patterns

Last night I started taking guitar lessons. I have been writing songs since my separation in February, and I want to be able to put music to them. I have since relied on the guys in my band to match chords to my words. They do a nice job, but it's not always exactly what I hear in my head and it's really frustrating to hear music and not be able to make it real. So, guitar lessons.

So my teacher was showing me how each key had this natural progression of 8 chords that followed the same pattern of being major or minor. He started giving me all of this guitar/music jargon like "Then you can play the 3rd in Gmajor followed by the 7th which is always diminished." Yeah, ok. WTF?? I said, "I'm really trying to learn guitar so I make the music that I hear in my head. I want to match music to the melodies and lyrics I write. How will this help me do that?" He said, "Well, you have learn the patterns - mostly so you can break them. Then you can really do what you want with all the chords."

Whoa. Life-realization moment.

How true is that in almost everything? We have to learn our own patterns before we can break them up. I have had to learn all the patterns my husband and I spent years solidifying so I can now unlearn them. But if I never recognized them, I'd still be stuck in them, like a boring song that just plays major and minor chords up and down a scale in a predictable order. Once we learn our patterns, we can take them apart and put them back together in new, more melodic ways.

song

I wrote this song today, in the car on the way home from visiting my long-lost friend from college:

I used to know you
I think - well maybe not.
I closed my eyes and called you
by the name that I was taught.
You speak in bold, red letters.
They tell me what it means
dripping from fat Sunday lips
wrapped in American dreams.

I used to talk to someone
at night all alone.
But how can I be sure
you really made my heart your home?
Cause the voice that often spoke back
Sounded at awful lot like me
So maybe you're just something we created
Cause we're too scared to be free.

You don't have a face - you hide.
But they're all pushing through
Please tell me they're not you.

It just really seems like you lied.
This is not how I'm supposed to feel
If like they say - you're real.

Where's the promised safety and security?
Cause I just haven't figured out how to love you without hating me.

Family

I need a family. I don't mean I want to get married and have children, or that I want to move back home and live with my parents. I mean, I need to have people (or at least a person) in my life who I know loves me and knows me no matter what. Isn't that what family is for? Someone who waits for you to get home at the end of the day - who notices when you're late or thinks of you when they're at a flea market and buys you a scarf. If I got in a car accident and died today, I think it would be a few days before people would notice. I know that sounds dramatic, but everyone would probably assume that someone else knew where I was, because no one is just looking out for me but me.

Don't get me wrong, I know I have many people in my life who love and care about me a lot. But they all have someone else they love more. I'm nobody's number one. Not anymore. I'm a whole hell of a lot of people's number two or three, though.

Let's start with my biological family. I don't mean to piss in their wheaties here by saying that I don't have a family or that nobody loves me, wah wah wah. I know they love me. My parents have always made it clear that they will love me no matter what, and that as long as I'm trying my best they are proud of me. I know I can always go home and they will accept me with open arms. But over the past few years, it has become evident that what makes us up is so fundamentally different, that we will never truly know each other. I have to just check some really huge parts of myself at the door every time I go home. And I know my mom bites her tongue on a regular basis around me. We will just never be able to discuss some of the most important parts of my life. And that's something I'll just have to accept. This is the kind of relationship I will have with my family. Smiles and hugs at holidays, nice homecooked meals on weekends home, friendly phone calls during the week to see how life is. But they don't really know me, and I don't think they really can. And vice-versa, apparently.

Next, my husband. I had a family in him. He knew me fairly well. And even though he didn't agree with many of the things I believed or the choices I made in my life, he accepted me for who I was. He was waiting for me at the end of every day. I was the first person he called when he had anything to say. He was my safe place to fall. But when I chose to leave that, I ruined something that can no longer be repaired. And I don't think I even want it to be. For awhile, we remained friends, but he has recently cut that off. He wants to learn how to grow without me - a totally reasonable request. But now, when I just want to cry, I can't call him anymore. That family is over. Regardless of whether it was the "right" thing to do, it's over. And there's no turning back.

I have a boyfriend now. And that's nice. So I'm not lonely when I'm with him. But I can't be with him a lot, because - shocker - he has a life outside of me. He is divorced as well and has two kids. So he only has half of the week even available, because the other half he's with his kids, from his first family. So we get together, have a great time, and then he leaves to be with his number one and two people - his kids. How can I be upset about that? I can't. Of course he needs to do that. He's a great father. But it's just another example of the backseat I take in someone else's life.

And my roommates. Three girlfriends who are fun, intelligent, and inspirational to live with. But they have all been friends for a long, long time. And they have this whole network of friends that they met through PeaceCorps that I am just not a part of. I'm always the odd one out at every party. Because when they were 22, they were trekking the world, living in Zambia, meeting all kinds of fascinating people and developing these friendships that are still going strong now. When I was 22, I was getting married. Now I don't have my husband anymore, and there's not really a place for me in their world, as nice as they are and as much as they try to include me.

Then there's my students. They love me so much, and I thrive on that. I have very close relationships with many of them. They confide in me, trust me, and even call me "Mom" sometimes accidentally. But at the end of every day, they go home to their real families and leave me at school.

When I lived in my friend's basement for 6 months after leaving my husband, I started to feel like they were my family. Although I had my own complete apartment in her basement, I spent an awful lot of time with her, her husband, and her two kids. I pulled the older one's first tooth on a camping trip, and the youngest one still calls and asks me to come over now that I've moved out. They really tried to make me feel like a part of their family, and they are probably the closest I've come, but it's just not the same.

This is the perfect story to illustrate my feeling of being a floating island without a home. Last night, my roomates, my boyfriend, and I went over to another friend's house to watch the debates. We all had a great time, got a little drunk, and came stumbling home in a cab, laughing and still arguing about politics. My roomies (and the 2 girls staying with us this weekend - PeaceCorps friends of course) all went to their respective beds, and my boyfriend and I went to mine. My boyfriend woke up and left early in the morning to go get his kids for the weekend. I slept for another few hours. When I woke up, I could smell bacon and coffee downstairs, and I heard laughing from all the girls. I smiled, and couldn't wait to get down there and join in the Saturday morning girltime. But I walked downstairs to find out that they assumed I had left with my boyfriend. There was no more bacon, no more coffee, and no more champagne for the mimosas. They were all telling Zambian stories and laughing without me. I went to the kitchen to make an English muffin (sans bacon) and drink some plain orange juice (sans needed hangover champagne), and just started crying. They had all assumed I would be spending the day with my boyfriend, but he was with his "real" family. He had assumed I would be spending the day with them, but there didn't seem to be room for me in their family. And now here I sit, alone in my bed, typing this blog entry with no one to call. I fucking hate Saturdays. I feel like Eeyore. Thanks for noticing me.

egg dreams

After just finishing one of the most painful, life-interrupting menstrual periods of my life, I have been thinking a lot about what it means to be a woman.

Last weekend I got a total of about 4 hours of sleep, thanks to the nighttime spasms in my uterus, otherwise known as cramps. I was up for most of Friday night tossing and turning, but eventually a heating pad calmed them down enough for me to doze off at last. But Saturday night was just unbearable. I woke up at 2am (after going to bed at 1, thanks to my band's gig). I tossed, turned, writhed in pain, laid in every possible position, did yoga, drank tea, took medicine, walked around the house, did sit-ups - nothing worked. Finally, at 5am, crying, I called the 24 hour medical advice line for my health insurance. I felt so stupid calling for cramps, this female condition that many think is just psychosomatic. But I didn't know what else to do. I had never had pain like this. They told me to come in to their late-night clinic (sort of like an ER). After a hunched-over, moan-filled drive, I arrived, was promptly given a shot of painkillers in the ass, and slept in the doctor's bed until the pharmacy opened at 8am.

But this really got me thinking. What is this thing that happens to us females every month? As I sat on the toilet, watching the thick, red stream drip from me and blend with the clear water below, I couldn't help but see it as wasted baby potential. Another month of procreation down the drain - literally. Women go through this cycle every month of a rising possibility of offspring followed by a shedding of that hope, just to start it all again.

I am especially thinking about what this means culturally. Our bodies haven't changed for centuries - ever since women walked the earth, I assume. We do this each month. But there was a time when there was no such thing as birth control. Women just had sex and got pregnant when they got pregnant. This was probably at a time when they were living in villages or communities where there was more help to care for this large brood of children. But what does this monthly possibility of conception mean for an independent 21st century woman? I don't really want babies right now - I know that. I am hardly in a place where children would be practical. I don't have a husband anymore, my boyfriend already has 2 kids of his own and lots of other priorities in addition to me right now. I live with a bunch of single girls, have a more-than-full-time job, barely make enough money to support myself, live in a crazy non-child-raising part of the city, and want to keep travelling and exploring the world before I sit down and have babies. But my body doesn't listen to that. It doesn't know that. It still releases an egg every month and sends me a loud, strong message that says "You should be having a baby! You want a baby! Here is an egg for your baby! Go find a sperm and make a baby! Baby, baby, baby!" Any woman will tell you this is true. The female body speaks to us in this way, I swear. Then the egg passes. The possibility for fertilization is lost, and the desire for offspring goes along with it. Then we shake our heads as if waking from a dream and say, "What was that about? Did I just say I wanted a baby?"

Things to look forward to

To continue with the list-making trend as a way to bring an illusion of order to the mess that is my life, I offer you another one -

Things to look forward to this week:

Saturday
I'm trying to look forward to my band's gig tonight. My uterus is currently punishing me for being a woman, so standing on stage for an hour being rocker-chick isn't exactly what I'd like to be doing tonight, but I'll do my best.

Sunday
Spending the entire morning in my new bed, sleeping, reading, drinking coffee. I might see if my roommates would mind if we brought the TV, DVD player, coffee maker, and kitchen table into my bedroom so I can use them all without leaving my bed. Hmmm. . .
Free, delicious, homemade Pakistani food with good company at my new friend's house (Yes, I made a new friend! Several, actually! I might be able to partake in this dinner as a weekly event! I'm trying not to show them how excited I am about it! The exclamation marks aren't helping!)

Monday
Date with boyfriend. Possibly home-cooked, romantic-type meal.

Tuesday
I couldn't think of anything for Tuesday, so my roommate suggested I treat myself to something special after work. I think that's a brilliant idea. Maybe a new Cd. Maybe a new pair of shoes. Maybe new clothes. Maybe a splurge of a beauty product that I would never usually buy - like exfoliating stuff for my face or some kind of fancy hair conditioner. Maybe all of the above.

Wednesday
We get our new laptops from work! Every teacher is getting their own Fujitsu tablet laptop! I've been holding out on buying a new one for over a year, waiting for this moment! (For those of you that don't know, my current laptop is 6 years old, beeps for 5 minutes when you turn it on, takes about 20 minutes to start once it's done beeping, and has broken shift, backslash, and question mark keys. Oh - and you can't make a capital p. I'm going to go Office Space on its ass when I get a new one!)
Possibility of second date with boyfriend, if boyfriend decides he feels like it. I know - romantic.

Thursday
First day of new yoga session.
My "easy" day at school. (My kids have lots of specials classes.)

Friday
I couldn't think of anything for Friday either. When I asked my roommate for ideas for Friday, she said, "Isn't being Friday enough to look forward to?" She doesn't understand. Fridays have been my least favorite days since my separation. When you don't have something to do on a Tuesday, it's normal. It's just a lazy weekday. But when you don't have something to do on a Friday, it's depressing and embarrassing. So I think I might try to go up to Pennsylvania to see a friend for the weekend.


And that's my week. If anyone has anything exciting to add to the list for me, please let me know!

the lonely list

I've learned something about loneliness these past few months: it's always there. I don't mean this to be pessimistic, it's just an observation. When you've been as used to sharing your every moment with a life partner as I was, every moment without that is lonely. Even when I'm in a crowd of people, I feel like a little island floating around in between them, bumping into some, crossing over onto others, but never becoming part of them. Even when I'm happy - I mean completely happy-excited-full-of-life, I can feel that thin layer of loneliness underneath it all. Sometimes I simply acknowledge it to myself, smile, and continue with my day. Sometimes I let it linger for a little longer as it seeps into my facial expressions and pulls my voice down a bit. (Well, I shouldn't say I let it, it seems to have an agenda of its own.) Sometimes it just completely takes over my mind, body, & soul and drags my lifeless forms into a dark pit where no one can find me.

So, last night before bed, I did what any organized girl with too much time on her hands would do. I made a list.

Things to do when I'm lonely:
write a song
take a walk in the city
take a walk in a park
cook a good meal
buy a new book and read it in one sitting
call an old friend
call a new friend
make a new friend (this is a tough one)
go to an art museum or gallery
go dancing
clean or re-decorate my space
buy new clothes, shoes, or jewelry that will make me look spectacular
yoga
start an art project
write
take a weekend trip
research my next big travel destination (and dream of the money to actually go)
read poetry. . . aloud
find live music

and, just for good measure. . . another list . . .

Things NOT to do when I'm lonely:
start thinking about why I left my husband and romanticizing away the problems we had
rely on boyfriend-of-the-month to make me love myself
sit at home alone and feel sorry for myself
eat heaps of fried food and ice cream
send passive-aggressive texts to boyfriend-of-the-month looking for attention
assume that life will be this way forever

mattresses

Today marks a new day in my post-marriage life - I got a new mattress. As the mattress delivery guys flirted with me, hauled out my old mattress, and hauled in the new one, I started thinking about all the beds I've slept in over the last 7 months. Well really I started thinking about all the beds I've slept in since I was a child, but I think the last 7 months is more than enough for this blog entry, since I'm guessing it's more than most people's lifetimes.

The beginning of this year found me in a marriage bed, on a mattress purchased by my husband's parents, located in an uninspired bedroom, in a tiny apartment in Silver Spring, MD. This bed became the location of a series of ever-more-complicated arguments and late night discussions about differences and how they just weren't going away. But it was also the location of many fits of shared laughter, lazy Sunday morning reading days together, and a sense of stability and comfort.

Next was a borrowed bed in my friend's basement, where I moved when I left my marriage. Nothing about this bed felt like mine, except that it was the first one I slept in alone for five years. This was the bed where I cried myself to sleep for weeks on end, or punched the pillow or lay awake because it felt so cold and empty. I never seemed to have enough blankets to keep me warm. This bed saw some truly rough times.

From there, I slept in at least 15 different beds all over Europe. Some rented for the night, some offered for free from kind folks along the way. One mattress had a big brown stain, circled in sharpie marker with an arrow pointing to it that said "Yes, this is from sex." I actually felt the least lonely during this rapid-bed-transition time. Maybe it was because all the beds were so small, I didn't have room to feel any absence. Maybe it was because I moved around so much that I started to feel like my only home was my own body.

Upon returning, I moved to my new place in DC - a group house with 3 of my girlfriends. I bought a mattress from a friend of a friend to use here. When I picked it up, not only was the frame broken and the mattress a thin piece of shit, the boxspring didn't fit up my stairs. It was just a little too symbolic to be comfortable. After a few weeks sleeping on the dilapidated mattress on the floor and waking up with spring indents in my side, I broke down and walked to mattress discounters. I walked in and said, "Hi. How can I buy a mattress with no money?" Surprisingly, they had a plan for people just like me. Twenty minutes later, I was the proud owner of my very own, brand-spanking new queen sized mattress and split boxspring.

I guess this is the point where I stop changing beds every couple of months. I should probably count on sleeping on this mattress, in this bedroom, in this single-girl house for awhile. Is that supposed to make me feel independent? All I can think of is that Bill Withers song that says, "I'm tired of looking at lonliness and trying to call it freedom." I'd take dependable love over a new mattress any day.

personal power

Today in our Community Building unit, we discussed personal power. We talked about how each of us has a "personal power package" made up of our skills & knowledge, social position, social skills, abilities, strengths, talents, rights & responsibilities, and self-knowledge. There are some elements of our personal power that we control, and some that we are simply born into. We are always making choices about how to use the power we have.

The next class after community building was Word Work. I asked the kids to go back through their writer's notebooks and thoroughly edit every entry they've written in there so far this year (roughly 20 pages). Some kids are natural spellers, and hardly had anything to correct. Right away those kids said, "We're done. What can we do?" Before I could answer, one girl suggested, "Why don't we see if anyone needs help?"

So 4 kids went to the cozy corner (an area of our classroom with a window seat and pillows) and announced, "If anyone needs help checking their spelling, come over to our tutoring center and we'll help you." I was afraid the other kids who needed help wouldn't admit it, but several of them looked relieved, and headed over right away. The "tutors" quickly sat down and got to work. They carefully scanned each page of their "client's" notebook, pointing at misspelled words and gently offering solutions. They were so empowered by their role as helper, and the students who received help were so grateful to not be struggling alone anymore. The best part: no pairs of students working together were "best friends." They all went outside their comfort zone a bit and were willing to work with someone who they might not normally hang out with. There were even (gasp) boys working with girls!

I was so touched by this completely independent act of kindness on the part of the tutors, and vulnerability on the part of the tutees, that I went next door to ask my co-teacher to come and see. We stood at the doorway of the classroom, unnoticed by any of the kids. We watched them leaning over notebooks, nodding encouragements, and giving genuine smiles. Our eyes welled up with tears.

What would the world be like if we reached out a hand like this more often? If we didn't look at other people's struggles as none of our business? If we weren't afraid to ask for help when we needed it? Why can't I be more like my 5th and 6th graders? I am humbled by their courage and inspired by their strength.

what kids really want

Today I was telling my class how amazing they are. I was going on about how responsible they've shown me they can be, and how I'll be able to do more with them because they're such a capable class, and on and on with stuff teacher's say. I was hoping they would respond to this authentic affirmation with beaming smiles of pride. One kid raised his hand. I called on him, expecting some request like "So will we be able to go on cooler field trips and do fun stuff in class?"

What he said was, "So will you buy us cheap Chinese toys from those crappy catalogs that teacher's always get in the mail?"

Oh! So that's what kids want.

"I get it!"

These are a teacher's favorite words, and I seem to be hearing so much of them lately. Today, during a math class where the 5th graders were working with prime factorization (a particularly difficult concept), their excitement stopped me dead in my tracks. I was leaning over one student, helping him talk through a problem, when from one corner of the room I heard, "I get it!" Followed quickly by a "Me too!" an "Oh!" and a "It makes sense now!" I closed my eyes for a brief moment and allowed myself to be serenaded by the symphony of victorious voices. All else in my life may seem unstable, and I have certainly had a lot of not-liking-myself days lately, but in that moment, I was pure bliss. What a great job.

turn signals

This morning on the way to work, I experienced an incredible phenomenon. It seemed that everyone in the greater DC Metro area had lost the ability to use their turn signal. It's a rare disorder that a select few suffer from, but today was a statistical anomaly because everyone who drove in front of me seemed to be afflicted.

Some would slow down almost to a stop before making a surprise right turn. Some would simply stop in the middle of an intersection, much to my bafflement since there were no cars stopped in front of them, and eventually make an unannounced left turn when opposing traffic cleared. Some would merge over in front of me at their slightest whim, without the slightest notice. I was trying to keep things in perspective and remember that there are bigger things in life to get your panties in a wad about than turn signals, but by the time I got to work I was hopping mad and using some very colorful language.

So it got me thinking. Why does the lack of turn signals bother me so much? I think I take it as a much bigger statement. I feel like when people don't use their turn signals, they are saying that no one else matters. The turn signal may be the only device in a car that is soley for the purpose of drivers other than you. When you neglect to use it, you are sending the message that you think you are somehow above this established norm, and that everyone else can just figure it out without your assistance.

But that's just not true! We need each other! We need to admit that we are not driving on solitary country roads here. (Do you feel the analogy part of the blog entry coming on?) We share space on the road - and in life. We need turn signals to help us move smoothly from one part of the road to another. When we don't use them, we run into each other. When we make sudden moves with no warning to those around us, we have collisions. We all need to be responsible to think about how our decisions will affect other people, and to give them a little bit of warning before you cut them off for crying in a bucket! Don't just stop! Don't just change things! Help me out people - tell me why the jeepers you're doing what the bejesus it is that you're doing!! I can't handle it when everything around me is in chaos!

Finishing

This is not me. I don't finish things well. (And I certainly don't have abs that look like that.)

I am a great starter. If you have a project that you need some energy behind; someone to rally the troops and get things in motion - I am your woman. When I am excited about something, there is no stopping me. I will lose sleep, forego food, and abandon all other responsibilities in pursuit of the new idea, project, or hobby. But once things get rolling, it seems there is nothing to look forward to anymore, and I exit just as quickly as I had burst in.

There are many instances throughout my life where I have observed this phenomenon.

1. Books. If I am not captivated by a book in the first 10 pages, I'm done. Additionally, if I am midway or towards the end of a book I have been enjoying but it turns boring, I'm done.

2. Lessons. Piano, for example. When my teacher made me learn those boring classical songs instead of the songs by Jewel and Mariah Carey in my pop sheet music book, I lost patience and quit.

3. Jobs. I have never given more than 1 weeks notice to leave a job. In fact, I usually quit the same day that I decide I'm done there. When I had an especially bad night waitressing at Red Lobster, I got people to cover my scheduled shifts for the upcoming week, then told my boss I quit when I cashed out at the end of the night. I never went back. I never regretted it.

4. Boys. I have rather high expectations in this department, but this is where it gets confusing. I want all my boyfriends to be perfect - exciting at the right times, comforting at the right times, saying all the right things, etc. When they inevitably fail at this impossible task, I don't necessarily dump them right away, the way I would an unfulfilling job or book. I hold out for awhile, but do eventually let it go in pursuit of something more new and exciting. That's pretty scary for me to read in print.

grrrrrr. . .

In Nietzsche's "Thus Spoke Zarathustra: A Book for All and None," there is a chapter entitled “On the Three Metamorphoses.” In it, Nietzsche explains that there are three stages of metamorphoses that the human spirit can undergo in his or her lifetime: the camel, the lion, and the child. My travel-friend, J.J., told me about this, and I have been thinking about it a lot as of late. I don't pretend to be a philosophy professor, but this is my understanding of the idea.

The camel is the stage that we are all born into. This stage is about assimilating into society; storing cultural norms and accepting readily-available ideologies in order to blend in and make them match with your own personal experience. Think of all you absorb from society as being stored on your back and carried around. Most people never move from the camel stage.

The next phase is the lion. This is when your spirit rebels against the camel phase and calls everything it had been "storing" into question. One good thing about this phase is that it is often where creative people dwell; those who are willing to push boundaries and create beauty or life or inspiration where there was none before, however unconventional their methods may be. One downfall of this phase is its prolific, often unfocused, anger. Someone in the lion phase may be in the exciting process of individualization and self-discovery, but often only through thrashing and internal violence.

The third and final stage is that of the child. This is an overturning of both camel and lion phases, and a return to simplicity in childhood. Someone in this phase is neither accepting all that society would teach them nor beating up against it. Their spirits are not ruled by the future or the past, but simply live in the present - observing, living, breathing, smiling. In Eastern philosophy they would refer to this as enlightenment. In Christianity, I assume it was what Jesus referred to when he said that you must come to him as a child.

I'm sure it hasn't taken you blog-readers long to identify me as the lion, vis a vis my most recent blog posts about anger and my Christian past. Yes, there is quite a bit of lion in me. I'm certainly not a camel, that's for sure. I would like to think that I tasted the child phase ever so briefly when I was in Nice, on the French Riviera, or in Lauterbrunnen, in the Swiss Alps. Something about those places and my experiences there touched my spirit in a way that I have never experienced. I really felt as though I wasn't living life, but it was living me. I felt at one with everything in the universe, as though we all shared the same fabric, the same consciousness. I felt no anger or fear, no bitterness about the past or anxiety about the future. I just was.

But since returning from Europe, I could hear the lion's roar deep down inside of me, growing louder ever so slowly. The first week or so I think I was able to be a child much more easily than I expected. I felt that I was taking all that peace and enlightenment with me, and spreading it around this ugly suburban wasteland like wildflower seeds. But one by one, old pieces of my life came crashing back into my daily space. Traffic. Work. Strained relationships. Religious judgements. Deep-seated family issues. Fears about life-long lonliness. Health problems. With each one, I could feel a little, clawed paw reach out and swing from inside. The lion was rising once again. I was slipping.

I tried desperately to cling to that open-faced child that I knew was still around somewhere, but she was being mauled by a hungry lion. I'm back, and I'm angry, and I'm swinging wildly around at whomever I can.

But here's the interesting thing about lions and their anger - it's almost always motivated by fear. A lion doesn't get angry just for fun or because it's a stupid animal just looking for a fight. It gets angry when it senses that its pride may be in danger (as in the lions it protects, not its ego). For example, if there is an enemy or perceived threat on its land or near other lions it cares about, it will shout out a deafening roar to let everyone know who's in charge. And the worst is a mama lion when she sense her babies may be in danger. You could argue that lions are unnecessarily violent when killing prey, but I would disagree. They are simply looking for food, and often to share. They are not a species that tortures their prey first. They strategize, act, and bring the carcass home to the kids. In fact, I might argue that more timid animals do their prey more harm - like chickens who might just slowly peck something to death or spiders who let their dinner die slowly in the middle of their manipulative web.

Ok, where is all this nature-show stuff going? I guess I'm trying to say that although I may have slipped back into the lion phase, I've learned something new about my anger. It's motivated by fear. I seem to lash out more when I feel unsafe. It's a lot easier than vulnerability.

What's that? You don't like this blog post? Grrrr. . . . .

noisy silence

Tonight I went back to a yoga class for the first time since before Europe - since the beginning of June! It was an introductory night for a level one class (2 levels below what I usually take), so it was very simple. But simple was good for me tonight. There was no flying upside down or flipping up against walls or bending back into twister-like poses. It was more like learning how best to stand, sit and breathe. Excellent reminders.

Regardless of the lack of physical challenge involved, I was challenged to stillness. My mind was quieter than it's been for a long time. This only means one thing - I created more space for noise! It seemed like as soon as I opened my mind up again to the steady breathing and flowing movements, I had all of this empty space. What I should have done with it was allow it to be empty, but instead it filled immediately with worry and self-doubt and fear. In the quiet of that yoga studio, and all the way home afterward, it was as if little demons were just shouting at me. I could hear their sneering comments just bouncing off the open walls of my mind. It made me want to drown them out with the vices I had just left at the door.

I guess you have to kill the aphids before the rose bush can grow. And they're not going to go easily. I keep thinking of that line in a poem (I think it's Dylan Thomas) that says "Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

sticky tac facial hair

I think I am quite a bit more permissive than other teachers at my school - and my school is pretty loose. Perhaps it's because I teach 5th and 6th grade, which is at the upper end of our K-8 school, and I work with mostly teachers of younger kids, who, I'm told, need more boundaries. (What kind of run-on sentence is that for a middle school teacher, then, huh?) I mean, I keep "order" in the room, if by order you mean lots of kids moving around, talking, laughing, and having fun. There are certainly times for quiet, and I can get the crazy monkeys to settle down for those. But overall, unless they're hurting someone, I usually let them do what they feel inspired to do. In the past, that has meant playing dodgeball rather rambunctiously, lying all over the floor with pillows and blankets for read-aloud, or running around out back at the end of the day (even though we're technically not supposed to let them do it because of the ticks in the woods just beyond. I tell them to run fast and the ticks won't be able to catch them.) Today it came in the form of allowing them to use an entire package of gray sticky tac to make creative facial hair designs on themselves. I taught most of the afternoon to a group of 10 and 11 year olds with gummy handlebar moustaches and mutton chops - including several girls. Walking down the hall at the end of the day garnered some rather interesting glances from the other teachers, but I didn't care. I think it's a much better use for the stuff than hanging silly posters that will fall down in a few days anyway.

falling in love with yourself. . . via several boyfriends and a husband thrown in for fun

Since leaving my marriage, I have had a lot of time to think about relationships - particularly my relationships. In observing pre-marriage boyfriends and boyfriends\flings\dates\crushes\things since my hubby, I'm starting to see a cycle.

Boys always initially seem drawn to the same things about me - my "big, brown eyes," (although various alternative adjectives have been used), my sassy sense of humor, and my live-life-to-the-fullest mentality. Then, as we start to hang out, they discover these other "cutsey" little things like my penchant for making mood-based mix cds full of awful 80's music, my quirky vintage clothes, my sense of adventure when on dates ("sure! let's do it! let's go now!"), or my mad crazy driving and parallel parking skills. However, the things in the second list are inevitably the ones that will end up driving them bonkers down the line. My fun, nostalgic music eventually becomes "bad taste" (I never said I liked Bell Biv DeVoe because he's talented). My clothes become "Why are you wearing that weird hippie thing again? It looks ridiculous." My sense of adventure turns into an annoying need for constant entertainment. (My husband once told me that I wouldn't be satisfied with a date unless he took me to the bottom of the ocean. I said, "Oooh! Could we?") And finally, my driving causes mild panic attacks, and the boys always end up fighting with me about whether I can fit into that narrow parking space.

I guess you could boil it down to the "natural" stages of a relationship, whatever that means. I guess you're supposed to think everything about the other person is endearing at first, and want to do everything with them, right? You're supposed to be full of energy to climb to the top of things and swim to the bottom of things together. But then everyone tells you it fades. But I swear to god, I feel like it only fades with the other person! I'm still going strong! All the boys fool me into thinking they're adventurous, spontaneous, and in love with life too. . . at first. But then time drags on and they don't want to spend every moment together anymore. They have other things to do. And that amazing trip you said you'd take together? Well, all of a sudden he doesn't have time or money or energy or what-the-hell-ever.

So I start to get worried and get my girl-wheels spinning in my head. Doesn't he love me anymore? Maybe I did something. I should call him. No, that will just make him feel suffocated. But he should know that I feel this way. I'll call him. No, I'll just email him. No, I'll text him. . . then call him if he doesn't call back. I'm sure he's not doing anything more important than waiting for my call. Oh my god why hasn't he called me back. I haven't seen him in 2 days it's like we broke up. Liar! I hate him! (Note: boys LOVE when you do this)

Inevitably, my paranoias often push them away, and they forget all the things about me that were once cute. Or I break it off because I'm not getting the attention I used to from them. So, whatever. There's plenty more boys where they came from, right?

But the thing that really struck me as I pondered all of this was how I seemed to fall in and out of love with myself as I went through the cycle each time. I'd be left sad and lonely after a break-up, thinking I'm a little too chubby and a little too talkative and not compromising enough and . . . on and on. But then I'd meet someone who didn't know all those little flaws about me yet - someone who was into me with fresh eyes. And as we would get to know each other, I would think, yeah, I DO have beautiful eyes, and I AM a lot of fun, and my mix cds are genius! As the relationships would progress and the boys would cool down, I would get increasingly bored with myself. By the end, I would be back to realizing what a paranoid, needy freak I am and I would want to dump myself before he could dump me.

So it kind of makes you wonder - did he cool off, or did I just stop loving myself? After all, we are much more drawn to people when they are confident, right? It's a chicken-or-the-egg situation. It seems that the only thing to break the cycle would be to learn to be totally head-over-heels in love with yourself when there's not a boy around for miles who's lookin' your way. Yeah - I'll just get right on that.

Here it is. My inevitable requiem on Christianity and my life.

I have tried very hard to escape the religion in which I was raised. Why? Oh, so many reasons, but I guess what lies underneath it all is that it just wasn't serving me anymore. The peace I was supposed to feel was always so elusive, and I never really believed that those who said they had it actually had it. The humility I was supposed to feel towards God (with a capital G) always felt more like guilt. I never got that so many people and so many lifestyles just weren't acceptable to the community. The whole "one way to the truth" mentality made me writch in my seat. (Is writch a word? I want you to picture me squirming and twisting in a church pew, both physically and emotionally, as I tried to find a comfortable place to just be. Yes, I writched.)

So I questioned and I pointed out inconsistencies and I became a thorn in the side of all my Bible study leaders and pastors and Christians friends. Why couldn't I just have more faith? Why couldn't I drink this down the way so many others seemed to do so easily? Why didn't it taste sweet? Then, after years of unsatisfactory answers, one winter Friday night in my twentieth year, I had enough. The four Christian girls I was living with at the time were gathering their coats and Bibles and notebooks to head out to our weekly gathering at the Christian group I belonged to in college. I have this image of them standing in the doorway, adjusting their coats and putting on gloves and securing their Bibles under their arms. One of my roommates held the door open for me, then finally looked back when she saw that I wasn't walking through it. I stood there behind the kitchen counter, all buttoned up and ready, but I couldn't move. They said, "Are you coming?" I said, "No. I don't think I'm going to go to Navs anymore." Long, awkward pause. "In fact," I continued with more confidence, "I don't think I'm going to go to church or Bible study anymore either. And I think I'm done reading the Bible. And I'm done praying. I'm just done with God. It's over." They stopped dead in their tracks, my other roommates peeking their heads in from around the corner where they had started to drift, anxious to get going. I will never forget that image of four pairs of eyes, gaping and oogling at me like I had suddently started speaking in French. They just closed the door and left. When that door clicked shut, I felt more free than I ever have in my life. I know it's cliched, but it was like I could breathe for the first time. I didn't know that air could feel so good going into your lungs. I calmly took off my coat, walked into my room, and put my Bible into the bottom dresser drawer under my stockings and other items of rarely-worn clothing. I didn't take it out again until I moved from that apartment, and I didn't crack it open again until earlier this year when I needed inspiration for a song I was writing called, "I will not be your Eve."

There is no possible way I could write just one blog entry about the journey I embarked on after that night, leading up to this very moment. But to summarize, I pretty much swung as far as I could in the other direction for awhile. After years of being told that all non-Christians were walking around with a gaping, god-shaped hole in their hearts, trying desperately to fill it with sex, drugs, and rock and roll, I figured that was what I should do now that I wasn't a Christian. I didn't yet know that finding peace and a secure identity in other places was an option. I felt I only had two choices before me: continue in this Christian charade or rebel in every way I knew how. So I did. I starting drinking, getting high, doing coke, giving my body to men that didn't value me, partying, etc. etc. If this was a Christian "testimony" this would be the part where I tell you that I felt unfulfilled by all of that and so I came running back to the "peace that passes understanding" in Jesus. But this is not that kind of story.

I actually did feel strangely fulfilled by much of it, but not for the acts themselves - more for the independence they gave me. The confidence to make my own decisions, even if they were bad ones. How frightening and exhilirating it was to make moves in life without praying first! What power I had all of a sudden to create my own opinions! I didn't have to believe any certain way about abortion, homosexuality, Democrats, French people, wars against terrorism, or Harry Potter. I had opened the package of Christian ideology that had been neatly wrapped for me, and I started disassembling it piece by piece. I would take each thing out of the box, examine it for awhile, and then decide whether to put it in the "keep," "toss," or "yard sale," pile.

As you can imagine, that reckless rebellion couldn't sustain itself for long. I started seeing the emptiness in those superficial vices; starting seeing them for what they were - distractions from the hard work I was really going to have to do to find what I believed. So I set most of them in the "toss" pile along with most of my Christian values. Now here I was, starting from scratch again.

I wandered around, meeting people from all walks of life, asking them what they believed and why, making observations about the world around me. I started doing yoga, which led me to Hinduism, which led me to Buddhism, which led me to Taoism. I started teaching at a Quaker school, which led me to Quakerism, which led me to Unitarianism, which led me to Transcendentalism. I started reading philosophy, which led me to existentialism, which led me to mysticism, which led me to agnosticism. Then I went to Europe and did away with all the "isms," which led me back to me.

And now here I am. Am I happy all the time? Certainly not. But Christians are not either - no matter what they tell you. Believe me, I know. I have days of despair and days of inspiration; moments of self-loathing and moments of self-discovery. But I am mine, and that is wonderful.

So what to do with all the Christians from my past? Well, for awhile, they called and emailed and stopped over, trying every tool in their good little Christian toolbelt to bring me back to God. I got everything from patronizing "I'll pray for yous," to shaking heads and looks of pity, to outright anger and threats of eternal damnation. My mom stopped talking to me for awhile. I lost basically all of my friends, and my boyfriend. Slowly, through the next year or so, one by one, they stopped calling. They were giving up; writing me off. Thank god.

Then, six years and eons of self-discovery later, I started writing this blog. I intended for it to simply be a way to update friends back home on my travels. I thought maybe I would write about seeing the Colosseum or the Eiffel Tower, but I found that I wanted to write more about what I was learning about myself on my trip. I was growing up and up and up, almost too rapidly to think straight, and it was exciting! I was learning how to love myself again after my divorce, learning how to think for myself after years of indoctrination, learning how to be my own best friend after years of clinging to people and things that were just never enough. I can't possibly emphasize to you what an amazing, fulfilling time this summer was for me. And I wrote about it all on here. The reaction from the Christians reading it? "Melanie, you have fallen."

Kick in the gut. Wind knocked out of me.

My mom, in her endearing pride for her daughter, had been passing this blog around to old friends and faithful relatives, all of whom were die-hard, accepted-Jesus-as-my-personal-Savior kind of Christians. You know, the kind of people you saw in that documentary, "Jesus Camp." I don't mind at all. This blog is public. I don't write anything I'm ashamed of. Now, why they continued reading when they found my life so offensive, I don't know, but read they did. And email they did as well. I don't know why I was surprised at their reactions. I was in that mentality for most of my life. I should have known that they would see my self-discoveries as poisonous pride and my search for the truth as a desperate cry to be re-saved. How silly of me to think that they would be proud. How ignorant to think that they would applaud my courage at finding my way through 14 foreign cities all alone when I obviously should only be travelling if I'm on a mission trip. How selfish. I guess I had been out of that world for long enough to forget just how cyclical their thinking can be; just how mired narrow-minded, and short-sighted their views are. (Uh oh, now she's getting a little bitey, watch out.)

But it is good of them to remind me that one can never outrun one's past. No matter how much I try to escape it, this thing will always follow me. What's sad is that there really were some times since I left my faith that I was making some pretty ill-advised decisions. I would have agreed with them if they said I had fallen then. But to know that I am in a place of such strength right now, and all that they can see is my absence in that church pew on Sunday morning is what cuts me right to the heart. It reminds me that I really am in this alone. Even my non-Christian friends who support and applaud my recent growth cannot really understand how much it means without also understanding the parts of me that my old, Christians friends do. Perhaps I just like to feel misunderstood in a Holden Caulfield-ish sort of way. Somehow it's more comforting than trying to fit into the little spot that so many have carved out for me in their minds.

I'll end with this image that I keep having. I picture myself as a flower or plant in a garden bed, growing calmly beside all the other plants. We are all drinking in the sun from above and the water from below in our own, sweet times. But all the other flower faces are turned towards each other, or towards the ground, while mine is turned up. I start growing at a more rapid rate, reaching towards the sky, throwing tendrils up, up, upward. I'm nearly flying now, shooting skyward at an incredible rate, my flower face still turned up towards the sun and smiling (if that's possible for a flower). The plants below me send out shoots and thorns of their own, trying to rope me back down. They shout up that they love me and miss me down there and where am I going and so on and so forth in plant language. But I don't even feel their grasping, chlorophylled arms. I just keep growing, all by myself, content and warm from the wonderful sun.

anger

I know I said I wasn't going to blog anymore. Maybe that lost me some readers, but that's ok. It's ok if no one ever reads this again. I only write it for me anyway, and I don't like the way that many people have chosen to judge me as a result of some entries.

Lately, I have been so angry. Angry at my bandmates because I'm having trouble with a few songs for our upcoming gig. Angry at my roommates for being in my space. Angry at my boyfriend for not being exactly what I want him to be at every moment. Angry at my co-workers for working too hard and making me look bad. Angry at my mom for not understanding who I am becoming. Angry at the stupid guys on the street who call out at me. Angry at my husband for daring to still be kind and caring to me. Angry at my boss for not paying me more. Angry at the girl I bought a mattress from because it's shitty and she didn't tell me that. Angry at my bank for charging me for my overdrafts. Angry at the Munich hospital for charging me much more than I anticipated for my visit. Angry at the rats and cockroaches that scurry across my sidewalk for being dirty. Angry at the mosquitoes that bite me. I'm just angry.

I learned once that anger results from a blocked goal. I have a lot of blocked goals right now. I don't want this mundanity. It's never enough. But I also know that I usually get angry when I don't want to be vulnerable. As soon as I start feeling a little exposed, I cover it up with anger like a protective coating of scotch guard. ARGH!

bye bye

I'm done posting. Thanks for reading.

nothing

One of my goals this year is to get better at doing nothing. As any of you who have traveled know, America is one of the busiest, stressed cultures in the world. We work 60 hour work weeks in an effort to climb to the apex of our careers, just so we can sit at the top of our corporate kingdoms and . . . fall asleep because we have no more energy. I guess that's why Red Bull is so popular. We walk fast, we drive fast, and god forbid you stand on the left side of the metro escalator! Be prepared to be pummeled down by some tiny, heel-clad yo-po (young professional) on her way to capitol hill. We expect our checks to be on the table by the time we're chewing our last bite at dinner. Oh the horrors of actually sitting and talking for awhile after the meal is over. They need our table! Turnover! And don't even get me started on the nutritional atrocities we commit in the name of not having to leave our vehicles to get food! No wonder heart disease is the number one killer of Americans.

Ok, I'll get off my soapbox now. But being in Europe where people take 3 hours for dinner, get 4 weeks of vacation a year - minimum, and have a glass of wine or beer over a work lunch has made me think about my lifestyle here. Here are some things I've done recently to get better at doing nothing:

- Aside from the quit/unquit meeting with my boss, I have refused to go into work this week. Our meetings don't officially start until Monday, and although most teachers are busily scurrying around their classrooms organizing and sharpening and labeling like hyper chipmunks on a Staples high, I'm happy to let the shit pile up in my room until next week.

- I have spent the last 2 nights sitting on the porch with my new roomates, doing nothing. After dinner, we just sit and talk, and watch the very colorful happenings on our little urban street. (We saw a very interesting lover's spat last night between a very gangly-looking, shy man and his powerhouse of a girlfriend whose chest alone could take out a small animal. We would have taken bets on the winner, but the odds seemed rather unfairly stacked.)

- I seem to be in a contest with myself to see how long I can go without showering every day. I sit around in my pajamas (which is really just a wife-beater and underwear) for as long as I can possibly hold out each day. Eventually, I have to go somewhere, or my own stank just overwhelms me, and I give in. I know I can't do this much longer, so I'm lingering in the dirty phase while I can.

Lazy? Some would say, yes. But I like to think I'm just being mindful. I'm living here and now and taking my time to taste the air and experience each, lingering moment as they slowly roll by. sniff, sniff. What's that smell? What? It's coming from me? Oh dear.

Little things

Signs that I am adjusting/accepting my life here:
- I finally took all of my makeup and jewelry out of the little makeup bags they've been living in for the past 2 months and put them in jewelry boxes and baskets on my dresser. They are no longer travel-ready.
- I returned the backpack I borrowed for my trip to my friend. I feel like I've lost a limb.
- I bought sheets and a comforter for my new bed. Wait, even bigger - I bought a new bed! (Well, a new used one.)
- I went grocery shopping and spent more than $12 for the first time since I left my husband in February. Chipotle is about to lose some business.

Signs that I am still not wholly here (on account of a giant chunk of me being left in Paris somewhere):
- I bounced my checking account for the first time in years. I'm usually really good at that. I just don't want to think about money yet. Donations, anyone?
- I threw away about half of my belongings when I moved. I think a little part of me still wants to be ready to pick up and leave at a moment's notice.
- I check my facebook account about 20 times a day for new photos or messages from my travel friends who are still tramping around Europe.
- I start every conversation with someone new with "I just got back from traveling through Europe all summer alone." Like they care. I've been home for 3 weeks now. Get over it.

Reality

Today, I was showing my Europe photo albums to two of my roommates' boyfriends: Holo and Hubert. Holo hadn't realized that I had travelled all around Europe this summer, but he did know that I quit and then un-quit my job in the past 2 days. When I brought out the photos, he said, "Oh that's why you quit your job! You've been backpacking all summer and you lost touch with reality." Hubert pointed at one of the photos on the page where I was especially glowing with uninhibited-traveller-glee and said, "No man, look at her face. She found reality."

Calendar Girl

I am officially back on the calendar. No, not as Miss January - as in I am ready to acknowledge the existence of days of the week and dates and months and all that. I have been allowing several emails to pile up in my inbox; emails from co-workers, parents of my students, and parents of my tutoring clients mostly. They want to know when I am free to do such-and-such or what I think about this-and-that decision. I have partially been avoiding responding to them because it has felt too overwhelming, but mostly because I am not ready to make appointments. I don't have a planner. For the past 2 months, I have never known what day of the week it was. Sometimes, in Europe, I'd walk outside and see that most everything I wanted to see that day was closed and go, "Oh shit. It's Sunday again." And then when I came home, I had to remember that I was having lunch with this friend on Tuesday or supposed to pick up my photos on Thursday - stuff like that. But I certainly have not been ready to make committments more than a day in advance, and the only reason I even knew it was halfway through August was that my paycheck was deposited on the 15th (thank god).

But today, after a meeting with my boss to solidify my un-quit status (much to his delight, I must say), I drove to Staples and bought my teacher plan book for the year. Wow. I am afraid that you all might not truly appreciate the weight of this action. For the next 9 months, this book will be my lifeblood. I will write everything in it, from what math lesson to teach, to who's homework I'm still missing, to doctor's appointments, and sometimes even just doodles and stray stickers. This rectangular piece of plastic and paper is my committment to live where I'm living and do what I'm doing at least until next June. Now I can reply to those emails and say, "Yes, I'll be there next Monday at 11," because I have somewhere to write it down.

I humbly bow to the gods of days, months, and years, and acknowledge that what they have made is good. But I'm still not going to write anything down more than a week in advance. . .

I un-quit.

Just what it says. More later. This life stuff is truly invigorating and exhausting sometimes.

weirdness.

I'm supposed to be packing up my apartment right now, because I'm moving to a new place in the city tomorrow. But it's 10:30, and I haven't packed a thing. Instead, I've been looking through old documents and photos on my computer, like a virtual memory box. This computer is only 5 years old (I know, that's ancient in computer land), but the stuff I found saved in it truly feels like another lifetime. The first photo above is me trying on my wedding dress in the shop for the first time. I'm enthralled. The second one is my old cat, Marx. I brought her home from the shelter one day in an effort to fill the gap that was ever-widening between my husband and me. It didn't work. She had to go back to the shelter. Unfortunately, sometimes cats (and people) get hurt in separations. The last photo is me with my first class at the school where I teach. We are on a science field trip on the Chesapeake Bay.

Among the old word documents I unearthed were:
- a 3-year-old letter to my cable company over a billing discrepancy - it was pretty heated (oh the things I used to have energy for)
- a 2 year-old letter to my health insurance fighting for a surgery that they initially denied (I won)
- both my and my husband's wedding vows (that was a fun one to read)
- a mortgage application (another thing we threw at our marriage in vain attempt to bridge that damn gap)
- a recipe for my mom's vegetable soup
- a parking ticket appeal (I've spent a little too much time fighting the man)

What a random smattering of shit from all aspects of my life - from the most mundane to the most influential. Why do we keep these things? I'm feeling unbelievably existential tonight. Technically, I quit my job today. I told my boss that I just can't come back. And this was after he offered me this lead teaching position. But he wants me to sleep on it and call him tomorrow morning. I don't know what I'll do. And I don't really want any advice, as well-meaning as it may be. I've got to figure this one out on my own.

Grape Italian Ice

Tonight I went to get Rita's with my Dad, my brother, my sister-in-law, and my perfect 3 year-old nephew, Brian. (My other perfect nephew, Davey, had to stay home because he was being not-so-perfect earlier by throwing a baseball bat at Brian's head in frustration at Brian's 3 year-old pitching abilities. No Rita's for Davey.) Our t-shirt and shorts-clad crew sat clutching our end of summer treats under the bright lights of the red and white awning. The sky was a slate blue dusk, illuminated by what Brian dubbed, the "spooky moon." What a quintessential American scene for my return home after Europe.

Brian likes to "share" his food. That means he forces a little spoonful of his italian ice into your mouth, (dripping most of it onto your shorts), so he can feel justified helping himself to as much of your italian ice as he would like. But every time he would take a spoonful of grape ice out of his little cup, he'd leave some hanging over the side, dripping down over the wax coating. His mother noticed this, as mothers will. So every so often, when he was busy eating my chocolate banana gelati, she would absentmindendly wipe the side of his cup. She also noticed that between all of his "sharing" from our dishes, he was quickly consuming more than a kid-sized amount of pure liquid sugar. So in addition to wiping his cup, she began taking secret scoops of his ice and eating them herself, therby protecting him from sure sugar-frenzy-madness or a stomachache later on.

No one really noticed this act but me, and the way she was doing it, it's like she wasn't even thinking about it herself. But something about those little wipes and bites really touched me. I thought, what would it be like for us if every time we turned around, someone cleaned up our little messes behind our backs? If they secretly ate our gelati when they knew we were about to have too much?

I guess eventually we need to turn into our own mothers. We need to figure out when to wipe, and when to just let it drip; when to eat out of every italian ice dish we can get our hands on, and when to put the plastic spoon down. But for now, Brian's job was just to bounce around, happily slurping slush and dancing to the music in his head, while mom cleaned up the trail of purple left behind.

MY time

Since I have returned from Europe, there is one thing that I have been avoiding - and I mean avoiding like cockroaches avoid the light. Work. Not work in general, as in laundry, cooking, and carrying heavy objects - I mean my occupation. You know, the place I'm supposed to go every day so I can continue to feed myself and take long, frivolous trips around Europe. Just the sight of a Back-to-School sign outside a department store is enough to make me want to put another flight to Paris on my credit card - pronto. Seriously, I have only had two feelings in regards to returning to work - fear, and dread.


Well I couldn't continue that way for long, since I had to spend this entire week in New York City with two colleagues for a teaching writing conference at Columbia. I spent Monday morning slumped down into my plastic, stackable chair in a large auditorium full of smiling teachers wearing clogs and carrying unnecessarily large tote bags. I listened to the presenter take something I love (writing) and neatly place it into organized categories with cutsie labels. "These are the steps to writing," she chirped cheerfully into the microphone. I tried to resist the urge to stab myself slowly with the plastic knife I had used to spread cream cheese on my sesame bagel.

I can't do this, I thought. I am a free spirit. I need to be unhindered so I can fly around the world and experience all that life has to offer! I love children, but I don't love teaching them these rules and routines. There is no magic in this! And what about all the political drama at school? I will have to start going to staff meetings and parents will want to know what I plan to do with their child and. . .ahh! By the time the morning session was over, I had convinced myself that I could no longer be a teacher; that I could not return to that work or any work. I was feverishly whipping up plans in my head to sell my car, waitress at night, work on writing a book during the day, and continue playing with my band. Then I would move overseas and teach English, or maybe the Peace Corps - that is, of course, if I didn't become a famous writer or singer first.

But, no. My kids. It was my students that brought me back to reality. If I just worked at a job with all adults in some office, I would have no qualms about marching right in and saying, "Hey guys it's been real, but I'm off to explore the world and be poor for a few years. Peace." In fact, I have quit many jobs in such an abrupt, unceremonious manner. But I don't just teach to help kids learn the steps to writing or make sure they know how to organize their math binder. I teach because my kids inspire me. They remind me that life is fresh every day, and that there is no end to new things to learn and be amazed by. They are counting on me to come back and be their teacher this year. I would never forgive myself if I ran off now.

So, avoiding the uncomfortable feelings was no longer an option. I would have to actually face them. During the afternoon session, I started journaling (yeah, honestly I didn't get a lot out of the conference that first day). I asked myself the really hard questions. Why did I really feel this way about returning to work? What was behind this dread? All of a sudden, it hit me. I was afraid I would no longer own my time. Let me explain.

Pre-Europe, I longed for someone to manage my life for me. It all just felt like too much. I would even have fantasies about getting in some sort of mild car accident that would be just bad enough to land me in the hospital with some fixable injuries for a week or so, where I would be lovingly cared for and I wouldn't have to make any decisions on my own - not even about what to eat. But then I went to Europe by myself all summer, and I was forced to be in charge of myself again. You know the deal - I became my own best friend and all that. I realized that for every second of every day for the entire summer, I have been entirely in charge of my own life. I haven't had to answer to anyone for anything I've done. I didn't have to go anywhere I didn't want to, eat anything that didn't look appealing, or wake up at any certain time (except when I had to meet the bus in the mornings, but I'd just roll out of bed and onto the bus, where I would resume sleeping immediately).

My real fear about returning to work stemmed from my desire to continue owning my time. I was afraid that as soon as I stepped back into that building, people would start pulling at me, taking pieces of me and doing with them what they pleased. "Melanie, we need to you to come to this meeting." "Melanie, could we schedule a conference with you immediately?" "Melanie, could you type that up and send it to the staff by the end of the day, please?" Um, no thanks.

But whose fault is it when we feel like we are not in charge of our own lives? That's right - ours. The solution to my fear is not to avoid responsibility and work, but to take what I've learned on this trip and apply back in my life here. I do want to have a life full of adventure, but I don't need to be on the Swiss Alps to experience that. I need to learn to own my time and continue cultivating this rich, inner life while working. And if I give it my best shot and still get bogged down, well, then I'll consider a career change. Perhaps a skydiving instructor. . .

dessert

"Did I eat enough to get dessert?" that was my daily dinner question for my mother. It didn't matter what the dinner was, whether it was tacos (which I loved) or beef stroganoff (which I hated - really mom, what were you thinking?), I just wanted to rush through it to get to dessert.

I can't help but see a little of my sugar-crazed, childhood self in me now. As I experience this recent bout of growth, I have been becoming more and more comfortable with being alone. You've read my blog entries - finding my way in foreign cities, finally not feeling cold in my bed at night, rediscovering my songwriting abilities, etc. To the casual observer, I have grown into a downright independent woman - the real, live thing. I walk confidently, speak my mind, love my body, and certainly don't need a man to be happy.

But, if I'm completely, painfully honest, I can still hear that little 7-year-old inside asking, "Did I eat enough to get dessert?" I can't help it. There is still a part of me that thinks I will be rewarded for all of this growth with - what else - a man. That somehow the point of all this introspective solitude is to prepare me to be with another man; to be more successful in my next relationship. I guess it probably stems from my Christian wives-submit-to-your-husbands training from back in the day. The whole, "just look sweet and love God and He will reward you with a husband to take care of you" mentality. (Please, nobody email me Bible verses. I appreciate the thought, but I know them already.) How absurd. How embarrassing.

I am ashamed to think of all the perfectly delicious, nutritious dinners that I didn't even taste, because I just wanted to get to dessert. And you know what the real karma was? I often didn't even enjoy dessert once it came, because I had made myself nauseous from inhaling my meal. I need to learn to love this time in my life for its own, unique perfection, not just as a stopover on the way to something sweeter. Because, the reality is, many meals don't end in dessert. But it doesn't make them any less nourishing, or any less delicious.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Hello. This is only a test. Do not be alarmed. This is a test of the Melanie Cobb blogging company to see if anyone is out there. Is anyone other than Melanie's mother continuing to read this blog? She will continue writing no matter what, because it's a sick form of therapy for her now, but she's curious about her audience. Don't be afraid to post comments folks! The man behind the curtain actually wants to be paid attention to. Remember, this is only a test.

independent woman ring

So before I left for my trip, I was visiting a good friend of mine. She called me out on her front porch, asked me to sit down, and said, "I have something for you to borrow for your trip." She took this beautiful ring off her finger, and put it on my left ring finger (where the indent had finally gone away from my wedding ring). It's a silver ring with an amorphous woman's form. You can see her outline, her hand over head, and her hair tumbling over her shoulders. She is sort of swimming in these silver waves that wrap around my finger. My friend said to me, "This is my independent woman ring. I bought it for myself at a time in my life when I needed to remember that I was really all I needed; that I am truly my own best friend. I want you to wear it for your trip. Anytime you get lonely or scared, just hold that ring and remember that you have the strength. And I don't want it back, so just pass it on to another woman on your trip who might need it, whenever you're done."

I wore that ring like it was my left lung. As the plane glided down onto the runway at the Paris ariport, I squeezed my ring finger, feeling the cool metal grooves of the waves. One time when I got lost coming home in Amsterdam, I started to panic, but then I stopped, held my ring for a minute, and eventually found my way. On a stretcher, all alone in the hallway of a German hospital at 3am, waiting to have my ankle x-rayed, I held that ring for strength. Then, when no one offerred to help me with my bag when I was on crutches, I looked down at my ring, took a deep breath, and hoisted that baby on my back while standing on my one good leg. But something happened over the course of my trip. Sometimes, towards the end, I would rush out of my hostel in the morning and forget to put it on. In the beginning of my trip, I would put it on often before my clothes so I wouldn't forget. But by the last week, there were times when I would look down at my finger in the evening and notice that I hadn't had it on all day. I was growing not to need it anymore.

When I returned home earlier this week, I had lunch with the friend who let me borrow the ring. I told her how much I used it and appreciated it during my travels. I told her I also kept my eye out for another woman who might need it, but I didn't really come across anyone who fit the description. I felt sort of badly about it. I didn't want to hog the ring now that I felt like I didn't need it anymore, but I just didn't meet anyone else who seemed. . . "worthy." She told me just to hang on to it until I found someone.

Well a couple of days later, she called me rather upset, because she and her serious boyfriend of over a year had just broken up. She is one of the strongest, most self-realized people I know, but she was telling me over the phone about how she was scared to be alone now. They had been discussing marriage, and she didn't want to be lonely now that she was so suddenly single again. I said, "You know what? I think it's time I give you your ring back. I knew there was a reason I couldn't find anyone else."

Does this mean I am forever independent and strong? That I am better than her or any of the other single women out there feeling cold and alone in that big bed tonight? Of course not. But I think we take our turns through the valleys, and at the top of the peaks. My friend was there for me through my valley, and now, as I stand at the top of what feels like a small, but very victorious hill, I gladly turn to her and reach down my hand - with nothing on my fingers but a little dirt from the climb.

down from the mountaintop

Well I hope you all read my mom's comment on my last post. I loved it because it was the most quintessentially mom thing to do - post on your daugher's blog telling everyone how great she is, while injecting a hearty dose of hard-knock-life reality. Time to come down off the mountaintop, eh? Yeah. I guess that's exactly what I'm hoping never to do. And hearing my mom say that it's time to do that makes me want to not do it even more!

Let me explain, lest you misunderstand my comment for simple, adolescent, blind rebellion. I love my mother. And I know she loves me. And I am not in any way offended by her friendly suggestion that it's time for me to get back to "real life." Nor was I offended by my ex-husband's resistance to travel, saying that it was too costly and impractical for us. Nor have I been offended by the many people who have told me that anything I wanted to do was unrealistic, or when they told me I should just think things through a bit more. Admittedly, I have a tendancy towards hasty, emotional decisions. I often just feel my way through life, using my gut as a sort of "divining stick," and ignoring my other senses all together - especially my common one. So I would certainly understand why the people who love me the most would be concerned about my ability to make healthy decisions.

BUT (you knew it was coming), this is the only way I feel free. A counselor that I saw in college for a bit told me, "Melanie, you have a thing for brick walls. When you see one, you just don't believe it's there, so you bang your head up against it repeatedly until you have proven to yourself that it hurts. You won't let anyone tell you that it will hurt, you have to find out for yourself." Exactly. And I have the bruises to prove it. But I would never, ever trade those bruises for the simple answer from someone else that the brick wall will hurt. That's what true living is really about - testing out all of those brick walls!

Now that I am in my mid-to-late twenties, I'm not so much in a brick-wall-banging place anymore. That initial impulse to run headfirst into what others told me to avoid simply for the pleasure of disobeying has faded. I no longer gain pleasure from mindless rebellion (you can exhale now, Mom). But I still won't accept well-meaning advice, especially when it contains words like "reality" and "practical." I have gotten to the place where I understand that people say these things because they love you, and so I appreciate that love - really I do. But I know that in the end, I have to be the one to make the final decision. I can't do things just because they make life easier for others, or because they are the common, accepted thing to do. I see that more than ever now. I will never simply tolerate a job or a lifestyle just to pay the bills.

So that mountaintop? I'm still on it. And I'm not coming down. I will not with fox. I will not in a box. I will not in a house. I will not with a mouse. I will not eat them, Sam-I-Am, I will not eat green eggs and ham.

work

All summer, I have been pretending that I don't have a job, all the while telling people that I am a middle school teacher at a progressive Quaker school and I love it. I do love it, but when I saw any work-related emails in my inbox while abroad, I would cover my eyes and archive them for later reading, trying to not even accidentally read the subject line, lest I become interested in what it said. All those emails are still archived, and none of them have been read. My friend in the front office at school has been sending me friendly reminders that I need to write a back-to-school letter to my kids' families telling them what they'll need for school, saying what a great year it's going to be and blah, blah blah. It's due today. I haven't done it. I don't know if I can. I am starting to seriously doubt my ability to return to work.

Don't get me wrong, I do love my job. Teaching is very fulfilling. I missed my students this summer, and I am excited to be around crazy middle-schoolers every day again. I work with some really awesome people, some of whom are my closest friends. We just got a new head of school that I helped to hire, and am looking forward to working for. So why does the thought of walking into that school building make me go instantly naseous? I can't think about getting up in the morning again, and "reporting" somewhere by a certain time like I am owned by them or on some sort of computer-regulated schedule. I don't think I'll mind when I'm actually in my classroom with my fabulous kids, but it's the thought of preparing for that that I can't handle. That is the worst part about teaching. Teachers can never just get up and go to work. They have to prepare to go to work on their own, non-work time. I can never just walk into my classroom in the morning and say, "Ok, it's going to be a great day, what should we learn about?" Each day takes so much preparation, forethought, and research. What if I don't feel like doing that? What if I don't like being on a schedule anymore? What if I think there are more important things in life than having my bookshelves alphabetized and my school board materials neatly hole-punched and in a binder? I don't think teaching is conducive to living in the moment. It forces you to constantly live at least a week in advance. How can I be mindful about the moment I'm teaching if I'm supposed to have next Monday's lesson ready to go already? What if next Monday, I don't think the class would be into that lesson? What if the energy of the room doesn't feel like it meshes with that lesson? What if next Monday is a beautiful day and I feel I need to go spend it in the mountains?

I can't go back to work!! What am I going to do??

America the beautiful

Well, I'm no longer Uncle travelling Mel, I'm just Mel. But I don't want to stop blogging. And my fans are begging for more. :)

So what has it been like returning to the U.S.; to my "real" life? Well, I hope you have learned enough about me now to know that I treat every moment of life as real life, no matter where I am or what I'm doing. In the airport on the way back, I waited for 2 hours in the immigration/customs line. People were so cranky. They were scheming about how to get into the shortest line, and then very upset when any line moved faster than theirs. They complained about their sore legs, they worried about making their connecting flights, they said they were hungry, tired, and ready to go home. I felt these things as well. But I kept hearing J.J.'s voice in my head saying, "Mel, can you affirm even this moment? Can you love life while waiting in this airport line?" I said yes in my head. Yes I can. And I will. And I began to look around and enjoy watching people. When my mental space wasn't crowded with worries and complaints, I had room to appreciate all that was going on around me. I thought of how there were so many people waiting in this line who are coming to visit America, maybe for the first time. I thought of how excited they must be, just like I was in the Paris airport 6 weeks ago. I felt excited for them, and silently hoped they would have wonderful time here.

I have been quite overwhelmed by the little things since returning. I know I was only in Western Europe, and it's not like I'm returning from a 2 year stint in the peace corps in Zambia or anything, but it still feels like an adjustment. Driving on the beltway, for example. Wow. It's so much faster than I remember it. And ads - all of a sudden I'm accosted with images of anorexic-looking women again, and magazines full of meaningless celebrity gossip. I had forgotten how obsessed with we are with that plastic image here. Just sitting in the airport, I watched the news for the first time all summer, and heard about a hurricane, an earthquake, a shooting, and some kind of prison case - all within about 4 minutes. Do we really need to know all that's going on? I used to say yes for sure, that it was important to stay informed, but now I don't know. But the biggest thing I've had to adjust to is my phone. I had gotten so used to being unreachable, and I loved it. Since I've returned, my phone has been blowing up with texts and calls. This is wonderful, because it makes me feel very loved that so many people missed me. But I'm not quite sure how to handle this constant communication. Sometimes I just put my phone in the other room and ignore it. I have become used to silence in my head, and now I need it. This morning I had breakfast with a friend, and he had to be somewhere so we had to eat very fast and rush out. It was jarring. I have spent the entire summer leisurely drinking cappuccino (spelling?) and eating chocolate croissants until I felt like getting up to do something. This downing coffee, waffles, bacon, and OJ in 15 minutes made me feel sick, and not just physically.

But I am trying to affirm all of these moments as well. Because anyone can be happy and peaceful in a city like Paris. It's not hard to think life is beautiful when surrounded by gorgeous architechture and art. It's not hard to be un-stressed when the most difficult decision you have to make in a day is which flavor gelatto to get this time. But can I keep that bliss on the beltway? Can I continue to love everyone? Even impersonal American beauracracies? Can you?

home

Here are a few pics from my last night in Europe. I had just one night in paris before flying out today. It was strange and wonderfully fulfilling to be back where I began my trip, but feeling like a whole new person.

Now I am home. I thought about that word a lot on the plane - home. What does that really mean? Each evening for the past 6 weeks, after a long day of sight-seeing, I have said, "let's go home," but I obviously just meant whatever hostel or couch I was sleeping on. When people would ask me where I am from, I said "I'm from philadelphia, but have been living in D.C. for 4 years." But I don't really live in D.C., I live in Maryland. And I didn't really grow up in philly, I grew up in Allentown. But people recognize the big cities more easily. And, truthfully, I will be moving back into D.C. in 2 weeks. And then of course, every time I go to see my parents in pennsylvania, I also say that I am going home. That's complicated.

So if home moves with us, then is it really an external place? An address? A bed to sleep in or a kitchen to cook in, perhaps? Maybe home is something that exists within us. I think home is a place where you can be yourself. Where, as they say in Cheers, "everybody knows your name." It has something to do with belonging. But then, I don't always feel like I belong in America, especially after seeing the rest of the world's image of Americans. (I'm not gonna lie to you folks, it's not pretty.) So does that mean I'm not American? A part of me belongs in America, sure, but I felt like I recognized a part of me in each city I visited on this trip as well. I'd like to think I can be a citizen of the world. So that means that I belong everywhere, and everywhere belongs in me. In that case, I would say "I'm home," but I guess. . . I always have been.

a big, hearty gulp of Europe

I leave for the airport in 1 hour to fly home. I am fighting to stay mindful in this moment. To be present. Not to slide back to the past and cry about not wanting to leave all of this magic. Not to spring into the future and begin making lists of things I need to do when I get home or get excited about who I will see. But I feel as though I am not really leaving Europe. It is a part of me now. I have taken a big, long, satisfying, 6 week gulp of Europe, and I will be digesting it forever. I have drunk everything in, from my first days wandering the streets of Paris to my last adventure jumping out of a plane over the Swiss Alps. It all tasted good, my friends. It all tasted good.

black man loose in Germany

I'd like to take a minute to try and write about a very difficult subject - race. I've been writing a lot about personal growth and spiritual experiences on mountaintops and finding yourself, and lots of things that 20-something white girls from America write about. But today, I will make an effort to delve into this complex and charged topic, because it has come to the forefront of my life as of late.

In case you haven't noticed, J.J., the guy I've been travelling with for the past week, is black. Now right away, some of you over-educated intellectuals might be thinking, why is she pointing that out? It doesn´t matter. And some of you might be thinking, yeah, I've been wondering what's been up with that black guy in your pictures. And some of you are thinking all sorts of other things that I couldn't possibly guess. I hadn't honestly thought a great deal about the fact that J.J. is black, except that it had quite an effect on his prison story. But tonight, my eyes were opened in a drastic way.

It started this morning in Lucerne, Switzerland. We stopped there on the way to Munich. We had an hour to walk around, and J.J. decided he wanted some tea. We looked all over, and finally found a little cafe. It was a typical Swiss place; very clean and filled with crisp, polished people with tucked in shirts and carefully groomed hair. There was a flea market across the way, so I told J.J. to just run in and get some tea to go, then meet me over at the flea market. He got very uncomfortable, looked down at the ground, and said, "Nah, I don't really want tea anyway." I said, "What are you talking about? You've been going on about wanting tea all morning. Just run in and order some quick." He just stood there, staring at the ground. This was very unlike J.J. He is the gregarious guy with an arresting smile that pulls everyone around him in. He is interminably, unshakably confident. Finally, he said, "I don't want to walk in there and, you know, disturb people's morning with my tats showing and everything." (He was wearing a grey tank top with a scarf, which revealed the 4 philosophy tattoos he has on his arms.) To make a long story short, I argued and argued with him, telling him how ridiculous that was, and that he had as much right to be in there ordering tea as anyone else. We eventually agreed to disagree, as he told me I just wouldn't understand.

This evening in Munich, we got some cheap dinner, then sat out at a sidewalk coffeeshop, drinking delightfully American coffee and talking. Our chairs were next to each other. He had his arm around me as we looked through pictures on our cameras. I was aware of lots of people passing by, but I wasn't looking at them. All of a sudden J.J. said, "Are you seeing this?" I said, "What?" He said, "The way people are looking at us." I said, "You're crazy. Come on, this is the 21st century. A white girl sitting with a black man is hardly something out of the ordinary, even if the guy is 6'5". Would you stop with this black man stuff already?" He said, "Just watch." I started noticing the people's faces as they walked by, and I was floored. Almost every single person stopped their conversation and turned their heads to look at us. The looks spanned across the board from quick, furtive glances to lingering stares, with several dropped mouths and eye rolls thrown in just for fun. Wow. I couldn't believe it. Could I really have been this naive? Some people even looked directly into our eyes and gave purposefully disgusted "hmphs." My own mouth dropped. J.J. said, "Now do you believe me about the cafe this morning in Lucerne?"

What the heck?? This throws off my entire concept of the world. This is not how things are supposed to be. This is not how I thought they were. I mean, at least not in the "civilised" western world. What is it? J.J. gave all kinds of explanations. People think I'm taking one of the "good" black men? They are just surprised to see a tall black man in the middle of Munich? Admittetly, it is an unusual sight. Are they just curious? Judgemental? Doesn't make sense at all. What do you think? What is one to do with a black man on the loose in Germany? Does it make you mad that I'm even daring to write about this?

I guess I operated under the idea that black and white cultures weren't really different. I wanted to be an open-minded, post-modern thinking girl without bias or stereotype. J.J. has shown me to be wrong. There are certainly differences. Whether they're due to nature or nurture, I don't know. And I'm also not sure whether these differences are good or bad, or whether those words are even helpful.

J.J. and I started having fun with the whole looks-from-passersby thing, commenting on what we thought people might be thinking. But I felt badly, because in the end, I could walk away and continue to blend in to the crowd, and J.J. would walk away and continue to be a 6'5" black man who has to think about whether he feels comfortable getting tea at certain cafes in Europe. Not that he wants to walk away from that, but what must it feel like not to have the option to blend in?