new woman, who seemed not-so-new due to her uncanny similarities to each of the other employees I had already encountered, began processing my papers once again. As she was typing, I asked, "Can I still register to vote? I'm registered somewhere, but I don't know whether it's my old DC address, my Silver Spring address, or my Laurel address."

"It's too late to register for this election," she stated flatly, and continued punching things into her computer. "Where you been livin for the past four years since the last election?"

"Well, all those places," I admitted, a little hesitantly.

She snorted and rolled her eyes. "Wait. You had a DC license before?" she asked, responding to something that had come up on her screen.

"Oh, um, I guess so. Sorry. I couldn't remember if I got a new one when I moved here from Pennsylvania four years ago. I guess I did." She shook her head and furrowed her brow as she continued staring into her computer. She seemed very frustrated by this new information. There was a long pause where neither of us spoke, but the tension between us grew into a tangible thing. "Is that a problem?" I asked.

"Well yeah. It's a problem I gotta fix now."

Another pause.

"Well, is there anything I can do?" I was afraid this would keep me from getting even this small task done while I was here, although I couldn't imagine why.

"Yeah," she stated, finally looking right at me. "You can stop moving around so much."

Excuse me? I debated on whether to tell her that I had gotten divorced and that's why I've been moving around and that my heart has been broken more than once this year and I didn't need her judgemental bullshit simply because she didn't want to spend two extra minutes changing some information on her computer, but I decided not to waste my energy. It didn't matter.

"Ok, I'll get right on that," I said with a sugary smile.

After getting my new picture taken, I took my pile of documents, picked up my dignity off the floor, and left that old McDonald's building. As I walked past the long line still growing outside, I kept hearing her voice in my head. . . You can stop moving around so much. This whole system is really set up for permanence. I guess it's expected that we will all live in one place and keep one name and still know where we're registered to vote. Our lives shouldn't see that much upheaval in four years. God bless America. God bless stagnation. In this land of the free and the home of the bureaucracy, we are just not meant to change.

when love is worth fighting for

Well, when is it?

My husband and I started talking about splitting up a full year before we actually did. We would get into those same, recycled arguments/discussions about the same things that annoyed the spit out of us about the other one. We'd fight about it, apologize, make up, be happy, and then do it all again the next month. Each time, the discussions went further and further into the maybe-this-isn't-actually-going-to-work territory, until we finally loosened our grip and let go. But each time we considered splitting up, the same question would arise: "Are these just normal issues that all couples go through? Should we just be able to work these out and stop complaining? Or is this the kind of stuff that makes people split up?" I wanted to channel Harriet the Spy from that book I read when I was in 4th grade, and get a notebook and spy on all of my neighbors. I wanted to know the intimacies of other couples' lives. How much do people really put up with? And how do they know when it's too much?

I thought that by leaving, I might gain some clarity about whether our issues really were "too much." But to this day, after 9 months away and a few more guys in between than I'd like to admit, I still don't know if I've made the right decision! I just wish he was some sort of drug addict or abusive asshole, so I could point to that and say, "There! That's why I left!" But he's not. He's actually a really tender, funny guy who did wonderful things for me over the five years that we were together. But for some unknown reason, we just couldn't make each other happy in a permanent sort of way. It just wasn't working. So even though we weren't sure if we were giving up too early, or for the wrong reasons, we said "Enough is enough" and called it quits.

Now I have the same opportunity with another man whom I love very much. (So soon? I know many of you are thinking. Well, love doesn't always give you a choice or work on Dr. Phil's timeline. So it's here now and I'm dealing with it. Judge away if you'd like.) Now I'm asking myself once again, "When is it too much?" I seem to have a faith in love that just won't die, against all odds. It beats me up and I go back for more. It kicks me in the mouth and I turn my face up for a kiss. I just love love, and I want so badly to believe in romance. I want to believe that love is worth fighting for.

I want to believe that sometimes the courageous thing is not walking away. That sometimes the courageous thing is sticking with the relationship and wading through the shit - together. All my single girlfriends seem to have this "I'm not gonna change anything for a man, no way nuh uh" attitude, complete with finger snaps and big don't-mess-with-me eyes. But they are just that - single. When is it ok to be a strong woman who also loves a man? Is it always weak to forgive them when they act like stupid assholes? Is it really that needy to want a man to lean on occasionally? A partner who can be a safe place to fall? If being a strong woman means not needing a man, I don't know if that's a kind of strong I want to be.

I really need to believe that love is worth fighting for. And I hope that someday I will be right.

traveling in Washington D.C.

The past two days have felt like traveling. It's like I've been on vacation in my own city. After my hazy day of sleep, separation, and recovering from Saturday night's gig, I dragged myself out to my weekly Sunday night dinner party. I drove there shrouded in a mind-fog. I wasn't even sure I wanted to go, but I had been napping on and off all day and I needed to get out of that bed for a little bit. On the way, my room mate called, already there, and asked how it went with the. . . separation conversation. So I guess she and everyone else already knew by the time I got there.

I pulled up and the host (my Palestinian friend who does all the cooking), walked out front to meet me at my car. He opened my door, helped me out, and hugged me. He said, "We're so glad you're here." I started crying like a baby on his shoulder. He took the beer from my hands and led me up the driveway to the circle of warm, welcoming people. Right away two more close friends came up and hugged me, to which I responded with more tears. Damn. This week was the largest the dinner party had ever been, and there were lots of people I didn't know, all whom were probably wondering why the hell this girl shows up 3 hours late and starts crying. Eh, fuck 'em.

The rest of the night was just surreal. It was rather cold, so for the first time, we had to eat inside and not on the back veranda. (Don't you love that word - veranda? It's not used nearly enough.) We opened up the dining room and gathered around the huge, dark wooden table. I sat back and watched the scene unfold. There were about 20 people of all different nationalities, ages, and backgrounds, all laughing, eating, reaching for food, passing dishes, oohing and ahhing over the delicious spread, pouring wine, and vascillating in and out of various conversations about days at work, politics, religion, philosophy, food, and relationships. There was roasted eggplant in rice, cous-cous salad, cold salad with these special Palesinian herbs, several kinds of cheese, and then there was pumpkin pie, pumpkin cookies, and peach-praline pie. Halfway through the meal, this hip-looking couple walks in the front door. They're from Denmark. They know the New Zealand roomate. They're here for dinner. Great. Then these random, tattooed people came in from outside where they were smoking and started saying all kind of crazy, drugged-up stuff that made everybody laugh. We were laughing at them, not with them, but they didn't know it. Then I met this stunningly-beautiful couple that works in film. The woman reads palms and does your i-ching, and the guy has a mohawk and is writing a memoir. Billy Bob Thorton is in their phone. They are moving to LA.

Finally around 10 we gathered our things and started giving hugs and kisses goodbye. We piled 6 people into my little Honda Civic and laughed all the way home. Then we didn't want to go home, so we wandered out to U St. and ended up at this little reggae club. We were the only white people there. We drank margaritas, got hit on by every guy in the place, danced, and laughed until the placed closed and we had to leave. But no - we weren't done yet. We walked down to get some pizza and continued our crazy night. I think we finally made it home and into bed by 3.

And that's just Sunday. Today, I called off of work with my room mate, who is also a teacher. I decided to give myself a "me" day. My room mate's friend was in town this weekend from Denver, and so we took off to spend a girl day with her. We slept in until noon, watched some steamy episodes of The Tudors while we drank some spiked coffee, and finally left the house at 2. The three of us met our other good girl friend, who happens to be currently unemployed and available during the day, out for a walk around the city. We went to the National Gallery, then walked down the Mall to the sparkling fall light of the sun illuminating all the little pieces of dust in the air as they floated around the monuments. We ended our walk at the Lincoln Memorial just in time to watch the sun set over the Potomac. Someone said, "I wish we had a song right now," so I sang. And it was silent except for my singing, which seemed to reach very, very far. We waited until the sun was completely down, then spilled into a cab and headed to Eastern Market for a great Cuban dinner.

Now I am home. My vacation is over. I need to go back to work tomorrow and face a lot of things I have not been ready to face this weekend. I don't know how I will do. I don't know if I have the strength to face the day. But right now - right now, I am content. Right now I can be. These past two days have shown me that I can access my free-traveling-spirit right here in my own city. I remembered all the things I learned about myself this summer. I am still my own best friend. And even if just for two days, life was good.

what loneliness?

There are two kinds of loneliness: loneliness that arises from being alone, and the loneliness that arises from being surrounded by people but feeling alone. The second is much, much more devastating. This weekend, I broke through both of them.

At my gig, I was amazed by how many people came. There were three groups of people in the bar for me. As I was singing, I could see a large group of co-workers and their spouses to my left; smiling, bouncing to the songs, looking so excited to be there. To my right was a group of my room mates and friends, screaming for me, cheering me on with all their hearts. And right in the center were my parents, who drove from Pennsylvania to be there, in a bar, outside their comfort zone, to hear their daughter sing music that they would never listen to otherwise; and also my aunt & uncle who drove up from VA Beach to hear me, even though it was my aunt's birthday and the first time she'd ever spent her birthday away from her own kids. My mom cried with pride for me. My boss came. My room mate's boyfriend said to me, "I didn't want to come hear this hippie music tonight. I was comfortable at home. But you rocked, Mel. I'm so glad I came."

I felt close to my band members. I felt love from every direction. It seeped in through all the little cracks in my being and filled me up, whether I wanted to recognize it or not. I could no longer feel lonely. I realized that although I may not have people in my physical space with me at all times, I am not alone. Not at all. So I made the choice to stop feeling lonely. I made the choice to accept the love.

And now, emboldened by this new knowledge, I am single again. And yes, I realize that I might be lonely as a result of that decision. But loneliness that comes from being without a partner is much more empowering that loneliness that clings to your pathetic spirit even when you're in a relationship. So I'm back to channeling my Europe spirit. I'm feeling liberated, strong, and free. The world is open to me. I'm ready to jump out of planes and dance with strangers and say "yes" to life all over again. I am amazed at the resilience of my own spirit. Hooray for me. Hooray.

directions please

Every time I use my GPS I want to write a blog entry about what it says.  All the language is just dripping with analogies.  Before I left for Europe, I had a dream that I got into a taxi in some ambiguous European city that could be any European city.  The cab driver didn't know how to get where I wanted to go, so I took my GPS out of my purse and let him use it.  But then, after he dropped me off, I realized that he still had my GPS.  I started running after the cab, screaming after him, "Wait!  You have my GPS!  Please come back!  How will I know where to go?"  He didn't hear me, and eventually I became exhausted from running.  I collapsed into a breathless pile of tears and frustration on the European sidewalk, repeating, "How will I know where to go?" to myself over and over until I woke up.

So now my GPS says, "Prepare to turn left in point seven miles."  Thank you GPS.  "Prepare to get divorced."  What?  "Prepare to be lonely."  Wait a second.  "Prepare to question every decision you make for the rest of your life and to live an unsure existence, constantly searching for human companionship where the benefits of intimacy outweigh the annoyances of coexistence."

Where was my GPS for that?

the lost hours

Our days are broken up into chunks of time: work, school, the commute, dinner, bedtime, etc. There are certain times that are acceptable for public socialization; times when we silently approve being out and about, interacting, bumping into others, smiling, not being lonely, etc.

The hours between 8am and 3pm for me are work hours. I'm hardly ever lonely during those hours. I chuckle with co-workers in the staff room, get excited (or frustrated) with my awkward middle-school students, and do lots of things that make me feel productive and super-starish.

Socialization hours usually start at 8pm for twenty and thirty-somethings. Whenever my friends and I have plans, they always start at 8pm. I don't know why this is the magical hour, but it is. No one ever seems to be able to meet for dinner or drinks or a debate party or whatever before 8pm. So my late evening hours are taken care of.

But what about those lost hours? Like between 6:30 and 7:30am when I'm getting ready for work? Or between 4 and 8pm when I'm trying to kill time between work and socialization hour? Or from 10pm until I go to bed? Or early on a Saturday or Sunday morning? You know what those are? Those are family hours. Those are hours when only the people who know and love you best would be with you. The hours when you don't have to have your hair or even your teeth brushed to be interacting with someone. You might not even be doing anything other than co-existing in a room; simply sharing space and energy. Those are hours you don't plan for. They just happen. And if you have a family, and you live with them, you're never lonely during those hours.

Sometimes I hear my married friends complain about the little annoyances of living with their spouse. ("He always leaves the shower curtain open and it gets mildewy." "He plays too many video games." "He farts on me.") Or I hear my friends who are parents complain about their kids. ("They are so loud, running around the house tearing things up." "They never want to eat what I make for dinner." "They have bloody noses all over the pillow case.") And I think, what I wouldn't give to have someone fart on me during one of those lost hours, or to deal with screaming children running through my house. I would take screaming and fighting over silence any day. Any freaking day at all. Anything to fill up those lost hours.

ring ring

I cradle my phone in my arms like a small, weaning infant. I stare into its hollow, black face; hoping, waiting for it to light up electric blue and sing to me. It gives me nothing. I carry it everywhere I go - downstairs to make coffee, into the bathroom, out onto the front porch. In the car, I take it out of my purse and rest it delicately in my cup holder for even the shortest of drives. I don't know what I'm waiting for. I don't want small talk. I don't have the energy to say howareyou and whatsup and goodtohearfromyou and talktoyoulater. Yet I wait. Sometimes I feel like this stupid little piece of electricity is an extension of me. Every time it bounces around and bleats out its silly little tune, I know that somewhere, someone is thinking of me. But then they call. And I say hi. And they say hey. And I say whatsup. And they say doyouwannagoto_______ or werehavinga_______doyouwannacome. And I say no. noidon't.

flesh-tearing, vengance-seeking, fire-breathing anger

Sometimes life can be going just fine. You have just enough to do to fill your time so you're not too bored or too over-committed. You have some good friends for fun times, a boyfriend for cute kisses & long walks, and family for support. You may be in a band, which makes you sound much cooler than you really are. You probably take yoga and are pretty good at it, and maybe you are even dropping some excess pounds. You have a job that is challenging and fulfilling, even on its most stressful days. It's autumn, and the increasingly-chilly air is probably making you want to curl up inside yourself and take comfort in all that you know is good and true in life. Yeah, life can be going just fine. . . until that THING that makes you angrier than a bull with a fresh shot of dart in the ass comes along and takes a big dump on everything. For me, it's a person.

I think I've always had a habit of focusing all of my anger & negative emotions on one person or situation in my life. It's much easier than dealing with the feelings and trying to see what they could teach me about myself. For the past several months, one person has been the recipient of all my pent-up frustration with life; of all my violent thoughts & irrational fears. (Don't waste energy trying to figure out who it is. Those of you that know, know, and those of you that don't, won't.) I usually handle this by just trying to avoid the person - even avoiding just talking about them or hearing their name mentioned. However, this is not always possible. Sometimes I'll hear someone say their name, even if if they're talking about someone else who happens to have the same name, and my blood just curdles inside of me. My intestines wrap themselves into a knot, my lungs seem to drain of air, and all the blood rises to fill my face like a quickly-approaching tide. If I were to actually see this person, I don't know what I would do. I am afraid the ravenous tiger that lives inside of me might just peel my skin back in one slash of its claw, climb out, and devour them with sickening, devilish delight. Sometimes I have dreams about causing them terrible pain. . .

Whoa. Back up the train. This sort of violence from a self-identified pacifist tree-hugger? I seem to have no problem having love and compassion for the poor Iraqis whose country we have decimated with our war, or the Mexican immigrants who are so misunderstood in the desire to provide a good life for their families, or the homosexual community who is so marginalized and judged, but when it comes to someone who is right in front of me - someone who may have wronged me or continues to be a thorn in my side (more like a festering sore growing on my ass), I want to take out my AK-57 (is that a weapon? i don't even know) and do some video-game style damage. I want vengance. I want blood.

I keep trying to rid myself of this negative karmic emotion. I don't want this sort of bad energy in my life. I don't want there to be someone for whom I have such contempt. I have written letters in my journal to this person, sometimes expressing anger, sometimes trying to express love. I have written little vignettes from this person's perspective, trying to put myself in their shoes and understand why it is that they behave the way they behave. None of it works. I just want them to disappear. Not necessarily to have pain or sufferring, but to just - poof - be gone without a trace and without consequence. To perhaps accidentally find the edge of the earth and - whoops! - fall off.

our place in nature

Last night I was watching episodes of "Planet Earth" on DVD. In case you don't know, I'm an absolute nerd about nature shows, and Planet Earth is just about the best thing to happen to my TV set since the New Kids on the Block concert was televised live in 4th grade (I had a big sleepover party to watch it). So as I was watching this amazing nature show, I was struck over and over by the parallels between our lives and so many hidden aspects of nature. I will list several here, along with the questions they inspired in me.

1. Some animals in remote parts of the world live their entire lives without ever seeing a human. How must that affect them? What would they do with a human if one ever approached? They probably wouldn't know enough to be afraid. Do they think they're at the top of the food chain? Why does that somehow feel sad to me? It makes me think of how many species I will live my whole life and never see. Do I need to see them for them to be real, worthwhile? Do they need to see me?

2. Cicadas emerge from underground every 17 years, filling the forest with their billions (yes, billions) of clicking, delicate wings. Where do they go in between? Are they alive underground? If so, are they hibernating? Do they exist in a sort of egg or larvae state for that long? Do they just take 17 years to grow? If so, how long does it take us to grow enough to use our wings? Do we know? How do the cicadas know exactly the right moment to emerge again? And what's fascinating is that as soon as they emerge, they climb a tree and shed their exoskeleton, as though they've just been waiting, pining to break free from that crispy, brown prison.
I remember collecting cicada shells as a kid in West Virginia. I was enraptured with the look of them - the eye bulges still so intact, the little hairs on the legs still sticking straight out, the neat slit straight down the back where the real creature had escaped. Do we leave little shells of ourselves lying around? If you go back to Paris, will you find a little shell of me there, along the Seine, with a wine bottle in my hand and a smile on my face, gazing at the Eiffel Tower at dusk? If you return to Lock Ridge Furnace on the afternoon of August 6th, 2005, will you see a shell of me in a long, white dress, holding my Dad's hand, bubbling over with tears at the walk I was about to take? Will there be a tidy slit down my back where I had crawled out?

3. When bucks spar, they don't fight until the bloody end like many male animals; eventually, one just walks away. One just gives the hell up. How do they know when it's over? How do they know when this battle is no longer worth fighting? How are they so much smarter than us that they know when self-preservation needs to be valued above pride?

4. What in the world is up with annuals? I will never understand how plants can come back year after year without being replanted. They live fully all summer long, turning their little faces up to the warmth of the sun, reaching tall and proud. Then they fold themselves up neatly and tuck themselves back into the earth from which they emerged. Now they slumber all winter. Again, just like the cicadas, are they still alive underground? Is it just a seed? Just a root? How can they tell when spring has broken and it's safe to push through the earth one more time? What fortitude they have! What unrelenting determination to live! Nothing can stop them from cracking through that frozen earth and reaching skyward year after year after year. Are we annuals or perennials? How many seasons do we get to live?

disciplinary action

I seem to be "disciplining" my students a lot lately, for lack of a better term. Since I work at a Quaker school, we don't really discipline in the most common form of the word. It's more of "Let's talk about what happened and try to figure out solutions." One of my kids is dealing with anger issues. One is dealing with some sort of unidentified emotional turmoil. One is dealing with hyperactivity and attention issues. Several are dealing with learning differences (known as learning disabilities in the old days). Me? I'm dealing with a divorce, a new living situation, intermittent loneliness, and occasional bursts of anger and frustration.

When my kids have these issues, we talk them through. The parents come in and we figure out whether they might need therapy, testing, medication, self-discipline, or just a good smack (kidding. . . mostly). The parents at my school are awesome. They are so committed to giving their children the best that they can, and they bleed, sweat, and cry over their child's pain way more than the child does. They ask me what I think. They ask how they can help. They take second jobs to pay for tutoring or psychotherapy.

But who is doing this for me? I'm not feeling sorry for myself. I'm doing pretty well lately. But every time I have a parent-teacher conference, a little part of me wishes that several people from my life would have a conference about me and figure out what the hell to do to solve my problems. I guess you're supposed to do that on your own as an adult.

There's this sense that I'm not really supposed to struggle with the same things that my kids do. I say "It's ok to feel angry, but we don't hit." Except when we do. I say, "I understand that you have a lot going on, but you need to find a way to do your homework and fulfill your responsibilities." Yeah, like I do that.

I have hit people. Sometimes I feel so angry that I want to scream and run out of the school building and call my parents and ask them to come pick me up. But I can't tell that to the student who did that today. Because I am the picture of calm. Of maturity. Of self-assuredness. Hmm, these kids are in trouble with me.

Autumn non-lonliness

I seem to only post on here when I'm feeling sad or lonely. As I look back through old postings, I seem like quite a pathetic mess. But there are long stretches of time when I don't post because I'm too busy out in the world, being inspired by my students, laughing with friends, feeling all warm and fuzzy from the people who love me. So I thought I'd simply share with you how my lovely, Fall, non-lonely week has been.

On Wednesday, I went to an open mic at a cool little hipster club in Arlington with my band and my boyfriend. We kicked ass and garnered more applause than any other act. I stayed out waaay past my bed time, but I felt like such a rock star!

On Thursday, I went to a wonderful yoga class with my friend and roommate. Then we came home, made some delicious green curry with couscous, and headed over to another friend's house to laugh at Sarah Palin's over-plucked eyebrows and embarrassing mispronunciation of the word "nuclear" during the debates. There were about twenty of us - 20 & 30 somethings with microbrews and homemade hummus, crowded into a little Adams Morgan living room, draped over thrift store couches and lying on hard wood floors, participating with angsty fervor in our "democracy." I stayed out late - again - but it was worth it.

Friday, my lack of sleep started to catch up with me and I needed a low-key night. So the boyfriend and I walked into town, ate some empanadas and Rita's, and rented a low-budget Japanese horror flick from the redbox at Giant. We fell into a blissful, early sleep to creepy images of zombies and bleak, grey post-apocalyptic worlds.

That brings me to today, Saturday. I rolled out of bed around 11, just in time to greet my bandmates, Josh and Julian for band practice at my house. We have a big gig coming up on the 18th, and had a lot of work to do. We sat out back in the brisk fall air and played through the entire set. We each also shared a new song that we wrote this week, which was exciting because we're starting to really grow and create some pretty unique stuff. Then we ordered pizza, and made our new myspace page. (www.myspace.com/nativesonsmusic) Josh had to go to work then, but Julian and I sat out on the front porch for a little longer, listening to music and just enjoying the beautiful day.

Now I am writing this entry on my front porch. Runners jog by, women push strollers, and all kinds of loud Columbia Heights folk color the street with their ever-widening vocabulary of urban vernacular. Every now and then I get "hey baby" from a passerby, to which I scowl, but secretly blush. The noise is low and steady, mostly intermittent cars, various birds, and some Latino music fading in and out from a neighbor down the street. The combination of the sunshine and breeze feels like Halloween. It makes me want to eat soup and jump into piles of leaves.

Tomorrow I will work on some schoolwork in the morning, in my pjs, in my bed, with lots of coffee. That will be followed by a fun girls day: thrift-shopping for fall clothes, the Takoma Park folk festival, and finally, what we call our "urban posse." This is a weekly, Sunday night dinner at our friend's house. He makes the most amazing Pakistani food, and we all sit around at eat it while drinking wine, jamming (there's a keyboardist, a drummer, a few guitarists, a banjo player, and me - the singer, in addition to a few listeners), and talking about politics and love.

No, this week I am not lonely. I am not lonely at all.

This piece of writing is not from me, but from one of my students, who of course shall remain nameless. It is not even a finished piece, just a quickly-scrawled entry in his notebook. I happened to collect notebooks today and stumbled upon this entry. He had never shown it to me, and I'm not even sure which lesson he wrote it in response to, but it stopped me in my tracks. Something about it was just so. . . honest. So simple and beautiful. So I thought I would share it with my blog readers as well. Names have been changed and spelling has been corrected. :)

Josh is my older brother. He's a sophomore in high school, and that means he has a lot of homework! :( So that means he has less time to see me! :( And now he has soccer every day after school, so I have even less time to see him. But when I do see him it's one of the best things! When I pass his smelly old room, I'm reminded of him, so I push open the door and there he was doing his dumb homework. "Hi," I say. Then he got up and placed his computer on his chair and walked over and rubbed my head and gave me the biggest hug ever. "Hi," he warmly said. I loved that.