I didn't cook anything but the rice & spinach dish. I simply went to Wegman's and bought some Bourbon seasoned salmon and crab stuffed mushrooms to put into the oven. I got veggies, pretzels and dip for my glass partitioned snack tray, that I love but never use. It wasn't really soul food. There were no greens, pork, fried anything, mac n cheese or excesses in anything. I had enough for everyone to eat a perfect portion (not out of any sense of anything, simply because I didn't plan well enough to have extra). And watermelon as opposed to chocolate cake for dessert.
Everything tasted good. It was satisfying without being overwhelming.
But the food that enriched my soul was being with my family: my 82-year old grandpa, my aunt and her two boys, my cousin, his wife and their son, and my kids. It was easy-going and light, but full of spirit and good energy. I only thought how sweet that they still love each other like that, when my cousin's wife reached behind him and put her arms around him. It didn't occur to me until later how great my response was in that brief moment.
It was so good to see my grandfather moving, albeit slowly, but taking in his grands and greatgrands. I see age creeping into his bones and interfering with his energy. I see good genes at work as he traveled all the way from NOLA alone to see his family. I am slightly bothered by his trembling hands as he shows, but loving that he wants to show my teenage cousin how to sketch a face.
I love watching my kids play with their cousins. I believe things work out even when other things fall apart. It's so amazing that my kids have 2 cousins their age to play with and grow up with. It's amazing that they've known each other since birth and are good friends and they have this constant in their lives.
I only had a little watermelon after the evening was over, after everyone had gone home and children were sleeping soundly. I remembered my father, who loved watermelon and whom my brother and I laughed with as children eating watermelon together, while tasting the sweetness of this fruit. I remembered a beautiful day with my family who is still here.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
on Language
I think language is failing me or I'm just a failure at language. Maybe it's tone that I fail to accurately convey? I'm playful and light and it's incorrectly identified as a jab that needs to be defended or lack of awareness on my part. I'm serious and the hearer goes into joke mode.
And what's all the more humorous is I'm a language teacher. I help students analyze language, tone, word choice, an author's use of specific strategies for a specific rhetorical function. Yet, I can't seem to effectively apply appropriate language use for my own target audience(s).
And what's all the more humorous is I'm a language teacher. I help students analyze language, tone, word choice, an author's use of specific strategies for a specific rhetorical function. Yet, I can't seem to effectively apply appropriate language use for my own target audience(s).
Monday, May 9, 2011
On Grading and Being Kind
I have a friend who recently started writing a blog and she gave herself a D in mothering/parenting. I felt so much sadness for her because the amount of stress and heartache she is dealing with means her mothering tactics are shifting and sharpening daily. There is no scale in which to measure mothering under immense stress. I told her, what a friend always reminds me, "be kind to yourself."
But, I catch myself doing the same thing, evaluating how well I'm doing as a mom, beating myself up for not doing this or that, for fussing, for wanting things to be just so. I've lightened up on my tongue lashings, but I'm watching myself shift and sharpen as I navigate these waters. The first part of my journey was a hard, almost hateful, heart-wrenching dump into a murky, muddy ocean. I'm grateful my heart no longer aches. But the stresses continue, they shift and you learn to shift with them-- learning to upright yourself once you fall and continuing with that cyclical pattern of falling and up-righting.
On your good days, you realize you will always fall, and you just "shake it off." On your bad days, you put a noose around your own spirit with mean, evil criticisms that interfere with God sparking/re-igniting His divine flame within you. It's hard to recognize your own unkind words as aggression towards yourself (The Wisdom of No Escape) or plainly put, evil setting up shop in your mind.
I love reading to my 2 year old because he loves books and repeating words and pretending to read on his own. I love reading to/with him, except when I get tired of it and want to read my own magazine or watch t.v. or check email. And then I'm upset with myself for not giving myself over to this curious child who only has me a few hours a day. I'm upset that I don't make my seven year old read more. Reading to him began when he was in utero, and somehow he has fallen in love with legos and out of love with books. And I don't encourage reading because I'm tired, and then I beat myself up again. (This is simply a short list; a portion of what goes on in my home, in my head that I'm willing to be honest about)
I beat myself up, then I remind myself to get rid of the grading scale and just try to be for a little while. I think of how I made Ezra laugh with silly voices and kisses in ticklish spots. I'm proud of myself for taking in his laugh, the dimples near his elbow, the teeth that are taking their time to appear, his beauty, how he's changed, his eyes as they narrow when his whole body becomes engulfed in laughter. I was fully present when I made him laugh.
I think of how I was interested in Elijah's story about the bug that Micheaux accidentally killed. The children found some leaves to cover the dead bug and wrote rip (I didn't ask or correct, I just listened)near his resting place. They named the him Mordecai Something Something, "bugger" for short. "What a long name," I said to show I was really listening, as opposed to my sometimes,"mmmmhmmm," that one day he'll recognize as not really listening. Today, I listened to the story. I made vegetables with dinner tonight. I let Elijah play outside and I brushed the baby's teeth. If I kept going, I would realize how much I've actually done and be all the more kind to myself.
But, I catch myself doing the same thing, evaluating how well I'm doing as a mom, beating myself up for not doing this or that, for fussing, for wanting things to be just so. I've lightened up on my tongue lashings, but I'm watching myself shift and sharpen as I navigate these waters. The first part of my journey was a hard, almost hateful, heart-wrenching dump into a murky, muddy ocean. I'm grateful my heart no longer aches. But the stresses continue, they shift and you learn to shift with them-- learning to upright yourself once you fall and continuing with that cyclical pattern of falling and up-righting.
On your good days, you realize you will always fall, and you just "shake it off." On your bad days, you put a noose around your own spirit with mean, evil criticisms that interfere with God sparking/re-igniting His divine flame within you. It's hard to recognize your own unkind words as aggression towards yourself (The Wisdom of No Escape) or plainly put, evil setting up shop in your mind.
I love reading to my 2 year old because he loves books and repeating words and pretending to read on his own. I love reading to/with him, except when I get tired of it and want to read my own magazine or watch t.v. or check email. And then I'm upset with myself for not giving myself over to this curious child who only has me a few hours a day. I'm upset that I don't make my seven year old read more. Reading to him began when he was in utero, and somehow he has fallen in love with legos and out of love with books. And I don't encourage reading because I'm tired, and then I beat myself up again. (This is simply a short list; a portion of what goes on in my home, in my head that I'm willing to be honest about)
I beat myself up, then I remind myself to get rid of the grading scale and just try to be for a little while. I think of how I made Ezra laugh with silly voices and kisses in ticklish spots. I'm proud of myself for taking in his laugh, the dimples near his elbow, the teeth that are taking their time to appear, his beauty, how he's changed, his eyes as they narrow when his whole body becomes engulfed in laughter. I was fully present when I made him laugh.
I think of how I was interested in Elijah's story about the bug that Micheaux accidentally killed. The children found some leaves to cover the dead bug and wrote rip (I didn't ask or correct, I just listened)near his resting place. They named the him Mordecai Something Something, "bugger" for short. "What a long name," I said to show I was really listening, as opposed to my sometimes,"mmmmhmmm," that one day he'll recognize as not really listening. Today, I listened to the story. I made vegetables with dinner tonight. I let Elijah play outside and I brushed the baby's teeth. If I kept going, I would realize how much I've actually done and be all the more kind to myself.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
On Namaste
Namaste....I've only understood it as a greeting, signaling respect. As I try to be more consistent with yoga, with writing, with being with myself and less checking out in front of the t.v. before bed. I needed to understand more. So, the first wiki article was very technical about how namaste originated in India as a greeting. I found a great Yoga Journal article that further illuminated "The Meaning of Namaste" for me.
The writer broke down the parts, explaining them as "I bow to you." But he went down a road that I've recently been traveling via various writers and modes. He wrote, "We bring the hands together at the heart chakra to increase the flow of Divine love. Bowing the head and closing the eyes helps the mind surrender to the Divine in the heart."
As I do the yoga poses, I'm in touch with my breath and all parts of my body, in the way that Thich Nhat Hanh encourages in many of his books/teachings (i.e. Happiness: Essential Mindfulness Practices). I feel different, very mindful of myself, in touch with myself, calm, happy.
At first, I was skeptical when I thought about humans as divine. But, then I read about buddhism, mindfulness (great writers/teachers: Thich Nhat Hanh, Pema Chodron, even Elizabeth Gilbert), and the more I understand Christianity--"we are joint-heirs with Christ," the more I can accept and cherish the idea of surrendering to the Divine in the heart.
Surrendering to that divinity opens up a world of possibilities, that surrendering reveals the weight of God's glory.
Shirley McClain echoed the opening of possibilities when she expressed that we were all psychic if we just let go. I think being in touch with ourselves, the divine part of ourselves opens us up to knowing ourselves, knowing what is in front of us and knowing what will be.
The writer broke down the parts, explaining them as "I bow to you." But he went down a road that I've recently been traveling via various writers and modes. He wrote, "We bring the hands together at the heart chakra to increase the flow of Divine love. Bowing the head and closing the eyes helps the mind surrender to the Divine in the heart."
As I do the yoga poses, I'm in touch with my breath and all parts of my body, in the way that Thich Nhat Hanh encourages in many of his books/teachings (i.e. Happiness: Essential Mindfulness Practices). I feel different, very mindful of myself, in touch with myself, calm, happy.
At first, I was skeptical when I thought about humans as divine. But, then I read about buddhism, mindfulness (great writers/teachers: Thich Nhat Hanh, Pema Chodron, even Elizabeth Gilbert), and the more I understand Christianity--"we are joint-heirs with Christ," the more I can accept and cherish the idea of surrendering to the Divine in the heart.
Surrendering to that divinity opens up a world of possibilities, that surrendering reveals the weight of God's glory.
Shirley McClain echoed the opening of possibilities when she expressed that we were all psychic if we just let go. I think being in touch with ourselves, the divine part of ourselves opens us up to knowing ourselves, knowing what is in front of us and knowing what will be.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
On compassion
Elijah and I were having a conversation about parents doing bad things to their children. I told him about a student whose mother said, "I wish I never had you as a daughter." Elijah considered the statement and asked why the mother would say that, why didn't the mother give the girl up to be adopted and why do parents do bad things to their children???
I explained as best as I could that sometimes parents can't handle their stress, anger, money issues or whatever and take it out on their children. I candidly told him. "sometimes I'm upset you, sometimes I'm upset about other things and may take it out on you. Sometimes, parents do bad things to their kids, though they may not mean to. How do you think that child feels?"
I don't know if he understood. Child abuse, emotional and physical is hard for me to digest; I can't imagine how a seven year makes sense of it.
I gave him kisses and told him to say his prayers. "Dear God, thank you for my mommy and all the things she does for me. Please help that girl's mommy to not say those mean things. Please help that girl. Is there anything you would like to say?"
"Thank you Lord for giving Elijah a good heart. Help him always to care about other people and to love you," through my restrained tears, I added.
Then, of course, I had to explain my tears to this always curious, compassionate child. "I'm crying for the child and I'm crying because you have a good heart, so I'm happy and sad. I love you. Good night."
Not a few minutes later, he was out of bed feeling sad for the child for whom we had just prayed. He might have sought more attention from his doting mother; but nevertheless he'd had a lesson on caring for others, a moment of looking deeply into the situation of our brothers and sisters, (a la Thich Nhat Hanh)---maybe that's the best I can do; explain that we all suffer and we should all show compassion.
I explained as best as I could that sometimes parents can't handle their stress, anger, money issues or whatever and take it out on their children. I candidly told him. "sometimes I'm upset you, sometimes I'm upset about other things and may take it out on you. Sometimes, parents do bad things to their kids, though they may not mean to. How do you think that child feels?"
I don't know if he understood. Child abuse, emotional and physical is hard for me to digest; I can't imagine how a seven year makes sense of it.
I gave him kisses and told him to say his prayers. "Dear God, thank you for my mommy and all the things she does for me. Please help that girl's mommy to not say those mean things. Please help that girl. Is there anything you would like to say?"
"Thank you Lord for giving Elijah a good heart. Help him always to care about other people and to love you," through my restrained tears, I added.
Then, of course, I had to explain my tears to this always curious, compassionate child. "I'm crying for the child and I'm crying because you have a good heart, so I'm happy and sad. I love you. Good night."
Not a few minutes later, he was out of bed feeling sad for the child for whom we had just prayed. He might have sought more attention from his doting mother; but nevertheless he'd had a lesson on caring for others, a moment of looking deeply into the situation of our brothers and sisters, (a la Thich Nhat Hanh)---maybe that's the best I can do; explain that we all suffer and we should all show compassion.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
On telling stories
I don't know how to share my story without my story becoming me. Or how to be unconcerned with others' perception of my story and by extension, me.
I struggle with revealing my story and feel that I should be cloaked in at once, and hiding from it at the same time. I sometimes prefer the mask and sometimes sheer honesty. I'm moving towards letting my story speak, and writing it so that I have control of it. People will choose to think and see what they will; if only I could remember and take to heart, "what other people think of me is none of my business." And rationally that makes sense; emotionally, however, I'm still working on that.
I can only control how I share my story and how I rewrite it as I go along. I control who I am in my eyes only.
I struggle with revealing my story and feel that I should be cloaked in at once, and hiding from it at the same time. I sometimes prefer the mask and sometimes sheer honesty. I'm moving towards letting my story speak, and writing it so that I have control of it. People will choose to think and see what they will; if only I could remember and take to heart, "what other people think of me is none of my business." And rationally that makes sense; emotionally, however, I'm still working on that.
I can only control how I share my story and how I rewrite it as I go along. I control who I am in my eyes only.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
On searching for God's eyes and heart...
Between dropping the second child off and arriving at work, I try to mentally and spiritually prepare myself for the day at school. I either listen to a little NPR or some calming, spiritual music. I talk to God a little bit or mostly just try to listen to Him. I may chant or sing.
Right now, I'm loving Brandon Heath's, "give me your eyes so that I can see, give me your heart for the ones forgotten..." I don't know what I'm doing at work in terms of teaching, I know I hold people's heartache and sometimes their difficulties threaten to throw me off balance. The boy who didn't graduate because he didn't fulfill his requirements of passing the high-stakes assessment returns in a depressed state with no vision for his future, crying in the halls of the school that would have been his alma mater on a recent visit. I do my best to blink back tears as he tells his story. He isn't free with everyone and I seek help in trying to help him. I don't know if I can do anything for this kid, but let him know I'm there. I don't know if my presence is enough.
Or the petite, studious, kind, cute girl who read The Autobiography of Malcolm X ahead of schedule who struggles with her mother's indictment that she is the worst child and who alleges it is this 16 year old's fault that the mother is in life long care because 8 years ago the family was in a life-altering car accident. I encourage the child and want to take her home and be her mother, but I know it's not possible right now. I don't know what's possible.
I don't know what is possible when I choose for my students Malcolm X and they fall asleep while reading and refuse to read at home. I pushed myself through The Scarlett Letter and The Grapes of Wrath in high school. I don't know how to inspire the unmotivated. Thus, I don't know what to do, even after I plan the great lessons and grade the horrendous papers. I don't know the purpose of my being in that school, so I imagine it has something to do with my heart and eyes.
Though sometimes, I wind up insanely depressed by the stories and sadness.
I drive to school, singing, chanting, praying, thinking...and I round the corner and recall that a student had to be taken from the building by ambulance because of the severe beating he endured on the previous day, I shudder and feel that the my car-preparation in an instant has vanished.
I walk in the building and no one is genuinely happy; people are angry about the students, lack of motivation, lack of toner, lack of support, other teachers, administration and the list goes on. I hear myself join in the chorus of whining and sometimes step out for a solo. I hate hearing all of the voices causing confusion and chaos. I don't know why I'm here or what I'm supposed to do.
I leave the building at the end of the day defeated and unhappy, not sure what I did for that day. I try to calm down before picking up my kids and going home. I try to receive from God some divine intervention, inspiration, idea... I don't know what I'm supposed to do or see, but I know God knows, so I keep asking.
"Give me your eyes so I can see
Everything that I keep missing
Give me your love for humanity
Give me your arms for the brokenhearted
Ones that are far beyond my reach
Give me your heart for those forgotten
Give me your eyes so I can see"
---Brandon Heath's Give me your eyes chorus lyrics.
Right now, I'm loving Brandon Heath's, "give me your eyes so that I can see, give me your heart for the ones forgotten..." I don't know what I'm doing at work in terms of teaching, I know I hold people's heartache and sometimes their difficulties threaten to throw me off balance. The boy who didn't graduate because he didn't fulfill his requirements of passing the high-stakes assessment returns in a depressed state with no vision for his future, crying in the halls of the school that would have been his alma mater on a recent visit. I do my best to blink back tears as he tells his story. He isn't free with everyone and I seek help in trying to help him. I don't know if I can do anything for this kid, but let him know I'm there. I don't know if my presence is enough.
Or the petite, studious, kind, cute girl who read The Autobiography of Malcolm X ahead of schedule who struggles with her mother's indictment that she is the worst child and who alleges it is this 16 year old's fault that the mother is in life long care because 8 years ago the family was in a life-altering car accident. I encourage the child and want to take her home and be her mother, but I know it's not possible right now. I don't know what's possible.
I don't know what is possible when I choose for my students Malcolm X and they fall asleep while reading and refuse to read at home. I pushed myself through The Scarlett Letter and The Grapes of Wrath in high school. I don't know how to inspire the unmotivated. Thus, I don't know what to do, even after I plan the great lessons and grade the horrendous papers. I don't know the purpose of my being in that school, so I imagine it has something to do with my heart and eyes.
Though sometimes, I wind up insanely depressed by the stories and sadness.
I drive to school, singing, chanting, praying, thinking...and I round the corner and recall that a student had to be taken from the building by ambulance because of the severe beating he endured on the previous day, I shudder and feel that the my car-preparation in an instant has vanished.
I walk in the building and no one is genuinely happy; people are angry about the students, lack of motivation, lack of toner, lack of support, other teachers, administration and the list goes on. I hear myself join in the chorus of whining and sometimes step out for a solo. I hate hearing all of the voices causing confusion and chaos. I don't know why I'm here or what I'm supposed to do.
I leave the building at the end of the day defeated and unhappy, not sure what I did for that day. I try to calm down before picking up my kids and going home. I try to receive from God some divine intervention, inspiration, idea... I don't know what I'm supposed to do or see, but I know God knows, so I keep asking.
"Give me your eyes so I can see
Everything that I keep missing
Give me your love for humanity
Give me your arms for the brokenhearted
Ones that are far beyond my reach
Give me your heart for those forgotten
Give me your eyes so I can see"
---Brandon Heath's Give me your eyes chorus lyrics.
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