a small win

I walked into the office.
"Rudy's been in an accident. I need to leave."
A hug, her face forming a question.
"He's okay, just scratches but stranded. The car is in bad shape."
"Go, we can handle the rest of the day. Let me know what happens, friend."

The news came between duties. I gathered my things. It was only 9:00 am.
Would I get paid for today? I didn't clock out. Is this unethical? I bet it's hot as hell in my car.

He climbed out of his passenger side window on a busy street to call the police. Three cars involved, his the only one to turn over. The police report took over a month. Uncertainty is a hateful place to occupy. We considered other transportation options. The bus, even for it's short trek, would take almost two hours. Cycling seemed improbable in August's unrelenting heat. We decided on carpooling. Early, sleepy mornings. Late, anxious nights.

Uncertainty was banished in the name of cold, hard truth. The fault was his. Insurance couldn't help with anything. His car, faithful as she had been, was not worth the money to fix her. She is sitting in our garage - accumulating dust and bugs, no doubt.  His khakis were stained with car oil.
When it rains, it pours.

Carpooling has become a way of life. The mornings are earlier and sleepier. The nights are less anxious. I got paid that day. It was a small win in the wake of great loss.

***

School is on hold. An MFA is silly, anyways. I will write on my own time. I will read on my own time.  An MFA is not magic. If I am not motivated to do the hard work before the program, what will keep me engaged with the literary world afterward? Thank you King, Dillard, Lamott, Bradbury, Zinsser, and Plath. If I've learned anything from reading you, it's that the daily hard work matters.

Cheers to the daily grind.
Cheers to family and friends who ease the burden of the daily grind.
Cheers to almost six months of marital adventures.

god knows

It's been four months since I've posted anything on here. So, in an effort to clear the webs and wipe the dust that have accumulated in my webspace - here I am, writing. Well, posting. Who said anything about actual tortuous, edited writing?

I've planned a wedding. I married the most handsome, hairy, steadfast man. I have gone to Paris and had crepes with aforementioned man. I started a job I swore I wouldn't go back to. I reconsidered where I will work come September (end of August?). I have almost perfected my cat eye. I have continued to walk in Bradbury's world's of Martians, rocket men, immortality, and death. Sylvia Plath's life is next on my list. I cannot get enough of Annie Dillard. She is a yogi. I sit and listen.

I am going to get my MFA in Creative Writing. Who am I writing for? Myself, mostly. Does this mean I am selfish? self-centered?

I don't tell anyone. I say, "I'm considering an MFA in Creative Writing." They'll expect too much of me otherwise. They'll expect success. And, god knows, that kills me.

want me

if someone does not want me
it is not the end of the world
but
if i do not want me
the world is nothing but endings.

nayyirah waheed

4:57

"Are you here for the Bible Study?" she asked.
The expansive voice alarmed me. My quivering fingers hovered over the next impossible chord. I turned to see her - a frail woman in a blue, belted frock. Uncanny, that resonant voice, that incredible, Ozian voice.
"Um, no, I'm actually finishing up. I was practicing piano. I wasn't aware there was a Bible Study here - I think should probably leave before it begins," I said as I closed my song book and masterfully pushed in the piano bench with my right knee. I walked off the stage towards her.
"Oh, please keep practicing." Dove eyes, she had dove eyes - uncorrupted, open, holy.
"I can practice in the Hall across the courtyard, it's okay. I don't want to be in the way." Nervous laughter.
"But it doesn't start until 4:30. They must be running late. Oh, please keep practicing."
She hadn't blinked once. Her blue shimmering lids like moon light followed me kindly. I looked at the clock. 4:25.
"It's really okay, I can practice in the Hall. Enjoy your Bible study."
"Oh, alright. So long."
I left the dim room, leaving the door open for the others. She took petite steps to a wooden chair in the second row, gently - weakly - bent to tuck her basket weave clutch on the inside leg of her chair, and stared brightly at the stage. She waited for a cue to sit.
At 4:57 she was still standing.

don't expect much of this post

december has been wonderful. here are some snapshots.

i dressed in black, as all directors do. seventy students, kindergarten through middle school
 performed songs and scenes from a poorly written (read:cheesy) christmas play. i instructed these rambunctious children, some of who were more disinterested or nervous than eager, to lock their eyes on me for cues and choreography. the result was hysterical - zombie eyes, concerned eyes, energetic eyes met mine on every step and riser. i could not help my laughter. managing to compose myself was difficult but the play turned out well. the occasional forgotten line or solo sung out of time was expected. they did lovely. i do wish it was more than one evening. it seemed so anticlimactic to move chairs, erect a set and lights, run microphone cords for one performance. next year, next year.

in true hispanic fashion, i spent an evening with masa underneath my fingernails. the feller, my mom, and i spread the mixture on clean corn husks, filled and rolled them. we were experts after the first few attempts were corrected mercilessly by mom. i know it is my last year living here but i always want to be around for and trusted with christmas eve preparations - vacuuming, cleaning, hanging, lighting, etc. christmas eve celebration was so much. just good times eating and playing games and opening presents with deep appreciation for the ones around us. lucky people we are!

the feller and i traveled to san diego twice. both times our eyelids hung heavy with sleep. i do love those moments of rest and unproductive lounging. we go on the occasional walk to offset the hours spent on a couch which could be equated to happily sinking in quicksand. we ate until we were full. we went to dinner with friends and before we had a chance to dig into our bougie plates, i realized, again, what good friends they are. we are lucky to have these two in our lives. they stick. and for people who have often felt displaced and abandoned, this is so so so important.

the christmas tree is still up, as it should be.

i have time off. the kind of time that allows for hours of reading, reacquainting oneself with music, and general cleaning of this-and-that. the kind of time that encourages watching movies in between hours of reading and actually playing with ones dog!

i am happy. that is not the most important thing in the world - i believe unhappiness does people good - but it is nice.

and, lastly, it is almost the new year!

cheers to

writing more than i did in 2013

painting my nails and lips

finding a more stable work schedule

being a friend

being quiet

minding my business

taking a watercolor class

cooking

adjusting my perception of myself, again and again

giving (anything) to others even if it is unlikely to be reciprocated

oh yea, and, like, getting married or something

ray

here is a picture of ray bradbury.

i can't remember if it was my father or my eigth grade english teacher who introduced me to ray but both played a part. growing up, my father took me to bookstores regularly. we are of the same breed. in a loud family, we like hours of quiet and adventure in our head. so, we spent hours thumbing through shelves, the old, dingy perfume of printed paper filling our lungs. one day, i came across the illustrated man. it is filled with violence and possibility. around the same time, i was assigned fahrenheit 451. we were instructed to mark it up with questions and thoughts. this was the first time i wrote in my book. write in my book? with a pen!? sacrilege! eventually, i adjusted. it was not an irreverent violation of the text, but a way to interact, absorb, and remember. fahrenheit 451 shocked and stirred me. i had no idea that words could be used with such imagination and power.

i read this book recently.  ray got his education at the library. he had a wife whom he met in a bookstore. she read proust and he read buck rogers. they had four daughters. he had two affairs. ray wrote one short story a week for more than 40 years despite his unpromising talent. his determination was fanatical. he willed his way to the sides of huxley, disney and more. always learning from  and pestering those who were better. he wrote for television, movies, radio and more. he sold short stories as collections and disguised them as novels. he feared the ending of things and was obsessed with immortality. creating is death's greatest loophole - keeping him alive in public conciousness as long as they read his work. ray wrote human stories even if his characters were martians. he instinctually played with metaphor and imagery. ray, ever the outsider and onlooker, dressed his life and the common things in it with words - beautiful, simple, and true.

i'd like to be like him.

and in the name of one-too-many-links:
this is a young ray. what a winner.

just one gift.

one christmas there were upwards of 60 presents underneath the tree. gifts creating a sort of impenetrable multicolored wall around what was, if you could see it, a lovely decorated tree.  we were all shocked and a little ashamed, i think. there were just too many gifts. the following year we decided to pull names and it has been that way ever since.

i contested this rule until i had a job. my argument was that i did not have "financial means to purchase a gift." to be honest, i didn't want just one gift. i wanted all the gifts. i still do at times. but every year we pick one person, keep it secret, send a mass email (or blog post) of our wish list, and have a gift wrap contest.

so, i'll get on with it as there are only seven days until christmas:

update: crossed out items have been purchased

all of the other things i've been wishing for (books, anyone?).

essie's licorice

MAC's diva

minoux's tiny bar necklace

converse

ridley's playing cards.

one (or two) movies:
  annie hall
  you've got mail
  sleepless in seattle
  ruby sparks
  while we're young
  about time
  one day
  grand budapest hotel
  les misérable

*i wear the black one all the time! (xs)

a place to live.

we are looking for a place to live.
i have lived in three houses since i was born. the house i currently live in, however, i have lived in since i was eight.

sometimes we walk around the neighborhood - the park, my old elementary school. it is comforting to know an area, to have a strong connection with a place. i have been thinking about this since i will be moving out soon, perhaps to a different area. i love the charm of my city. the mid-century homes. the art deco brick work. the brick work, period. it is a microcosm. an iconic remnant of slow, small-town life. it is framed by four or more freeways, but is somehow removed from the frantic impulse of the city. i visit often. i walk the rotund and think, work out my life on my feet.

on saturday i visited a place that would give me the hidden, quiet existence i want. low hanging trees and whimsical, wild vegetation. front lawns. cozy homes with cozy neighbors and bad parking. not too far from coffeeshops and independently owned stores. a place to walk my thoughts. it is too small. the other apartments in the area have unexposed asbestos. is this a health hazard? is it worth risking to live in this enchanted area? maybe.

our home will probably be small and crammed with books and silence and music. there will be cornmeal on the floor from our pizzas and blankets tucked in every corner.

i will miss my home (and room) of fifteen years. by some magic my room itself has absorbed my character. it effuses who i am. this home is so unequivocally part of my history that i can't imagine a saturday morning waking anywhere else. but there is a pull and true desire to sink into a deep sleep with the feller and kiss him awake. to read by his side. to cook with him and, on occasion, for him. to create a home where others are safe and welcome. to, like my family, be completely and foolishly generous with our time and resources.

this will be my last holiday season living here. i will relish every detail.

touch stones

for a brief moment, i was lost. i stepped out of the well-lit parking garage into the damp, dark night. my gps could not find the bakery i was set to meet a friend at. being the perpetually punctual lady i am, i reached for my phone to ask for directions. i was unsure about how far i was from the bakery.

still, i hesitated. i slipped my phone into the side pocket of my purse and closed my eyes. it was the first time i had stood alone with my thoughts and street lights in months. somehow, those warm street lights restore me. the same way driving through desert with no music after the sun has set restores me. the same way the smell of dirt restores me. i don't often put myself in spaces like this. i am busy. when i get home, i am tired. parking is a nightmare. every time i experience these restorative touch stones, i remind myself that the inconveniences are worth it.

my thoughts shift and move. i wonder at the cool air and the shapes of leaves. i imagine the intimacy and conflict experienced by strangers. my senses are heightened and i am more perceptive.

the world is an enchanting place to live.

magical and promising.

the decor was kitsch. hawaiian flowers and grass skirts lined the receptionists desk. starfish catapaulted from the ceiling with golden ribbon. it was obvious that like all well-intentioned businesses that cater to children this particular one had gone to Party City and emptied the summertime aisle. no one minds this behavior. the orthodonist is an intimidating figure in every crooked toothed child's life. starfish help.

i sat down and wondered how i ended up here with two mature, bright, and independent girls. they checked in on a computer at the front and nestled into the blue vinyl chairs - the glow of their Kindles on their faces.  i opened my book and not my mouth. these girls like quiet. unnecessary, excessive, uninteresting conversations bother them. they like to read. sitting with them, i was reminded of myself. by what fortune did i end up here, in an orthodonists office twenty miles from home? surprised by life's turnabouts, i excused myself to the restroom and walked down the dim hallway. i mused on a particular, reassuring thought: i cannot forsee my future - it is vast, dynamic, and dependent on infinite variables. drying my hands with the rough, cardboard-colored paper towels i recalled a similarly comforting idea: there is no plan. that is, life rarely occurs in a single, forward moving line where one thing follows another in a calculated, logical progression. this idea is what made college bearable. it is what makes my six part-time jobs magical and promising.

today, a month after the orthodonist appointment, i am still wondering how i ended up here: planning a school christmas production, taking kids to tae kwon do, writing algebraic expressions on a white board in the library, giving animal crackers to three year olds, learning piano and writing prayers for church. soon, substitute teaching. my life is a smattering of varied interests. however, it gives me time to watch the mindy project and wander around old towne. it gives me time to kneel in a catholic church and mutter my own prayers. it gives me time to walk my dog and read. it gives me time to make pizza and rent inexpensive movies with the feller. isn't this life - these small, orderly, expected things that give way to who i will be and what i will contribute when i am working?

i'm not sure where i will "end up," and yet, it doesn't frighten me. there are inexhaustibly fascinating things and people out there. it is by God's mercy that i am fed and clothed, that i have work enough to make a living. it is by His mercy that i will become a person who is merciful and generous, wherever i "end up." i am more interested in becoming that kind of person, anyways.

i know this.

lulls are expected, in life and in blogging. some months i am compelled to write and others i am not. well, perhaps i am but i am too lazy or tired or busy or happy to actually sit down and get on with it.

this was my last* summer at the private school i have been working at for three years. with my raise came more responsibilities. i was ready for them. i was trusted to plan and lead the daily activities eight hours a day, five days a week. there were small catastrophes every day, which i learned to expect and laugh at. there were days when children transitioning into kindergarten scurried out of the restroom naked, third graders had bleeding knees, children had lost socks and a kitchen worker with no consideration for the chaos i was swamped in badgered on and on about a bucket full of ice and if i was done with it. did she see the naked child or bleeding knees? there were days when we watched movies and shared food in a communal way that reminded me of family and played egyptian war for hours on end. there were days when children told me they loved me. there were also days when i ran after children with disabilities, feeling helpless and praying they would not run any further. life with children, especially outside of the classroom where they confide in you, is certainly not boring. it is the most difficult, rewarding thing i have experienced and i am sad to say goodbye to them.

two weeks before the summer program ended, i realized my income would be significantly lower. i applied for jobs in a fury - seventeen, i think? this would explain my current situation:
teaching music on mondays at a private school
tutoring on tuesdays and wednesdays (and hopefully subbing these days, too)
preschool teacher on thursday mornings
nanny on thursday and friday afternoons
part-time position at my church, which requires my time throughout the week

it's okay for you to think i'm crazy. i am. i know this. i also know that i can do this. whenever i find myself knee deep in a busy season i always look back to spring semester of  2012 when i was taking 21 units, in the middle of an internship, and working. if i could survive that, i could survive anything. oh, and there is also something else i am doing right now:

planning a wedding. because i'm engaged!
that deserves its own post. soon enough, soon enough.

well, blog world. i'm back for a few months before i disappear again.
cheers!

*funny how we plan these things. i wonder, will it really be my last summer there? i miss those kids mucho.

aging.

i am aging. does that sound silly at age twenty-three? well, i am.

i look at my mother, age sixty-four, and see a radiant, irrepressible woman.

a month ago i noticed that the veins on my legs were getting bluer, greener, darker. some even slightly raised. i am aging, i thought, and of all the magnificent applications of my imagination i could choose from - i chose worry.* and where else would worry lead me but the infinitely credible world wide web. it is the authority of our time. i half-laughed at this instinctual compulsion to ask ask ask the omniscient google why and how and all sorts of other inquiries. i laughed because it is the first place i go when i am worried about something. i am a hypochondriac in the worst sense, don't you know? and later, in the bath and on the feller's shoulder and on my dear friend's bed, i sobbed because i am so terribly afraid of being rejected for my body - my small breasts and wide hips and tiny belly and veiny limbs. i thought i would handle aging better. i thought it was the one thing i was mentally prepared for - it will come, i thought; it is unavoidable, i reminded myself; i am more than body; i chanted. but who is prepared to age? to feel and see the good things - health and youth - pass? to know this passing gives way to the one dependable eventuality - death?

but i look at my mother, age sixty-four, and cannot help but swell with affection. she has wrinkles and grey hair and lovehandles and painful vericose veins and arthritis. she has consistently been slighted by the men in her life. she could be like so many - stalking empty beauty. but she has chosen to give herself to the needs of others - her grandchildren, her children, her siblings, her own mother. she is a well of good intentions. she is a loving cook and dedicated worker. she is endlessly interested in the lives of those she loves. and her advice is always the truest thing she knows to be helpful. she is a beautiful woman. and is most happy when plating dinner, jabbing at her eldest, laughing loud and full.

these past few weeks i can see how boring and pitiful it is to be obsessed with maintaining youth. what a dull life. my mother teaches me this. working with children gives me a means to practice this 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. i can restrain myself from interacting with the kids (i.e. not going in the water with my bathing suit on, etc.) or give myself fully to them. to be tugged on. to be a child's pillow. to become a master sand castle maker. to be hugged, squeezed and, occasionally, dragged. to tag them back-and-forth-back-and-forth because there is no such thing as "no tag backs." to be out of breath and tired by them. to save them from that-really-big-wave. to tell them no. to throw the ball hard because they can handle it. to run across the campus in search of a stuffed animal or missing sock. preoccupied with my insecurities, i could be no real help. i could offer them nothing.

so, i am aging and all good things wither and die. but my mother reminds me that fear and worry don't change this, that life is better when it is about others, that serving heals us.

*the feller occasionally calls me a "worried wart," rather than a "worry wart." it is because 6-8 months ago two warts appeared on my cursed left foot. they are since gone and the memory of them makes me laugh if only because it makes him cringe.

eleven years

mom and dad have separated. it was eleven years in the making, which means nothing in regards to its impact. i have cried plenty: over love that does not put everything on the line, over shame that isolates, over unreciprocated attempts at togetherness.

i am convinced we are all damaged - it is the most unbearable truth of our time. we persist to escape, ignore, and hide it. what use is it to condemn such a human inclination? i, too, have lived out of a trunk of masks. i, too, have impolitely declined vulnerable conversations. brokenness resists exposure. we are all hopeless and damaged. inconsistent and contradictory and lost.

i once thought people could never change, sincerely. 'we are gorged on selfishness.' but over time, i found myself changing - the steadfastness of Others is a balm. so if i can change, then maybe others can. maybe not. it all depends on intentionality, rearranging priorities and training oneself to be good, not only to do good.

eleven years - can you believe it? some years were better than others. i wonder if that has more to do with ignorance and diligent secret keeping. some years were worse, characterized by a distinct pattern of discovery and disappointment, arguments and small changes that never turned into big changes. and here i am - here we are - at the end of it all: damaged, unchanging hearts in conflict still.

i know i said eleven years but could it be that it was two lifetimes in the making? could it be that it was the lifetimes of my grandparents and all those lives that touched and harmed and beat relentlessly on mom and dad? our personal histories are complex and layered. and doesn't it take a lifetime to unravel it all? and even at death isn't there still brokenness? aren't things still unresolved? and if we are still in such conflict at death, what does this all amount to?

so brave

i have read maira kalman's book three or four times since purchasing it against my budget's will in december. i reread it again this week, this heartbreakingly confusing week. and i keep coming back to this quote starting at "how are we all..."

sorry and proud. this is precisely how i feel this week. 

there is so much to weep over.

there is so much to relish in.

"what to do? what to do?" i wonder.

save our souls.

could a garden come up from this ground at all?

in light of yesterdays events this question is both

-allatonce-

my sincerest hopes and doubts.

oh, lord save our souls.

i am grieved by what i know.

i will be out

small things have been overwhelming me today.
instead of getting into the details here is a brief list:

car is in the shop.
noise.
unwanted company.
noise.
inability to work due to noise.
noise.
stranded at home.
noise.
tense friendships.
noise.
finances.
noise.
parental strife:
lectures and misunderstanding.
noise.

today i have been irritable and frustrated.
one day i will be out of this house.
a year maximum - better job, more money.
sigh.

my lot too.

i spent the first hours of black friday* on my bed with a friend addressing the tensions over the last six months or so. the distance and avoidance. the felt separation.

from kindergarten to high school i went to seven schools. 

kindergarten at my church.

first grade at an elementary close to home.

second and third grade at a new magnet school that opened.

fourth, fifth, and sixth grade enrolled in a gate program across town.

seventh grade at a private school.

eighth grade at a public school (the private school closed).

high school at one place.

we only moved once that whole time, to the house that i now live in. but i never had the chance to keep friends because i was always in a different school. i would have a best friend for one or two years and have to say goodbye. when i realized that i had two or three friends at my church, i clung to them. i wasn't leaving my church any time soon. but those friends have since bowed out of my life. i haven't spoken to them in two or more years. and there have been new friends that have come along. some have recently moved further south. others are in their beginning stages. and i am thankful. but this does not change my upsetting history with friendships. 

my friend and i talked about ears that judge, keeping a record of wrongs, unreciprocated availability and the uneasiness that is a product of rejection. i told her i needed her. that as much as i am afraid to enter into friendships due to my history of being royally screwed over, i am willing to work through it. that as much as i want to say i am done being relegated to a spot on the edges of your life, i love you and find you to be valuable. i expect to be disappointed in relationships and that isn't fair. it isn't giving her a chance. but she has disappointed me. there will be more chances to give. making friends is hard for me, i admitted. i don't know who to trust and am used to being overlooked, replaced, and used. there was mutual sharing and apologies and forgiveness. we consecrated the moment with prayer and a hug and a promise to stay friends.

and in the morning i wept. for the friendships that have collapsed on themselves. the friendships that were not kept. who will be my friend?  i asked of the Lord. who will care for me? who will extend a hand of mercy and a word of loving correction? and who will let me be their friend? who have i to care for? who will give me place in their lives? i recognized Him as the Steadfast One, the Faithful One. He is my forever friend - this is a source of deep pleasure and comfort. and i beheld Christ who was rejected and despised among men, a man of sorrows, aquainted with suffering, the One whom people hid their faces from. i considered His experiences of betrayal and loneliness. i remembered the accusations against Him, the misinterptation of His words and deeds. His friends could not even keep their eyes open and pray by His side in His final moments of despair. and i wondered if this was my lot too. and i wept for Christ - forsaken, bruised, and killed. the light of life, extinguished.

*i know people call it 'good friday' and that's fine. but for me, it's jumping the gun to celebration. it is turning our eyes from the torture too quickly. it interupts the shock, the disorientation, the sadness. it is the Church's duty to behold Christ, the suffering servant. my gratitude deepens when i see His chest heaving for breath and, finally, still. He is faithful to the end. He is my company in despair.

ploughs forward.

two weeks ago i took the cbest. friends said it was easy and i believed them. that is, until the the night before. in true stacey fashion i was rattled with nervousness. the assault of worries :
i should have prepared better! math is not my strong subject. my first c was in math, for goodness sake. i haven't written a timed essay in years. why didn't i practice this? 
i looked up tips and review questions on my android. curse around the clock accessibility to the internet. what should have placated me only exacerbated my angst. i woke up exhausted at 5:30 am but rolled over and slept thirty minutes more. i could afford a half hour of uninterrupted rest. God knows, i would have spent it worrying.

what redeemed the forty minute drive south was the delightful green parading springs coming. it served both as distraction and anchor. a distraction from the reality of taking a standardized test in a high school classroom. an anchor to the reality that life and time and things keep going. spring will burst through winter's barren, endless white and summer will scorch springs' life and fall will strip summer of whatever radiance it has left. but the trees still grow if you lose your job or you get a promotion. life ploughs forward.

for three years, i have been a playground/after school supervisor. it offers flexibility and brief shifts. this was ideal my final two years in college. work never overtaxed me. it could be reenergizing, at times. and it has been nice working here post-grad in addition to my position at my church. it has aroused concern:

minimum wage, no matter how much i love my job and how many hours i scour from sick employees, isn't a sustainable income.
playground and daycare are easy. i enjoy preparing snacks, assisting with homework, and running around with those rascals. there are days when no body wants to listen and things go south, but discipline isn't difficult. my job is too easy.

the cbest offers an answer.

if i ever plan on moving out, getting married, paying off my loans i need a higher income. substitute teaching provides this, without nixing children whom i love.
it is also something i have never done and will challenge me. i've been encouraged by several friends, older, wiser, who have substitute taught or been full-time teachers. it will help me walk taller, command the room with authority and kindness, be sure of what i have to say (or humbly admit i have no idea what i'm doing). they say the classroom is the best training room for being a speaker, a leader. i need work in this area.

i took the cbest and i passed. some of the questions were less intuitive but i passed.
eager to know how well i did, i scanned the page for my score.
the minimum passing requirement is 123, i scored a 172...

out of 240.
ouch. before i could celebrate the fact that i passed, i felt pummeled by disappointment. i am an idiot, i thought. my reading was my highest, math my second highest, and writing my lowest.
ouch. i love to write. sometimes i aspire to take writing classes and compile my words into a children's book? a collection of poetry and observations? into something true and alive. i am an idiot, i reminded myself.

i called the feller with the news - all of it. he is so good to me.
not until we hung up did i concede that i am not my score. in 11th grade AP english, my teacher talked with us about this subject concerning the looming SAT test we would be taking soon.

isn't this great? i says so much about our society's obsession with measured academic achievement that creates a hierarchy of intelligence and, thus, worth. i am not here to argue the validity of these tests, only to say that the scores reflect the ability of the test taker to apply selected information and skills in a standardized test (and test setting - ugh). these scores say nothing about who the test takers are.

i am good with kids. i can guide and direct and discipline and encourage them well.
their little successes make my heart leap.

so, while i could retake the test for a higher score, i know that it isn't necessary as it is incosequential to my getting a job. it would only be to satisfy my need for an A, which is a conditioned desire rooted in the human aspiriation for meaning and value. thank you, 'merica. thank you, childhood. 
i don't need to satisfy that need. i know who i am. and i am not an idiot.
i don't need to get hung up on this even though the idea of upcoming interviews almost paralyzes me.

in other news: after i hung up with the feller, i attempted to make cream of mushroom soup. cooking is relaxing. i cook slow and enjoy the process, the simmering, the melting, the mixing. it helps me think and focus. the cbest scores must have really put me in a funk because i forgot to check if i had the right amount of each ingredient. i am a planner, checker, double checker but my measurements were off. i continued cooking with fingers crossed. there was too much flour. down the garbage disposal.
i succombed to my new fallback: the grilled cheese with spinach and tomato.
slowly cooked to perfection and instantly satisfying over an episode of glee.
so while i felt disappointed that even my mushroom soup was a fail, i still managed to give thanks that life mercifully ploughs forward.

the scared

this is the reason i have worked with children for three years (also, why i do not fast forward through the new at&t commercials). they have perfected nonsensical sound effects.  zwee hyuh tzerooowhoah! their imaginations thrill me. a playground is a ship and a jump rope is a snake and they are all kittens or puppies (unless, domesticated animals aren't your thing). reality is for the classroom and home, perhaps. but every moment in between reveals that impossible is not a real word. 

"the scared is scared of things you like." 

the scared* is threatened by the good, beautiful, and true. it suspects them of false advertisement. it reacts with exclamation: 

flee! hide! this is too good to be true! 

it learns what to be scared of from people and media and culture and history. it learns what to be scared of from experience. it learns that not all cookies taste as good as they look (especially the ones shaped like keyboards!) and that friends lie. and it worries that this will be the case everytime. it expects disappointment and pain.

i have tried thinking about things i like. it works sometimes, so, i would say that dear asa is onto something. thinking about things that are true helps more. being quiet and in the presence of God and loved ones. the scared doesn't go away without a fuss, however. it throws tantrums because it likes being around poking my side with questions when i am trying to live. 

the scared shows up when i am eating pizza with new friends or tasting a flavorful, layered beer in hollywood. the scared shows up when i'm ironing perler beads or trying on a snazzy dress. the scared shows up before dinner with almost family when a phone buzzes and i know who it is. the scared shows up at jack and the box when the morning has been good and the evening looks promising. the scared shows up when something i love is happening or just around the corner. 

when i introduce the scared to the good, beautiful, and true - when i confront what it sees as dangerous - it must either transform its demeanor towards those things (into love or appreciation or understanding) or go. elizabeth green and mark gibson write in The Modern Conductor: "we must learn right from the beginning, to recognize tension when it exists and to command it to relax."  they are speaking of shrugged shoulders and anxiety and about maintaining a relaxed stance so that the entirety of expression in our gestures, during a performance, may be from a place at ease. 

this video and my conducting book remind me that:

i want to, with authority and grace, confront the scared.

i want to live from a sure, composed place.

*are the scared and the beast the same thing?

capable.

this past week, i was asked to help out backstage for a musical my work* was putting on. i have fond memories of  The Music Man. though i never participated in a stage performance of this musical theatre favorite, i watched it on dvd endlessly, my dad always humming behind me. the school performance was condensed - only an hour long.  it was a bullet list of main points and songs therefore it was no surprise when the storytelling proved bankrupt of artful development.
but it's okay, they are kids for goodness sake!

i showed up monday evening with no idea about what i was expected to do. two summers ago, i was asked to sit in the front row and cue lines when needed and cue choerography when the loud first grader was shocked by how bright the lights are and how he couldn't see mommy. but for that show, i attended all rehearsals. i wasn't sure what i would be assigned to do for these final three rehearsals and the almost-here six shows. the director - also the fifth grade teacher - walked me to the soundbooth and said i'd be stage manger. i would "call the book." i would learn the show before thursday's audience arrived. learning the show, for me, meant knowing when lights, curtain, mics, and music should be on, open, off, etc.

on hearing her expectation and instruction i had two thoughts:

nice. 

and 

what?

all and all, it was fun. it required organization, a feel for timing, the ability to process and respond to multiple variables the entire show, and a relaxed attitude.**
i put mics on kids, replaced batteries, and repeated the most powerful words all night - "standby" and "go."

brushing my teeth after a successful opening night, i realized that i don't have one thing in particular that i want to give myself to. i enjoy a lot of things. singing, writing, reading, design, organization, children, planning. i am a prepared and dependable individual who can see all of her interests contributing to one another, who can see herself doing three different things (and getting paid for them) at the same time for the rest of her life. however, there is part of me that is buckling down to become a master. no, not get my masters (that will come later?) but excavate my school resources, make appointments to meet with masters of a kind, and look over a few things until they are automatic, ingrained, imprinted.

during college i juggled the schedule of barack obama. i was, admittedly, overcommitted. i excelled at getting-things-done well. i received A's, approval from my supervisors, and was entrusted with (too) much at my internship. i am no master of my area of study, though. i mostly just crossed things off my to do list without absorbing subjects deeply enough to remember specifics after the "due date." however, this was my college experience: i become a more solid, anchored person who is honest and can say no.

The Music Man reminded me that i am talented, that i can apply my skills to many situations, and that i love musicals. that last one may have no relevance in my future. but it's true.

The Music Man mostly made me feel capable. and hungry to master something so that, in the future, i can be more so. and since i've been so scared of growing up, sitting behind the glass of the sound booth, dim lights, friendly banter and the directors' confidence felt so inexplicably good. like things might all work out some how. that i might get a side job here and another job here and i could be just as fulfilled as the doctor who accomplished an eon of schooling to check my reflexes. or that i could be a doctor. i forget which one.


*a k-8 private school. oh, the stories i could tell!

**working on this. i know sometimes i can be a frenzied presence. when josh called me a "stress case" sophomore year, my quick heart knew he was right. when i encounter people i want to be a calming presence. for example, the director seemed to be unphased by missing props, nervous fidgeting, and forgotten lines. she was self-possessed. she drank her diet coke leisurely. i took note and tried with every shivering bone in my body to follow suit.