To be understood

"Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood." - George Orwell

Angst

Aaaaaaangst.

Angst is one of my favorite emotions. It usually happens when one is super excited to go somewhere, say, a party, and then wildly considers the possibilities of what could happen.
I think angst was at an all time high for me when I was in 7th grade and it didn't plummet until I was a junior in college.

What follows is a too-vulnerable list of what used to raise my angst levels and what raises them now (think blood pressure levels):

• First days of school
• Every year it was the same thing - lay out my outfit the day before and set my alarm a half hour earlier than what I'd set it for the rest of the year. I'd toss and turn the night before making up hypothetical situations in my head. If [popular boy] asks you out, you say yes and you do not look down or cross your arms! You can do this. You will not trip once, so watch your step. It was much like an army sergeant drilling his men. And I never got a good night's rest. 
• Going over to friends' houses with cute older brothers
• "Hey, you guys want to watch a movie?" Um, yeah! I'd almost scream. His sister (my friend) would say something snarky back and ruin it for me, but if it did happen, then I'd probably sit sweating and remaining very conscious of that sweat.
• School dances
• I used to be a dance move creation master. Hands out, pop butt, and wiggle, or some such stuff. And if I had a group of friends there it was all the better, but more than anything I wanted a boy to ask me to dance. And if one asked me I'd have no problem leaving my loser-for-the-moment friends behind. It happened, very rarely of course, but when it did he was always shorter than me. 
• Sunday school
• I think this is because [arch enemy] was in my Sunday school class, and I didn't really learn much, just how to glare and how to hate her name brand clothes.
• SERVE trips
• Same old stuff: [popular boy] and [current crush] and [arch enemy] in my presence for an entire week. Total wreck. 
• The Playmill
• This is a theatre that I love more than any other place in the world. It is run by a college near West Yellowstone, Montana, and the plays are amazing. I sit at the edge of my seat and clap to all the songs and fix my eyes on the actors who have been there for years and hope they recognize me specially. When I was 9 or so, they called me up there for my birthday and danced with me and one guy with a beard kissed my cheek and sat me down on his lap. I couldn't think of anything else for a week. 
• The moment after the doxology
• You never know who will nudge you and ask how things are, and you have to be ready for anything, even if you don't know their names. 
• Dates
• I love them, but they are formal and scare me sometimes. It's like I forget that I'm just Laurissa and think that I have to transform into an attractive wildebeast so I lose focus.
• Long conversations
• I've had them with Kearsen, Mom, Beth, Tera, Elizabeth, Monique, elderly people, and random just-met-on-the-train strangers. You start with something and move to all the most hilarious things and then to all the saddest things and then to all the most memorable times and you circle those things about three times each, and when you're done you think that's it - that's what's special about living. 
• Book stores
• the moment you realize you would spend your life savings on books and the moment someone asks you if you need help is the moment that's the best and worst all at once. I just want to be alone with all these authors who ask nothing of me but my money and in return I get their thoughts. That's all I want, employee, so go away. 
• The city
• Chicago, Denver, Salt Lake City, Portland, Seattle, St. Louis - my mind could wander as far as my feet go. And sometimes people wonder about you, too, and that's just the thing. You don't have to give much, but much is given. 

I think I have a natural angst. If you look at my main website picture, you'll see it. How can Beth remain so cool in a situation like that? I mean, the guy was convincing, but I was a poor college student, and he was making me feel very bad for not saving the whales. More or less, I remember angst from a young age and it has pushed me to be curious about life. I'm thankful for it but sometimes it gets the best of me. 

Thoughts

Some days it feels like you're making all the wrong choices. And so you must admit that God's grace matters most so you don't beat yourself down.

Let me

I knoooooooooooow I have all that stuff to do, but let me just watch

     ...just for a little bit...

Books!

The Scarlet Letter: reminds you and me that when we experience isolation because of some wrong we have done there is forgiveness, but we have to accept it.









The Perks of Being a Wallflower: pushes reactors to become proactive. If this never happens for a shy person, then (so states Sam) the path is never in his control and thus, not truly his.










Ghost World: as teens you pledge that you and your best friend will never separate. Years later you call sometimes and reminisce about how it seemed like these changes were never going to happen.








These are three of my most recent favorite readings. Check them out!

Disclaimer: Ghost World is a graphic novel, so grab your glasses and be ready to do some serious glasses bridge pushing.

I don't want to wait, for our lives to be over.

"Oh Dawson, you're just vain and conceited and don't have a realistic perspective on life."

"Just because my father isn't in jail, Joey, doesn't mean I'm not realistic."

"I'm never going to be happy, because I have to support myself and grow up!"

"Yes you will. I'll make you happy, because I still depend heavily on my parents and don't have to grow up yet."


Dawson's Creek: extreme, even for Oprah. Nobody but the writers can fix their problems.

Moving on to season 3 ;)

Grandma MIA

I've called my grandma 5 times in the last two weeks. I've left two voice mails. I know that she's still alive because once in a while she 'likes' something on Facebook, and recently I received another one of her e-mail forewords, something about the saddest but most inspiring story you'll ever hear. She's really into sending those now, apparently. I wouldn't know for sure. She hasn't told me. But one thing I know is clear. Grandma is screening my calls.

Doesn't she know I talk to my pharmacist more these days? Does she talk to her pharmacist more than she talks to me?

Where is she?

Is she thinking about me?

Doesn't she know that Christmas is coming in 3 and a half months? If so, she should be sitting at home crocheting my afghan, ready to answer my calls.

Is her flower garden being demanding right now?

Have robbers kidnapped her?

Does she still eat a yogurt every day?

Did she change her number? Did she change her locks, too? Is my fifth grade picture still on her fridge? Does she remember the time we went rafting together and last summer when we went camping?

Is she on vacation? Why hasn't she visited me?

Grandma!

Enthusiasm!!!!!!! (!!!)

I loathe phrases like these: "Be the best you that you can be!" or "Love the life you live!"

Why?

Well because.

I tend not to believe overt enthusiasm or definitive phrases like these because to me life is composed of moments that most of the time are very common and only some of the time 'magical' if you will. It's unrealistic to be at your absolute best at all times. It's certainly important to be positive, but it is more important to have a level head, to consider more than one momentary exciting side, and to trade that in for truth.

This is Richard Simmons. He is too positive for me. 

But I guess some people need inspiration. In that case, you can keep Pinning away the phrases...I suppose. 

[turns head down and takes a step away from humanity]

Leave it to Jim and Cherie

Leave it to Cherie to still bake me a raspberry-filled chocolate cake with raspberries and chocolate sprinkles on it today, even though my birthday was weeks ago, and even though her life was chaos at that time.

Her daughter Debbie had to deliver a baby that was still-born. She was due the following week, and Cherie had intended to head down there at that time and help with the new baby. But she heard the news, and when I got home that Friday she was kneeling by the couch praying for Debbie and Aaron, and then she told me, and so we just sat and cried for a little bit. Cherie got the airline to push back her time there so she could be with Debbie right away.

It was such a sad trip up to the airport that Saturday morning, and I could just tell that Cherie needed to be with family and to mourn with them.

In the days following, Debbie posted pictures to Facebook of Paisley dressed in a flower headband and cute dress, and that's what they laid her to rest in. And people from town asked me how Jim and Cherie were and how the family was doing. On Monday there were a number of sympathy cards in the mail, and there were people who asked when they'd be home.

How do you stand idly by when you know that some people have it so tough?

That's question number one. And here's question number two:

How do you still have time to think of other people when you have it tough?

Jim and Cherie both exhibit that quality--thinking of others at ALL times. It's one I'd like to pick up, too. Cherie didn't need to bake me a cake today, but she'd asked what kind I wanted merely a day before that dreaded phone call. I'd said what I'd said: "Chocolate with raspberry filling. Chocolate frosting, and raspberries on top" and "That is so kind of you."

That Monday I decided just to do it by myself. It wasn't difficult to make, but that's because I used a box mixture of Devil's Food Cake Mix and raspberry jam in between the two layers and frosting from a container. It looked okay, but it wasn't the real thing.

Cherie makes the real thing.


I made the knockoff version:

(Also, on a side note, Jim knew I had practice one evening and wouldn't be around for supper so he made me part of supper--just the corn on the cob--to eat quickly before I left. He buttered it and put salt on it. My goodness. I'm SO spoiled.)

It's good to have Jim and Cherie back, but I know there is NOTHING like being with your family when this stuff happens. I'm still praying for them, because long after everyone has moved on, the people who are immediately affected by it don't get to have their hearts mended right away.

"If Only"

"If only, If only," the woodpecker sighs, 

"the bark on the trees was as soft as the skies"

while the wolf waits below, hungry and lonely,

crying to the mo-oo-on

"If only, If only."

~Louis Sachar

I used to be an "if only" kind of girl.

If only Mom and Dad had been wealthy, they could have paid for my wardrobe and medical things.

If only Grandpa was still alive, maybe our family would never fight.

If only I had someone to remind me to do devotions every day, I'd never have doubts.

If only people would just leave me alone. Then I'd be truly content.

If only college could last forever and if only it was never stressful, I'd be happy never to make a real life decision.

If only I lived closer to the mountains, I'd exercise a lot more.

If only my best friends lived closer, I'd be exactly who I'd like to be.


Sometimes I am still an "if only" girl. I worry about things from the moment I wake up. Am I doing it right? What are they thinking? What needs to get done? I should have done that a week ago! I just don't want to go out for a bit. Should I go for a walk? No. No time. Is it okay that I read? I feel like I should be doing work stuff.

I don't fully believe myself when I say "if only". A person can always believe there's something better at a different vantage point or that someone else has it better. Likewise we can over-punish ourselves for who we are, knowing that we're sinful, but not letting God's grace in entirely.

But I can't totally rule out my "if only" statements. Sometimes they keep me moving and set a standard for how I'd like to be. Worry and stress sometimes push me to get stuff done, and efficiently. Some stress is good, right? But it can't be the first thing that consumes your brain in the morning.

This morning I'm going to iron my clothes, then eat breakfast and read a little, do devotions, and get ready for church. If only I could be....I mean, I'm glad to be here this morning, right where I am.

What I want to finish but probably won't [Part 1]

This is what some of those developed roads look like now in Churchill, Montana. It is a haven for children to explore. In this tiny town there are llamas, ostriches, horse pastures, so many cows, apple trees, a few cranky neighbors, many many really nice elderly people, a retirement home, neighborhood kids, a store , a back path to walk to the other side of Churchill, and a little stretch of trees that has the perfect fort spot. 


1. Tina, Erica, and I began to build a swimming pool in Churchill when all the new houses were going up. We got shovels and determined that it had to be a comfortable size and that we had to be able to swim and still not bump each other.

      a. We had shovels and our land plotted out. It was a carefully picked spot, right by the pavement where the street dead-ended, but would eventually become part of the street when new houses were built. We chose this spot for one very simple reason. Easy access.

      b. We dug about one foot down, about 4 feet wide and 8 feet long. That took a couple hours. And it was hot. And we were sweating. Luckily we all had seen our fathers use shovels before, so we knew the basics--point shovel downward, step one foot on flat shovel spot (No, I don't think a snow shovel will work for this...I mean you can try it but...), stand your weight on the shovel entirely, and then jump because you're a little girl still and don't weigh that much and this is rocky soil.

      c. We dug a deep end, about 2 feet deep, and then decided it was time to fill 'er up.

               Problem #1: Our carefully selected spot was hundreds of yards from any of our houses.
               Temporary Solution #1: Connect all of our hoses together and run it down the street from Tina's house. Yes, there would be a lot of potential kinks in the hose to worry about (I hate those) but it could work.
              Problem #2:  The hoses didn't work. They kept kinking up and it was going to take forever for the water to actually get from Tina's house to the chosen spot, and we didn't find that much hose anyway. It seemed that all of our neighbors had put all their hoses away in garages, but boy if those hoses had been laying around outside...
              Temporary Solution #2: Fill buckets now at the spot where the hose leaves off. This worked for about three rounds.
              Problem #3: Unfortunately it only filled about one inch of the pool and when we returned from refilling our buckets the water sunk into the earth and created a muddy surface. Montana is impossibly dry.
             Temporary Solution #3: Find tarp to place in the bottom of our pool. All we found were bits of tarp that our families had used for camping. They all had holes in them.

     d. Our pool didn't work out. In retrospect, we would have needed a persistent maintenance crew to keep refilling the pool as it drained through the tarp holes and to clean for when the wildlife bathed in it and a security system to keep the boys out of our turf. We would have needed to convince the town to build the road around our pool and if we were really persuasive to put in a fence so no cars crashed into it. We could have chosen a better spot. Maybe one a little more off to the side.

So we abandoned our project. We filled it in a little but the area looked dangerous and maybe a little hazardous now, and what we did next I'm not sure; we probably just ate a Popsicle and stuck our feet in the crick that ran by my house, a natural little pool we could have played in all day. 

Smart Writers

Eventually I'll stop recommending all these other blogs. Because nobody likes advertisements. I don't at least. BUT you should probably read Megan's blog. She is creative and funny and insightful, and I taught her everything she knows about writing as she was in my Composition course her senior year. (Kidding. She came to the course with many of her own skills). So naturally she's really brilliant.

Read this one. It's entitled "High School Love Letters"
http://mjwets216.blogspot.com/2012/06/high-school-love-letters.html?showComment=1343884587028#c2064486781435965090

Pinterest Doer

May this pique your interest as it has piqued mine. Also, I hope you use the word "piqued" this week.

http://teachingwithtera.blogspot.com/

She's actually a Pinterest doer, not one of those "oh-yeah-I-love-pinterest-and-have-900-pins-on-my-To-Try-board-but-haven't-tried-them-yet" girls. Nope. This girl gets stuff done.

And if you're a teacher or a human, you just may enjoy it.

I love _______ more than ___________.

I have this theory, and it's one I picked up a few years ago, and it's one that seems to be working quite well. It's called "I love _________ more than  ____________".

I've known of a number of just-starting-out couples who really, really like one another, but have professed not to quite love each other. Sometimes it's hard to know exactly how you feel about someone, and if you're like me (incredibly indecisive) you need something to compare what you're feeling in order to know how you feel.

Step one: Figure out your favorite candy/dessert/food. For some it's bacon or pizza, but for me it's Smarties, the American candy (not the Canadian M&Ms). They are chalky and sweet and melt in my mouth. I love them. I figured this out when I was five or so.

Step two: Insert said person for whom you're not quite sure how you feel. I love  (person)   more than ...let's say you love pecan pie... pecan pie.

Step three: Now answer this very honestly. No being wishy washy, not even a girl like me gets to be this way. Is this statement true? Yes? Well then congratulations, you're in love! Why you ask? (See Step five) Is this statement not true? Shoot. I guess you're not quite in love. But that's okay, follow Step four.

Step four: So you're not in agreement that you love Walter more than pecan pie. Now what you have to do is find an item of a slightly lesser value. For example, I strongly like, but have never said I loved, writing people letters. Now, find the item you strongly like. Say it's funny bumper stickers. Follow step two again. Is the statement true? Do you need to spend more time with this person, or if you spend more time with this person, does the item you're comparing have too much of a positive connotation? I would suggest finding something a little more neutral, like a Peanuts comic strip--slightly amusing, but doesn't evoke breathless laughter. You can still appreciate this person according to various levels of like.

Step five: Congratulations, you love this person (or occupation? or trip? or animal?) more than something you take extreme joy from. Now to deviate from how materialistic this must seem (it is materialistic, by the way). This is an exciting thing to say, because it's true for one and because this person (or occupation or trip or animal) evokes the same if not stronger emotions than this one thing you love and go way back with. You might even make a list of things you go way back with. For me it's The Office, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, laughing at people laughing, Lucky Charms, or a cat named Puffy Puddles. Insert all of them. Are they all true? Yes?

Excellent. You now know how you feel.

(You're welcome.)

My Friends are Cool

Please check this out. My friend Elizabeth was interviewed for a radio show. Listen and love it!

http://gooseradio.com/2012/06/30/the-wisdom-of-finding-love-on-tv-call-me-maybe-whether-humanity-is-doomed-gooseradio/

Now go find a cool friend!

Saturday's the Day

Here's something I wrote for my dad about 5 years ago. Happy Father's Day!

Saturday’s the Day

                Today is another one of those days where Dad wakes me up early, before dawn. No chance of Saturday morning cartoons or hanging out with friends. He’s had the pickup running for ten minutes and my boots and mittens lay next to my door. I, however, arise slowly, like Bambi just learning to walk.

                I feel my way to the coffee and slice a piece of banana bread Mom baked the night before. It was not often that I felt that the sun of early-morning spring Saturdays was intended to be seen rising.

                After I let the fireplace warm my backside, I turn quickly to feel the cool morning air seep through our double-wide trailer windows mixing with the warmth of our fireplace. I pull on my sweatshirt and my first layer of mittens and socks. My hair is tousled and unkempt, indicative of the day we have ahead of us.

                Tyrel, who is fifteen and usually sleeps ‘til noon when Dad is away trucking, walks slowly with his head down, eyes squinted, toward the bathroom. He flushes the toilet a minute later and repeats my routine.

                “We’ve got five minutes,” says Dad. “Pack your lunch, and let’s go.”

                He loads his chainsaw in the bed of the truck. He checks for our goggles, gloves, and earmuffs underneath the one long seat of his farm truck, and just as if this morning air requires some attention rubs his hands together, looks up at the sky,  and lets out a foggy breath into the cool, crisp mountain air.

                As we drive through Main Street, Dad’s farm truck adds to the familiar purr of early-morning diesel engines—some of them parked alongside the Garden Café where men get their coffee before another long day of work. Some days, Dad will join in the local farmers’ talk of produce. But we do not stop. This particular morning, Dad is not a Farmer.

                Inside the truck, CB radio static fills the sleepy silence, like white and fuzzy television screens or listening to someone open a candy wrapper in church. Truckers rattle off jokes about their women from back home. Dad does not pick up conversation with them as I’ve seen him do before in cross-country trucking trips. He is not a trucker today, and so we head out of town toward the mountains.

                Five minutes down the road, Dad cracks his triangle window and lights a cigarette, then holds his coffee cup in the same hand as he waves the two-fingered wave at both neighbors and strangers. I tuck my head into my hood, and before long we bound and bump along mountain roads too jagged and narrow for my father’s truck.

                Taylor’s Fork, my father’s great discovery, is our destination, sixty miles from home and five or more turns down gravel and dirt roads. There is a clearing, a sort of meadow, at the base of Taylor’s Fork. It was here that Dad spent the previous summer camping out in our $500 camper, living the life of a logger, Tyrel as his right-hand man. On weekends, Dad and Tyrel would come home with a kettle of greasy dishes, critter-infested clothes, growling stomachs, and an extra truckload of firewood.

                Tyrel and I have put in enough time on this particular job to start our task the moment Dad parks the truck. I begin scouting dead-standing trees. Don’t scout ones with too much moss on them. No sprouts. Watch for decaying bark. Dad surely spots them long before we do, but waits for us to identify them. He is leading and Tyrel and I follow close behind, hurdling fallen branches and trees and small creeks. As we pass left by a boulder, left at a half-dead tree, right, and right again, I know that my father has memorized the route.

                “Don’t forget your path,” he says. “Remember the rule.”

                Before long we have found or first catch of the day, a dead-standing Pine.

                Dad tugs at his chainsaw at which time Tyrel and I position our goggles and earmuffs and tighten our gloves. Our rule is to stand by him at all times and wait for the timbering giant to fall.

                Buttoned up in a Carhart coat and an ‘Elmer Fudd’ hat, my father carefully and forcefully carves at an angle into either side of the tree. Even as I stand alert for it, I cannot help but see my father as one of those lumberjacks you see only in old pictures in museums—a score of men staring stoically, yet proudly, in front of their largest logs.

                “I was probably fourteen,” my father said once, “when a friend of Grandpa took me to log with him. He showed it all to me.” My little brother was around the age of seven when he first saw one timber.

                Tyrel does not watch the tree, but watches Dad, watches the way Dad operates the chainsaw, and moves where Dad moves. My brother has even picked up the lingo so it’s not uncommon to hear, “Yep…mhmmm…by the crick.”

                When the tree begins to sway, Dad gives it a little nudge from one side. A nudge will never actually point it toward a different direction, but Dad likes to show that he can control where it falls. Soon a crackling noise beyond the protection of our earmuffs demands our attention, and we watch the watch the four-storied tree—one-hundred or more years of growing—fall to the ground, clearing anything beneath it.

                This is our cue to begin the next phases rolling the base logs down the trail—after Dad slices them. Casually, our loads become lighter and so we begin to carry two or more logs in our arms, sometimes blocking our eyesight when we do not want to take make another round to the truck. And our reward comes each time my brother and I creep back up the trail for another armload of wood. We hear our father’s bellowing singing voice beyond the constant bumble of the chainsaw.

                We pretend not to notice his melody. “Then sings my soooooooul, my Savior God to theee. How great Thou art. How great Thou art!” Soon he sings his own melody. “I saw the light! I saw the light!...Ya ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog. Cryin’ all the time…Oh play me some mountain music, like grandma and grandpa used to play…”

                If you look closely, you see his tapping foot and his head bouncing to a beat.

                I once heard that singing can be a reflection of a person’s joy. If that’s the case in logging too, Dad’s the most joyful man on a mountain right now. Tyrel and I laugh along, even though we are slightly embarrassed, and yet relieved that only the rocks and trees and bears can hear his joy.

                When lunchtime comes, Tyrel and I tease each other and pass Dad a sandwich and try not to laugh about the singing.

                “We’ve got a couple more trees to do,” he says. “Let’s get to it,” and we start our routine again: earmuffs, nudge, roll the bases, armloads, medley, embarrassment.

                We work away the hours at Taylor’s Fork, clearing out dead-standing trees one at a time. Sometimes when Dad is not looking I pull both my thumbs and indexes together to make a frame. I pretend to capture moments in pictures of his on-the-side occupation. I pretend that Dad is standing in front of dead-standing trees and logs rolled into a pile as he is posing for a picture that will one day hang in a museum, where lost arts often go.

                I’ll add our logging pictures to those which I’ve labeled Dad: early Saturdays weeding our massive gardens; early Saturdays fishing at the lake; early Saturdays feeding pigs on the farm; early Saturdays delivering loads of lumber from Butte, Montana; early Saturdays painting, raking, building, mowing, camping, boating.

                Tomorrow we’ll let Dad have his Sunday dinner reminisces, bringing my family back to places like this and times like this when work like this could keep any family on their feet for more than a cold winter. 

Third Wheel Part 2

A while ago I posted about finding myself in third-wheel situations. It happens constantly. But there is good news here. Last week Ryan and I went to a grad party....with a third wheel in tow. I couldn't help but sympathize with her but also I couldn't help but bring that matter up front. Poor girl. Had to deal with my sudden belief that the third wheel no longer applies to me.

Anyway, I found a few more third-wheel pictures you may enjoy.

Giraffes

Frank the rabbit

It happens in Asian countries, too.

And for good measure, here's one of Josh, Kearsen and me. 

Hiney

If I become a mother I'm going to have my kids say "hiney" instead of butt. Butt is an ugly word with negative connotations. Hiney is much less assuming, but I don't want to say it with a mid-western accent because then the kids will be living in a world reflective of Bobby's World. 

You can bet 'cher boots on that there, sir. 

Freckles

I've mentioned briefly that freckles have been tormentors of my self-perception.

My selection of freckles.

People like to say things about them, too:

They are rust spots.
They are angel kisses.
Your shoulder freckles are so awesome.
AhhhH! Look at all your freckles.
Is that one large freckle on your nose?
Do you tan anywhere?
You look like Lindsay Lohan (I don't, by the way, but she has freckles)
Oh, I get freckles too (points to a few freckles on cheeks or nose)
Who'd you get your freckles from?

I want first to say that every winter I nearly forget I have them. When spring comes I'm vaguely aware. Then summer comes, which is the time when everyone else becomes aware. People have told me I'll outgrow them, implying how childish they must seem on a woman, or they've said, "Just wait and see if they'll pull together" or "I've found the Big Dipper!"

More or less, I love them. It's like the gap in my teeth or my super-small ears or my green-blue-brown...hazel?....eyes. They just make me, me.

I'd like to know, what's the thing about you that people notice (and comment on) the most?

Oh How He Loves Us

Here's something I wrote for my students:

I thought today would be difficult. After some planning and eating a brownie for breakfast I walked to the office to print off some quizzes and handouts. They call Clarence a bear for a reason, so you know. Immediately he gave me a comforting side-hug, the best kind of hug, if there is such a thing. A little later Mrs. Van Zyl warmed her tea and waited by the microwave for those two minutes while I sat at the computer. The microwave is sort of our spot, now that I think about it. But today she stood around just a little longer. 

It took a little time to get back into the mindset of school, to initiate conversation with students, tell them an obnoxious good morning like the teachers always do. It was like all I could do was replay the whole event in my mind, and I still can't fathom it. What on earth was he doing on the side of the highway at one in the morning? Why haven't they found his car? Surely not Josh, the little guy who used to make armpit farting noises with my brother Tyrel. The kid who grew into a young man and not only completed his first year at Dordt but assumed a leadership position on the student symposium. The kid who was majoring in pre-law.

This morning, the students were walking, doing what they do, thinking their own things, moving off to classes, and all-the-while I forgot to say "Good morning!" I was just somewhere else. But something really interesting happened. The students began stopping by and saying, "Hey. Sorry about what happened. Are you sure you're okay?" I stood amazed at the people God uses to calm your mind and heart when it's raging. Thank the Lord for them, that for them life moves on, so you feel okay to keep moving too, whatever the pace. I didn't expect to laugh so hard during Composition today or to firmly regain the teacher voice. 

The daylight hours only last so long, though, and the you're left with your mind, that relentless, insufferable organ. 

Now I sit here, thinking that what's so crazy about all of this is that what happened to Josh--the tragedy of it--is not a one-time deal. In the past two years, and all on my mom's side of the family, my uncle passed away in a farming accident, my cousin Brandon was caught in a lightening storm on the Grand Tetons and died, our grandma passed away peacefully, and now Josh, and I just keep thinking, "What next?" Nothing can shock me now. 

There's no going backward or anything. I can't tell Josh not to go out that evening or tell Brandon that there would come a storm. It would have been pointless to tell Uncle Daryl to steer clear of that hill; he was too stubborn anyway and probably would have laughed in my face. All these things you feel like you want to undo but can't and so you're left with what is now and what is coming. 

In these moments, "Heaven meets earth like an unforseen kiss and my heart turns violently inside of my chest, and I don't have time to maintain these regrets when I think about the way...oh how he loves us."

Dear students, there is a God who loves you. Deeply. 

Please, if you do, tell your parents you love the Lord. At Brandon's funeral, that's what Uncle Bob told us to do, this big farmer holding a microphone, shaking at the knees, and fisting away tears.  

It's Poetry I Teach

A month ago, I taught a poetry unit, and so my students were forced to write it. After they wrote about 10 poems, I forced them to create it into a book, reflect on their style as a poet, and be decorative.
I thoroughly apologize to students who hate all of the latter activities.

But I'm an English teacher.

And I love poetry.

And so they will, too. Naturally.

Anyway, I'm also quite vain, so I see the very best of what my students have written and take complete credit for it.

But my favorite parts of these poetry books have been the dedications and the selected quotes. More or less, I'm proud of them for their work and thoughtfulness.

Also, this may be illegal to blog their writing, but I'm doing it anyway.

Student 1
Title: Poetry from a Sophomoron
"Dedicated to my dear friends that make our English class so much fun even though we may be getting in trouble, being annoying, or being too loud. And also to my teacher Miss Boman, for showing us the depths of poetry and teaching us with 'all the knowledge of the universe'."
Writing poetry is the hard manual labor of the imagination. ~Imanuel Reed

Student 2
Title: Due Monday! Read pg. 1-12 or Megan's Poetry. Have a Great Weekend!
"To my English teacher, Miss Boman, who has taught me more about poetry than I ever thought I would want to learn, and also to my crazy classmates for giving me the motivation to write amazing and heartfelt poetry."
Poetry is plucking at the heartstrings, and making music with them. ~Dennis Gabor

Student 3
Title: A Poetic Journey
"To those who were forced to write poetry for a grade, and are unwilling to admit that they almost enjoyed it."
A poem can have an impact, but you can't expect an audience to understand all the nuances. ~Douglass Duncan

Student 4
Title: Taking Life One Day at a Time
"To my family and friends who inspire me to write random poems and show me it's okay to be yourself."
Music is the shorthand of emotion. ~Leo Tolstoy

Student 5
Title: The Undefined
"To those who understand the feeling of being serious while having fun at the same time."
Many people will walk in and out of your life, but only true friends will leave footprints in your heart. ~Eleanor Roosevelt

Student 6
Title: Make Your Mark
"To those who believe that the written word is essential to life."
Books are like mirrors: if a fool looks in, you cannot expect a genius to look out. ~J.K. Rowling

Student 7
Title: Book of Wonders
"To my friends who helped me with rhyming my words. Without the help of those wonderful people, my Book of Wonders would not be what it is today."
Non typical/Forget what lyrics say/What movies portray/What magazines imply

Student 8
Title: ________Mae's Poetry
"To country music, my inspiration for writing and to Miss Boman for pushing us to write."
Every man dies. Not every man really lives. ~William Wallace

Student 9
Title: A Waterfall of Words
"To all those kids who do not enjoy poetry and want to be free and stay young."
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference. ~Robert Frost

Student 10
Title: Random is Key
"To my awesome class that helped me get through this tough poetry unit. Also to my mom who was dedicated in helping me with most of my poems. With my classmates who made poetry fun, and something that I will remember forever."
Sometimes questions are more important than answers. ~Nancy Willard

Student 11
Title: Just Words
"To those who actually like poetry...those who like writing because their voice is too quiet to be heard."
Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind. ~Dr. Seuss

Student 12
Title: It's Poetry!
"To all the people that influenced any of these poems. Thank you for your uniqueness, and allowing me to write about you."
Howd con Ih dew it. ~Kayla

Student 13
Title: A Ginger's Tale
"To my fellow classmates who made this poetry unit enjoyable. Also, to my teacher Miss Boman for teaching me and my classmates."
What is my life, if I am useless to others? ~Wolfgang

Student 14
Title: All the Poems
"To all the peole who think they're terrible at poetry - just read mine."
Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind. ~Dr. Seuss

Student 15
"To all the poetry lovers of CCHS. Hope you enjoy this as much as I had fun writing it."
O captain! My Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Ris Up-for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills. ~Whitman

Student 16
Title: Le Rage Book!
"To my best friend in the whole world, who had no effect on this book."
Life is a long preparation for something that never happens. ~William Butler Yeats


There you have it: a number of students' inspirations and thoughts.

I get to teach that :)

Fight Club

Fight Club

Grotesque and intriguing, this film is about a young man wrought with living a mundane life. he lives in a high-rise apartment, eats out at a local diner, and goes to work every day. (His run-ins with the boss are hilarious, by the way). He claims that it's the repetitive and civil lifestyle that contribute to insomnia. The only thing to calm him are cancer support groups, none of which apply to him, but in them he is able to cry in the arms of a man named Big Tits and finally sleep, that is until Marla, another support group fraud, begins attending the support groups. Soon after, the narrator meets Tyler in an alleyway where the two fight until they're bleeding. They begin Fight Club.

Beyond the blood, the head bashing, or the skin-singing, what disturbed me most was the main character's tone of narration, a flat but mused voice that recounted events leading up to the present, each stated as though it could happen to anyone, that it may have happened already to you.

These events were unusual. The narrator finding an old abandoned house in a desolate district after his apartment blew up, Marla sleeping with Tyler, but the narrator was never in the same room as the two, the compliance from thousands of men who worked and supported families but were also part of Fight Club, the Robin Hood-like nature of Tyler (was he really that evil? Yes.) the moment Big Tits dies and there is a learned reaction from the followers not to show emotion for the loss of human life. Is masculinity in its truest form really so animalistic and brutal? Is Marla's femininity what saved the narrator?

The man was an insomniac. By day he was the narrator; by night he was Tyler Durden. It's quite Freudian. We are not who we are when we are alone. We are someone just a little different with our closest family members and friends, who choose to believe the best in us. We are entirely different in society. True? I believe so.

The narrator was trying to find truth but also be his truest and best form of a human--leave the insignificant things, like working your way up in the American Dream and instead induce fear into people until they discover what it is they need to be that matters. The narrator makes it clear by the end of the film. We need to have a little of both qualities in us. We should fear the system, we should be civilized, but we should not accept it to a fault. Likewise, we should not separate ourselves completely because we need still to identify with humanity and to be able to know what love is. A little of both and you become a smarter person, a critical thinker, and one who is content enough to accept the world around him but always question it.

This film is about compliance and whether we will choose to obey the system or not.

Watch it, but beware, the blood and brutality is unforgettable.

Summer Style

I like how breezy it feels to wear shorts for the first time

I like the wedge of the flip flop between my toes

I like buying cheep summery shoes from WalMart

I like feigning a tan when my freckles pull together

I like knowing that a summer day could turn to an overcast, stormy evening

I like doing devotions on a swing outside

I like sipping Coke and reading a novel

I like sand volleyball

I like moving around

I like road trips and wearing sunglasses all day

I like riding bikes

If winter was actually spring this year, then do we get summer for spring and summer for summer? I hope so.

Expressions

The thing about being a high school teacher is that I can't help but reflect on how I once viewed the world.

What I believed in high school:

~I'd never wear makeup

~I'd stay in Montana

~I'd be a nurse's aid if college didn't work out

~I'd maybe work at a bible camp

~Life was bound never to change

~Boys would forever keep their distance

~Some would be life-long friends

~CDs were the last stop, once and for all, for music

~Other than these things, I didn't really enjoy thinking about the future

What I now understand:

~Makeup=professionalism. Dangit

~It's worth travelling. Oh, and absence/distance makes the heart grow fonder

~I did work at a bible camp, really enjoyed it, but found out I'd rather teach

~Life changes all the time, but in high school you're so in-the-moment and non-sentimental that you don't realize the changes. I think I defined changes by whether or not I'd get a boyfriend. That was the single most important and big thing kids in my high school could have going. That or track all-stardom. Of course, I learned better upon attending college and choosing to just become more awesome than search rabidly for boys

~Boys don't keep their distance forever. And the good ones wait until they've grown up a bit. Now I definitely believe that I was a closet romantic in high school. I wrote poems about it and such #embarrassing

~You know how when you're little you say to your best friend, "This will never change"? It does change. But it's not bad. And you can be proud of growing older and finding your place, so I've resolved to be happy for the friends that find a different path

~I just got an iPod shuffle years after they first came out. Up until Christmas 2011 I'd been using CDs. Technology changes blah blah blah

~A person must be able to balance thoughts of the past, present, and future

My students will definitely change. I can be certain of it. But for the time being, I like hearing them state opinions about which they're 100% sure, or yell out to each other, "You're my bestie!" (I don't really enjoy the wording so much), or knowing that they believe making the basketball team is the single most important event of their life, or seeing a girl with no makeup and grunge era boots, or watching them sit in particular crowds, and knowing that once they leave they'll be all mixed up and suddenly the systems of high school won't matter as much in professional life. They'll be all jumbled up.

And it will be awesome.

Single Life

I was driving to work one day, juggling my breakfast in one hand and trying to drive with the other, when I overheard a couple radio DJs discussing the "single life". Here's what they asked: What sort of things did you do as a single person that you wouldn't do as a married person?

I didn't give this question a lot of merit, because I like to believe that everything I do is practical and normal and everyone else does it, too, but then people started calling in to the radio, and now I can't forgive them for opening my eyes to the truth.

DJ: Yes, what's your single story?

Man: I left frozen chicken on the counter to thaw while we were at work. It was at room temperature when supper time came around and so I started to cook it. My wife made me throw it away, but if I were single, I would have eaten it.

DJ: Hey! What's your single story?

Woman: I used to bite my fingernails and spit them on the floor until my husband said he'd make me vacuum every day. I did that all the time in my old apartment. (sick)

DJ: Welcome to the show. Tell me your single story.

Man: Toothpaste in the bathroom sink was no problem before, and actually it was proof that I was even brushing my teeth, but when my girlfriend saw it, I haven't gone back. I clean it out every morning.

This prompt made me wonder: Is singledom simply a state of sanitary ignorance? Well, to prove them a little bit right, here's what might not exist (or might exist) in my world if I were ma...ahem....marr....hummhum.....married. There, I said it.

1. My bookmarks might not be wrappers from Lindor Truffles.

2. That old blankey might not be the centerpiece of my bed.

3. Shoes might not take up half the closet space. I'm assuming I'd have to take care of that. Zip and seal bags? Storage for "winter shoes" and "summer shoes"?

4. My hair on the bathroom counter wouldn't exist, or at least maybe I'd take extra steps to make that way.

5. High school knickknacks may be given away.

6. I might not feel justified in watching a girly movie and eating an entire bag of chips. Plus, Glee (the show that I love to hate) might also disappear from my weekly schedule.

7. I might wake up at my alarm time.

8. White, purple, and teal might not be an acceptable color scheme for adulthood.

9. I might be on time to life. I say "life" because I'm usually late for everything.

10. I might actually sit down for a meal rather than eat an apple at 9, a muffin at 11, lunch at noon (sometimes), and at least three cups of coffee somewhere in-between those moments; after 12:00 I might not mooch candy or Chewey bars from students, teachers' lounge treats, or a large glass of water when the last two things are out of reach. At 4 I won't eat cookie bars from Cherie's stash and drink a large glass of orange juice, eat supper with the Rozendals, eat dessert with the Rozendals, or eat Lindor Truffles for midnight snack. Maybe this will change. I guess it will have to since Cherie won't be there to feed me. UNLESS I spend ma....hahemmm....marr.....humhummm....married life forever living in their upstairs!

Ok, so maybe singledom has a certain reputation for good reason. But how can you help it? When you are the only one to please, you pretty much know how you want it and you won't complain if you find old wrappers in books or hair in the sink.

But. You know. Life comes with changes. Ahem. [uncomfortable moment for author]

Resolving Stuff

This year I'd like to change things up a bit. Last year I started the new year by working late in my classroom and going to bed at 11:30 because I couldn't stay up any longer. This year I spent it with friends. Thus, it's time for changes all around.

I'd like the following:

1) to be gracious to others and to myself

2) to be honest

3) to redeem that daily, conversing, consistent walk with Christ

4) to listen more

5) to be sarcastic less (or to be sarcastic in appropriate places, like girls' night or any time I'm watching trash reality TV, not board/staff meetings or with straightforward situations)

6) to finish the projects I begin

7) to talk with family and make efforts to see them

8) to maybe exercise or something (This one's a dumb one. I like playing volleyball when the occasions for it arise. I like running in nice weather. I like sitting on the couch and reading a magazine in dreary weather, so....)

9) to throw shy, or excuses that I'm shy, out the window

10) to be frugal

Since most of them require "more" of something these goals can't really be met. Thus, I guess the only main goal is letting that wonderful God-given conscience I know is in there somewhere have a voice. I'm going to grow up a little bit this year.

Happy New Year to you. May it be a very merry one, and may your resolutions help you resolve something.