Journal & Musing

Friday after work I went to the liquor store, and three hours later I was toast. Today was even better. I had a productive morning after a fabulous night’s sleep (thanks to rum), took an unruly dog for a walk in the warm sun, and watched Fast Times at Ridgemont High because no one was home to complain about the movie choice. I then got in my car, drove out of the neighborhood with no destination in mind, and called a far-away friend whose birthday I missed yesterday. Turned out she was thirty minutes away visiting her parents, so my aimless drive turned into a fun day at the park and a cheeseburger with my friend. Something I said reminded her of a song by Kiss, which she played for me in the car. I have never been a fan of Kiss and have no intention of making an effort to find value in their music. All I heard when she played the song was a middle-school guitarist in a garage with his friend playing tap-ka-tap on the drums. I felt an immediate need to replace the noise with Neil Peart, which I did, promptly. And the rest of the day was spent talking about random thoughts that all ended with discussions about music. She knows infinitely more than I do about musical artists, and she taught me some interesting tidbits. David Byrne, for instance, had a girlfriend who frequently joked about weirdos being psycho killers, and she was later killed by one. I have to look that factoid up, because I don’t really believe it. She also added Geddy Lee’s self-narrated autobiography to my Spotify playlist to further my knowledge. We listened to Pigs by Pink Floyd, which reminded me of the time I got a record player for mother’s day. A few albums came with the gift: The Dark Side of the Moon from my husband and Joe Cocker from my oldest daughter because I used to sing to her “You Are So Beautiful” when she was a kid. I cried when I saw the album, and then she cried. And no one knew why. My youngest got me Kenny Rogers because she thought that would be funny. I think Kenny Rogers is pretty great, so the joke was on her. I told my friend the story of the mother’s day gift, which led to a short discussion about country music—short because neither of us are avid fans of the genre aside from the bluesy stuff (and Kenny). We agreed that Chris Stapleton’s version of The National Anthem is the greatest of all the versions. We agreed on a lot of things, in fact, which is probably why we have been friends for most of our lives.

I am too tired to continue writing or to end this post with any level of wit, so I’ll let Rush take over the rest.

Night.

The thing I have always wanted to do seems so far from my capability now and even farther from ever becoming a reality. I wrote a thing, a little thing, an introduction to a book that will never be written. I wrote it in five minutes (give or take) for the purpose of having a snippet to display my talent to potential employers—publishers that need people to churn out 20,000 words to sell. The gig seems like a great opportunity. The idea of ghostwriting is pretty cool. But the commitment…

I take pride in my job. Teaching is a calling that brings meaning to my life beyond being a mom and wife. I worked in the corporate world for a while, and the time and energy it stole from me, from my ability to give everything of myself to my family, made me angry. What good was I to this life if nearly all of my waking hours went to writing textbooks that nobody would ever use? What good was I to my kids if they were left to be raised by a daycare? I swore when I moved away from that place that if I had to work then I would make that time stolen from me be for something noble. So when teaching fell into my lap, I gave in to my fate. At least I would be on my children’s schedules, I thought. And I was. And life was mostly okay.

I exist for other people. That’s my calling. My job. My life. But I want to do other things. I want to write. All of that effort I would put in, though, would feel as though I am throwing away precious time. I’d be a ghostwriter of cheap novels. It sounds fun, but the time required…where would I steal it from? What sacrifice would I have to make to do something I want to do? I can answer that, but I don’t want to hear myself say that I’d be robbing my servitude.

I read a few things to my dad tonight that I have written over the years. I warned him they were bad, but I wanted to share them in the hopes that I would in some small way get an encouraging nudge. A sign, even. I now know that I should stick to cheap novels for cash if anything. That is me feeling sorry for myself.

I have bigger fish to fry. I will save my sadness for when I have time to lament any failed attempts at real writing.

Living without the comforts that electricity affords has its benefits. The only good that came of having no air conditioning was that I didn’t have to go outside to experience summer. What I mean is that when I spend all my time in the cool indoors during summer vacation, which lately I have tended to do, I forget that the season I love the most is passing me by. Summer is my favorite season and not because I get a bit of a vacation. I love the heat, the blue sky, the dark greens, and the vivid crepe myrtle blooms. I love walking in sunshine and feeling a thousand miles away from everything in this world. But lately I’ve stayed indoors. Lately, I’ve been watching tv. That’s not a terrible thing in small doses, but I have let the indoors replace my outdoor, summer sanctuary. Last week, though, a hurricane swept through and took away my air conditioning and tv. I stayed indoors still, but I spent my time reading. The heat was unrelenting, and I felt consumed by summer. Hidden by it. I was forced to go without contact with the outside world, and I hadn’t felt so at ease since I don’t remember when.

The air is back on, and now I have important work-related things to do. But I can still go for a walk if I want to. I should. I will.

I am also now knee-deep in Game of Thrones. I will make time for that, too. But I am aching to write.

Oh, how I yearn for last week when I had so few choices.

I could start by telling how little sleep I’ve been getting and how high my anxiety has been, but that would be old news. More interesting is the hurricane that’s about to hit —literally, though the metaphor fits.

Beryl is the perfect name for a hurricane, don’t you think?

Beryl barreled through my neighborhood and took with it my air conditioning and refrigeration.

We will find out in 24 to 48 hours whether that statement is true.

. . .

I’m moving to East Texas. My husband got a new job there…a three-day turn-around from idea to reality. He starts tomorrow and will be all the way over there while I’m all the way over here finishing the new school year and getting the house ready to sell. This all came about shortly after breaking my toe. The change is a good one, though sudden. So sudden, in fact, that I’m kinda freaking out about it. I’ve been at a cabin for the last four days, and every night I have lain awake staring at the ceiling, mind racing, heart pounding.

Among the unknowns, such as where I’m going to live, is what I’m going to do for income once I move. Getting a teaching job is easy enough. Getting one I’d like is not. I consider these last couple of years to be the pinnacle of my career. I am grateful for being able to work where I do, and though I don’t want to give the job up, I hold onto the comfort that I got to do what I never thought I would have the opportunity to. I have learned more at this school about the content and how to teach in general than I have anywhere else. It’s amazing what I can do when nobody tells me what to do and how to do it. My students have been the cream of the crop, and I’ve pushed them to the breaking point, which has required me to do the same to myself. I am 100% a better person after only two years of an 18-year teaching career. I can take that with me anywhere I go, and maybe that will be enough to make me happy in my next job. But I’m thinking I might take a new route. Maybe. After all, I reached the top. Time for a new mountain to climb, I think. Maybe.

…

About a year ago I learned about a company that connects writers and editors to people who need them. The job doesn’t pay much, but I’ve been told that there are many companies out there just like it, and if I use all of them and get my name thrown around then I can make a decent living. I imagine it takes awhile to get noticed, but maybe I have time. If nothing else, being a ghostwriter will give me experience. I’ll learn a few things. Maybe publish something of my own one day. Who knows. The world seems like an empty canvas these days, and I never thought I’d feel that way again. On the one hand, an empty canvas is exciting. On the other, I’m not sleeping.

And my scores come out tomorrow. At the very worst, they will be lower than last year’s. No. The worst would be having lower scores AND being surpassed by another school. I know these scores are not about me. But, well, they are.

On the upside, my broken toe isn’t as broken as it was three weeks ago. And like a freak, I’m excited about the hurricane. I will miss those.

Dog and I watched the sideways rain blast by until it was time to sit in the dark on the cold tile floor of the downstairs half-bath and wait for the roof to fly off. It didn’t.

And the door jam broke my toe, which is now taped to the one next to it.

But tonight, in a moment of inspiration I poured peach schnapps into a glass of strawberry lemonade. Nectar of the gods — that’s what I’m calling it. Its actual name is diabetes.

Summer, week one, composed by Chopin.

<insert melodramatic wrist to forehead>

Prelude in e minor, op. 28, no. 4

Did I do enough? Did I make things worse? Are they ready?

I thought they were, but today they were second guessing themselves. They are exhausted. They have been taking AP tests for two solid weeks, and the very last one, the one this Friday afternoon, is physics. The. Very. Last. One. And today, they didn’t know how to make a graph. They need sleep. I need sleep. God, let them shake this off.

Did you know that last year my students out-scored the entire district? The state? The nation? The effin’ world? They did. And this year, these kids can out-do last year. But today they were so tired that they couldn’t make a graph.

You know that thing I said once, the piece of wisdom that isn’t really wisdom but a harsh reality?

Today’s accomplishments are tomorrow’s expectations.

It is now tomorrow.

One of the things I dislike about my condition (and there are many things to dislike about my condition) is the certainty of judgment cast by those in the know, as innocent of intention they may be. Call it stigma, call it preconceptions or even experience that causes disenchantment. The mystery that could cast a spell is tainted with doubt of senility. But it’s all quite silly. Everyone has some level of genius and madness. For that, no one is free from judgement.

.

The last couple of days have teased my mind with a thought that came together this evening as I lay here staving off anxiety.

.

Many things have come to a head recently with many people in my life. Their situations are beyond my scope of understanding outside of the empathy I feel. Three people have admitted to thoughts of suicide. And I keep just enough distance to be present while guarding myself from spiraling with them. I am standoffish at times because I have to be. Because in the midst of their troubles my own surface, though some faintly. I thought to myself tonight that I have a lot to work on. But then that thing that has been tapping on the door to my mind entered and made itself clear as day. I don’t have to work on anything because I gave it up to God a long time ago. What I mean is that I spoke the words, only I didn’t really do it. I don’t have to work on anything while I keep my eyes on him. I understand that now, and I’m practicing. Sounds like avoidance to me. Sounds like a lot of things I learned while getting that counseling degree I never used. Sounds like a lot of things it isn’t.

Regarding my mental state, I’m in good company. Many people I admire are or were as afflicted as I am. Madness has its benefits.

I cannot in anyway put in a good light the physiological effects that my current situations have caused, however. Anxiety, for one. I’m tense and restless. My heart races. I can pinpoint several catalysts, all of which will pass. I’m grateful they are temporary.

I sure could use a Vicodin, though.

Teachers all over America are running on fumes. Aside from being tired all the time, I’m not clawing my way to the finish as usual. I’m actually quite sad. I can remember one other year I felt this level of sadness. That was the year my most difficult students graduated. They were the ones I had four years straight, the ones that made me get a masters degree to get out of teaching, and for them my tears started flowing in February of that last year. I never did get out of teaching. All the anguish they caused me was met with an unexpected feeling of loss when they left. This year has been by far the easiest of my career. I enjoyed this year more than the rest. I saw brains blossom in the last few weeks in a way I didn’t expect, and I recently witnessed the kids’ realizations that they understand what most people don’t and never will know. Today I watched them engage in random conversations as close friends, and I knew these friendships would last. I knew they made them in AP Physics. And my heart broke. In less than two weeks, they will be gone. One of the things they don’t tell people who are just starting their teaching careers is that at the end of every year you have to let go. You have to send your children off into the world. Over and over. Most years I am a little sad, but I welcome the summer breaks. This year is different. Letting go is extra hard.

Maybe it would’ve been easier if we hadn’t made the music videos. I’m compiling them for us to watch the last day. And I am adding a video of me playing a ukelele (badly) and singing them a song I wrote. It’s a funny video, and they aren’t expecting it. My original hope was to entertain them. My hope now is to hold it together.

So tomorrow I will mingle with them. Laugh. Gather memories to hold onto while I still can. Pretend my heart isn’t breaking.

This evening I got a call from a friend. Her son was admitted to the hospital, and she was waiting for word on his condition. As I waited with her over the phone, our conversation took many turns from serious to light to reminiscent. I have known her since she approached me in the library in college 30 years ago, and she told me something about herself that in all this time I never knew. We found reasons to laugh about it, which is something we both needed, and somehow we ended on whether people roll joints anymore and how all these edibles and Jules have removed one of the best parts of getting high. I don’t miss the high, but I do miss the shared experience. The glow of the lighter through the smoke. The scent. The friends. The calm. The music.

Her son is going to be okay.

Today I had exactly two conversations, and during both of them I learned amazing things about amazing people.

As I watched tv tonight, I thought about all the time I have wasted staring at that box on the wall, but then I remembered the juicy parts of the day and I felt okay.

I read once that offering your time is the greatest honor you can bestow.

Some of the best moments I have shared were spent in silence. Watching rain wash over a lake with someone I never got along with is one of them. Sitting in lawn chairs in a pasture in the middle of the night watching the stars with my brother is another. Listening to Joe Cocker on vinyl while eating habanero salsa and chips at the kitchen table with my father-in-law is a random memory but a cherished one. Likely best of all was lying in the grass holding kite strings with my three-year-old. She and I turned to look at each other while we held our kite as it soared way up high. I could relive that moment of silence for the rest of my life.

There are many others. I collect them.

For a while now, I have felt sad that my adventures are running out of time to find me and that life has fewer surprises ahead. But I have many more bottles to fill with precious, silent moments, and I have a good 40 or 50 years of shelf space left to store them.