Dear Spring,

2012-01-01T14:53:00.000-08:00

What we really fear is falling,
not the fall; we fear the candle burning,
not the flame. It is a troubling honesty
to hear “I want you,” but to know
the Truth remains.

It is not all bad; even the rain
is sometimes our witness. We love
the scar; we kiss her on that scar.
How beautiful to make no sense-

To be as senseless as the heart, as prayer, as God.
Tonight the candle burns quickly,
the blue-orange flame is tall. I tuck the darkness in
and do everything I can
to remain empty.

I ask God, “What promises do you hold
in the night?” God replies,
“Come, see me naked;
my heartbreak is a thousand things.”

The Night is Long (Three Parts)

2011-11-17T09:06:00.000-08:00

Part I

I think of your body
in the night
and hold the open space
beside me.
I yearn to be stitched
into the soft flesh
of a lover, held in arms
like the great expanse
of an open field.

I long for the shared rhythm-
inhale and exhale of your chest,
long golden hair
in my fingers-
dishes and mouth and arched
backs pushing up against the kitchen sink.
I sigh-
all night
long

Part II

I could sleep
in your arms
whereas I was never able before-
Before- always restless,
always waking up in the dark tangled
in sheets, needing to untwine
and extract myself, exasperated-
pleading with the pink morning to slide back
between the crack of curtains

but with you
I could sleep deeply
wrapped in your arms, our bodies solid-
anchored- the center held still
for a moment-
neither living in the past, nor the future.
Fixed in the present- in your arms
all night
long

Part III

I cut off my hair
in grief
for you
to reinvent myself as a bird,
to adorn myself as a bird,
to be free and admired and all the things
I do not want to be-
I cut off my hair
in grief for you

and now I feel it
in the night
and wish I could comb it out-
comb out the long tangled waves
over and over again
with a peacock jeweled comb
in front of grandmother’s mirror
and grow out my hair in the night- long-
long-

The unsuccessful sleep dance method of writing

2011-10-20T17:39:00.000-07:00

I want very much for my writing to be funny. To have a dark humor that edges on satire and prods the world’s ego into being more loving while laughing at itself. I want to write like Anne Lamott but when I try, not only does my writing start to sound incredibly melodramatic and whiny, like I imagine her very own shitty first drafts must sound, but worst of all, inauthentic. It’s just not me. My own voice tends to be much more serious with the occasional a glimmer of hope or simple beauty. In those moments, I have to be careful not to over work and strip the life out of it, or to egg it on too desperately like an over-extended and plagiarized Mary Oliver poem. All in all, it is challenging for me to sound like me and sift though the layers to hear my own voice, a voice which I barely recognize as my own and which I always greet skeptically. It’s like I know my voice is the not so cool girl at the party that hovers like a pelican over the dessert table without anything interesting to say. I don’t want to try to engage her in any kind of laborious small talk because she is clearly a handful. Instead, I try to fraternize with the cool kids and then steal their lines but do not manage to have the same comedic timing to sound uproarious or shocking. Instead, the stolen lines lumber out of my mouth second hand like a white elephant gift passed around the circle too many times.

The truth is, I always do my best writing at night. This is infuriating because I am forced into this dance where I flop around like a dead fish, finally get comfortable, drift into sleep, and then a line or image comes to my mind I have to get up, find a pen and my journal and scribble it down in my most illegible handwriting. But often these are the ideas with traction. For some reason, when I try to sit down and write in the morning, all I produce are lists and the most dull reflections of work or eating too much food, or needing an oil change for which I will never schedule an appointment. On the other hand, my late night mind produces sentences that flow together, carry some weight and interest and so I have to write them down while feeling peevish because I am tired and want to sleep like a normal person, and write like a more normal person during more normal hours. The reality is that all my good ideas come on occasions that are incredibly inconvenient to writing: the middle of the night, while showering, or driving. I have, however, halfway succeeded at writing down a drippy poem from the bathtub, and lesson plans on napkins between stoplights.

The only way I can make sense of this phenomenon is that my subconscious feels free as I drift toward dream world and my adult ego is too tired to fight my creative self back into her box. It is the time when my control freak, list-making, hyper-vigilant self has her guard down and is vulnerable and my writer self launches into surprise attack mode. Just tonight, I was talking with my roommate Adam, telling him about surviving day three of a monster head cold. I took a hot shower, purchased soup, Kleenex, and chocolate, picked up a mountain of DVDs from the library, went to an acupuncture appointment, and got quarters for laundry. This is a significant feat for someone as under the weather as I currently am. I explained my “back to full health in one day plan” while steaming my face with a bowl of hot water and towel over my head, breathing in eucalyptus oils and commenting on their anti-microbial properties. Suddenly, Adam blurted out that I was the most “fucking proactive person he has ever met” and we both broke out into laughter. It is true and kind of crazy. I made sure to mention that this quality has not always charmed my previous lovers.

So this is all I can figure. When I am wildly tired, my mind goes to a place that my proactive adult self will not permit it to go to during the day. This is the reason behind my restless sleep-writing dance that results in getting all twisted up in sheets, dark circles under my eyes, and a pissy attitude the next morning. One unfortunate thing about this process is that I am high maintenance about sleep. I am not one of those people who can get five or six hours of sleep and be fine. I am notably not fine. I become a deeply unpleasant person, sassy and grumpy, prone to emotional breakdown, and binge eating. It is the equivalent of my traveling while sick self, or hangover self, or being around little untrained children for too long self. My nerves wear thin and Jesus begins to look amused, but no longer applauds my behavior.

As you may begin to figure, I do not recommend my system for establishing a writing practice. This sleep-writing dance, as I will here after call it, simply does not work in my best interest, or perhaps more accurately, in the best interest of those around me.

Poems from of old-

2011-09-26T09:57:00.000-07:00

I Sit and Look Out

I sit and look out at a field of blooming faces,
wildflowers of many colors
planted in the soil of creaking desks,
shining under the buzz of fluorescent lights.
I sit and look out at Afros and braids,
buzz cuts and hijabs
and wonder,
What is keeping all the majestic gold
from spilling out?

I sit and look out at morning pencils moving
across the page and feel the energy
between us like the secret sign
language of branches moving in the wind.
I sit and look out at dusty brick walls,
graffiti tags, flat brimmed hats, black eyeliner
and am carried along in the current
of being young and alive.

What I Remember at The Land

I remember rows of sunflowers, explosions of gold,
prickly green stem arching upward like the neck of a giraffe.
I remember looking into the eyes of fresh morning light.
I remember walking barefoot, fertile black humanity squishing
between my toes.
Each morning, a baptism:
pools of crystal gathered on leaves and petals.

I remember air.

Breathing in a new way. Taking it in, exploding inside-
Pure Eden high.
I remember the rusty red Honda rolling on moonlit gravel.
Laying down to watch the fiery orbs above.
Being blanketed in velvet blackness,
held in the cradle of the Universe.

I remember resonating- harmonizing-
with the glowing incantation
and feeling
like I was levitating,
like the taste of my first kiss,
like I belonged.

Inner Child

She yawns like an old dog
by a grandfather clock after a long
summer day. She’s all buzz and glistening dew
of a mermaid on shore;
Flushed and rosy as a dolphin docked.

She chews on pocketed Cheese-Its
and slurps cran-apple elixir poured
to the split perfect sipping spot.
She is dirty nails and compost worm bin,
creaping and crawling through the ruffled leaves
of backyard woodpiles and flag post pansies.

On dark nights she’s screeching eagle strong
and bare bosomed Greek goddess
clamping victory to her chest
against night terrors and sweat binding tremors.

She’s brave-
like eating miracle whip
off a bloated summer slug.

2011-02-14T13:38:00.000-08:00

December 2, 2010

On Being an Average Woman, Alone

I sip spiced cider

with a friend

Thanksgiving day

and tell her how cold

the winter is, how hard

it is to feed myself, how I feel

the loss now

that I cut

off all my hair.

Her face is a quiet lake as I speak.

She cups everything in her hands

and whispers strange

wisdom- the kind

that makes no sense

and must be true.

She said her grandfather

often told his eldest daughter

“I want you to learn to conform

so that when you have to

it is your choice

not your curse.”

I imagine this parable is spoken

for me. Birthed into existence in this exact

moment so that the translation can echo

in my ears.

It’s okay to let the fields lay fallow.

To be dormant for a season.

To let the compost pile rest,

and enfold upon itself.

To come home from work,

eat dinner, do dishes, go to bed early.

Get up and do it

over again.

I don’t have to fear

being average

American

twenty-three

alone

with myself.

My soul will not get sucked

into the TV and

it does not have to be done

right

or now.

I can practice the great mystery

of the season:

relax

breathe

lay down

the restless striving

and know

When it is time

to grow-

I’ll grow.

The bulbs far underground

always know

the time

to get up.

Dear Fall, I miss you.

2010-11-25T22:40:00.000-08:00

Where have you gone? Just a few weeks ago I was running through Interlaken park absorbed in a rhythmic swirl of gold, umber, and wine red leaves. My whole body could feel the changing and turning and knew that there was beauty hidden in the core of the leaf-less tree. I could feel my own branches extending upward, barren into the crisp blue sky. If I paused and breathed deeply, my insides could tell that this stripping away was essential for whatever is to come next.

But now all I can feel is my nakedness.
It's winter. The snow blankets the streets, and ice has hardened on the sidewalks like thick shields over the earth. I want to brush it all away, to smell and feel some dirt under my fingernails. I want to break through the winter crust of snow and dig up evidence of something growing underground- but it is not time for such things.
It is a time for laying fallow. For things to be dormant. To wait patiently.

Oh, advent. The waiting might kill me this year.

2010-09-18T18:08:00.000-07:00

"I am no longer afraid of becoming lost, because the journey back always reveals something new that is ultimately good for the soul."
-billy joel

I don't feel this way at all-
but I want to.

Transition Time

2010-09-18T17:54:00.000-07:00

How I hate transitions.

I know in my head
things have to change.
Work. Home. Relationships.
Everything evolves, cracks open,
grows in different directions.
Everything keeps cycling, circling, spiraling.
If it stopped---

I'm not sure we could call it life.

But let's be real-
This part of life

Sucks.

Thanks, bell hooks, for inspiring me to quilt

2010-08-30T21:25:00.000-07:00

This is my first quilt!
I just finished sewing it today.

All of the colorful fabric was brought back from Uganda by a dear friend who studied there a few years ago.
The beautiful fabric were scraps from traditional dress making.
I stitched together my quilt top, batting (a flannel sheet), and backing in a style called free motion.
A pretty fun process, all in all.

The Color Purple

2010-08-01T22:07:00.001-07:00

" I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it."
-Alice Walker

Taylor Mali

2010-06-05T14:25:00.000-07:00

Look up Taylor Mali on Youtube for amazing spoken word poetry: what teachers make, the the impotence of proofreading, like lily like wilson etc.
very good stuff.

Lynda Hogan

2010-04-05T21:29:00.001-07:00

Workday

I go to work
though there are those who were missing today
from their homes.
I ride the bus
and I do not think of children without food
or how my sisters are chained to prison beds.

I go to the university
and out for lunch
and listen to the higher-ups
tell me all they have read
about Indians
and how to analyze this poem.
They know us
better than we know ourselves.

I ride the bus home
and sit behind the driver.
We talk about the weather
and not enough exercise.
I don’t mention Victor Jara’s mutilated hands
or men next door
in exile
or my own family’s grief over the lost child.

When I get off the bus
I look back at the light in the windows
and the heads bent
and how the women are all alone
in each seat
framed in the windows
and the men are coming home,
then I see them walking on the Avenue,
the beautiful feet,
the perfect legs
even with their spider veins,
the broken knees
with pins in them,
the thighs with their cravings,
the pelvis
and small back
with its soft down,
the shoulders which bend forward
and forward and forwardto protect the heart from pain.

Dylan Thomas

2010-04-05T21:17:00.000-07:00

Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

FERN HILL

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.
All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace.

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

Adam Zagajewski

2010-04-05T21:02:00.000-07:00

Try to Praise the Mutilated World

Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the grey feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.

Translated by Renata Gorczynski

Mary Oliver

2010-03-07T20:52:00.000-08:00

Bone

1. Understand, I am always trying to figure out
what the soul is,
and where hidden,
and what shape –

and so, last week,
when I found on the beach
the ear bone
of a pilot whale that may have died

hundreds of years ago, I thought
maybe I was close
to discovering something –
for the ear bone

2. is the portion that lasts longest
in any of us, man or whale; shaped
like a squat spoon
with a pink scoop where

once, in the lively swimmer’s head,
it joined its two sisters
in the house of hearing,
it was only

two inches long –
and thought: the soul
might be like this –
so hard, so necessary –

3. yet almost nothing.
Beside me
the gray sea
was opening and shutting its wave-doors,

unfolding over and over
its time-ridiculing roar;
I looked but I couldn’t see anything
through its dark-knit glare;

yet don’t we all know, the golden sand
is there at the bottom,
though our eyes have never seen it,
nor can our hands ever catch it

4. lest we would sift it down
into fractions, and facts –
certainties –
and what the soul is, also

I believe I will never quite know.
Though I play at the edges of knowing,
truly I know
our part is not knowing,

but looking, and touching, and loving,
which is the way I walked on,
softly,
through the pale-pink morning light.

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Yellow

There is the heaven we enter
through institutional grace
and there are the yellow finches bathing and singing
in the lowly puddle.

Robert Bly

2010-03-07T20:49:00.000-08:00

Things to Think

Think in ways you've never thought before.
If the phone rings, think of it as carrying a message
Larger than anything you've ever heard,
Vaster than a hundred lines of Yeats.

Think that someone may bring a bear to your door,
Maybe wounded and deranged; or think that a moose
Has risen out of the lake, and he's carrying on his antlers
A child of your own whom you've never seen.

When someone knocks on the door,
Think that he's about
To give you something large: tell you you're forgiven,
Or that it's not necessary to work all the time,
Or that it's been decided that if you lie down no one will die.

W.S. Merwin

2010-03-07T20:42:00.000-08:00

Separation

Your absence has gone through me

Like thread through a needle.

Everything I do is stitched with its color

Thanks

Listen

with the night falling we are saying thank you

we are stopping on the bridges to bow for the railings

we are running out of the glass rooms

with our mouths full of food to look at the sky

and say thank you

we are standing by the water looking out

in different directions.

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging

after funerals we are saying thank you

after the news of the dead

whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

looking up from tables we are saying thank you

in a culture up to its chin in shame

living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you

in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators

remembering wars and the police at the back door

and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you

in the banks that use us we are saying thank you

with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable

unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us

our lost feelings we are saying thank you

with the forests falling faster than the minutes

of our lives we are saying thank you

with the words going out like cells of a brain

with the cities growing over us like the earth

we are saying thank you faster and faster

with nobody listening we are saying thank you

we are saying thank you and waving

dark though it is

Poetry Anthology

2010-03-07T20:40:00.001-08:00

I am planning on using my blog as a way to keep track of all the poems that I love and go to frequently. I always end up spending hours paging through numerous journals where i have poems scrawled out, missing punctuation, and interrupted line breaks.
Now: it's all here.
Enjoy reading these gems as I continue to post!

How She Loves

2010-01-30T09:43:00.000-08:00

My roommate Lauren and I were talking the other night about how we both theoretically know that God is greater than any gender confinement but how it still sounds strange to refer to God as "she." Through the course of our conversation we decided we would try to refer to God as she for a week and see what it sounded and felt like and if our understanding of God's character expanded through that process.

So, the other night Lauren introduced me to a great song called "How He Loves" by John Mark McMillian. We sang it together replacing "he" with "she" and I was surprised by how I was able to engage with the idea of God in a new and refreshing way.

I especially love the imagery in the first two verses below (edited from the original for the sake of our experiment.) Enjoy.

She is jealous for me,
Loves like a hurricane, I am a tree,
Bending beneath the weight of her wind and mercy.
When all of a sudden,
I am unaware of these afflictions eclipsed by glory,
And I realise just how beautiful You are,
And how great Your affections are for me.

She loves us,
O how She loves us,
O how She loves us,
O how She loves.

We are Her portion and She is our prize,
Drawn to redemption by the grace in Her eyes,
If grace is an ocean, we’re all sinking.
So Heaven meets earth like a sloppy wet kiss,
And my heart turns violently inside of my chest,
I don’t have time to maintain these regrets,
When I think about, the way…

She loves us,
O how She loves us,
O how She loves us,
O how She loves.

New, New, New

2009-09-24T22:06:00.000-07:00

Everything is new.
My neighborhood, house, routine, and especially my job. I am currently working as an AmeriCorps Service Member at the Orion Center as a GED lead tutor. The Orion Center serves homeless and street involved youth and provides a wide variety of services, among which include their education, job training, and employment services.
The transition from student teaching to tutoring in a drop-in style GED center has been challenging for me for a number of reasons which I don't have the energy to get into now.
I am learning that reframing my role and expectations are going to be necessary for my work this year. I am also learning that it is not that easy to do.

Love for my Students

2009-04-22T17:52:00.000-07:00

I want to scream in your face
and slap you silly.
Tape your eyelids open and yell
LOOK!

The world is alive
and broken
and at your fingertips
crying within your very heart and asking
to be held.

I want to smash your nose against
the glossy pages of our textbook
and tell you to smell-
Take a good whiff of your own battered humanity.
Taste the blood inside your mouth,
feel the iron shackles around your ankles.

You're bound to the grave already
if you refuse
to Look
and Listen
and Wake Up-

To be serious
about something.

Love for my students...
It looks like pulling my hair out
sleepless nights
endless lesson plans
ineffective conversations
about respect

something to do with Shakespeare
and Langston Hughes
exploding
off the timid white page,
still hot from the copier.

2009-03-22T11:30:00.000-07:00

I have been trying to tell people for years,
that there is something pregnant in the darkness.

A prehistoric bird perched in the rafters
of your condominium, townhome, high rise, track house.
Regal and terrifying-
And ready to take flight.

If you could see it plainly you would realize
it has your grandfather’s wrinkled brow
And holds the image of your own aged face
in its deep set eye sockets and sagging gullet.

But you’ve been told not to believe in mystical
phenomenon like Old Nessy or crop circles
And that’s fine- forget that.
I’m talking about something else-
a bird

Like Emily Dickenson’s feathered hope trapped under
Poe’s floorboards, beating its wings with primal frenzy.
Or maybe Maya Angelou’s caged bird singing
for freedom in the most beautiful blue tune.

I suppose it could be one of Darwin’s mockingbirds
With a strange mutated beak
denounced for eating seeds with unnatural expertise;
Heaven knows they’ve unleashed enough riot.

But the point is this: it’s there
In the dark-
Potential energy coiled
in its terrible wingspan;

The entire arc of human history
Enfringed by golden feathers.

How I Un-Quit Student Teaching

2009-03-21T13:50:00.000-07:00

one saturday on the verge of mental breakdown i was sitting next to a friend in church explaining how soul-sucking student teaching has been. my friend patiently asked me if anyone had given me permission to quit student teaching, noting that sometimes it is easier to make the move toward a healthy life choice when you are gently pushed by a sane person.
no one had- so she gave me permission; "quit."
i spoke to my university supervisor the next night, blubbering about how unhappy i was and she likewise encouraged me to stop torturing myself if i don't want to teach in the future and if i don't get any joy out of the work. "stop and reclaim your life," she said.
so the following monday i went to school in low spirits, thinking that i was most likely going to quit the whole shenanigan when the quarter was out, but didn't manage to make it through the day. i entered my classroom in tears; the degeneration happened so quickly that by 3rd period i told my mentor teacher that i quit, cried in her lap, and left right then and there.
i was expecting release and freedom...
instead i went home and mourned the loss of student teaching- i was grieving- like it was a horrific breakup that i didn't believe i could recover from.
but i still had to go back to school and finish the quarter out so i forced myself to get up and go anyway, put on a happy face until my time was up but then a bizarre thing happened...
i had two amazing days in a row. "well, shit!" i thought to myself, "what am i supposed to make of that?"
i tried to remind myself that two good days did not make up for 3 months of anxiety attacks, tears, and debilitating stress. i tried to urge myself not to go back for more torture and abuse just because i was scared of what my future would hold without a credential. don't do the battered woman thing- stay strong, walk away.
but i couldn't- things kept happening to draw me back.
the first realization i had was that i actually liked my students. once i was able to take the stress level down a few notches and stop believing that if i made one fatal move everything would crumble, i could finally relate to my students as individuals with dynamic and amusing personalities.
then something else happened at church: i realized that i was putting too much stock in a teaching credential. i believed that this piece of paper would bring me safety and security and was desperately afraid to give it up. but i did- mostly. told god that he could hold onto my future like a big blank check and give me a ring if there was anything important i should know.
i also visited another student teacher's classroom. it was complete chaos. students were literally throwing fruit across the classroom, no one was listening, and it was an honors section of language arts. i felt much better after my visit and began to think that maybe i am not actually the world's biggest looser of a teacher. maybe i am not a total failure. maybe i am in good company with people who are trying to figure this thing out and blundering along like all first time teachers.
and i suppose the million-dollar event is the most obvious one: i quit. that is a big deal for someone who has never quit anything. ever.
to quit was to surrender my desire for control and power, for security and survival, for the approval and esteem of other people. quitting meant looking bad and having to stand up to my parents and claim my right to not be amazing and perfect all the time- to be normal and have limitations and need to back out of responsibility instead of saving the world one more time.
it's truly ironic how all of these moments and realizations have led me back to the classroom. i am not sure that i actually want to teach in a mainstream public school setting in the future, but am committed to finishing this experience out. learning and growing in it and remaining humble.
i read that "grace is commitment to- or at least acceptance of- being ineffective and foolish." i don't necessarily agree this is the best definition of god's grace for us, but i do think it speaks to something about how we are supposed to show grace to ourselves. these words encourage me to let go, make mistakes, and get over it. go out on the dance floor- make a fool of yourself; it will be healing in the most unglamorous way.

so that's the story. i met with my university supervisor last thursday at taco bell and officially un-quit from student teaching while her dog ate nachos under our table. i still have a lot to work on internally and externally as i seek to make the rest of this experience livable, but i am on my way now.
lord help me.

finding things...

2009-03-01T12:27:00.000-08:00

i made this picture for a christian scriptures class a long time ago...
the assignment was to visually represent the entire biblical story.
for me the unifiying symbol is the tree- roots, branches; the past and present entangled and always growing.

Her Morning Elegance

2009-03-01T12:06:00.000-08:00

Take a look at this link for my favorite music video at the moment. The song is entitled "Her Morning Elegance" by Oren Lavie
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_HXUhShhmY

Things they don't tell you #2...

2009-02-28T09:07:00.001-08:00

2. Letting students sit around for the last 15 minutes of class results in chaos!

Yesterday I was rushing through my lesson, nervously looking at the clock thinking I only had 5 minutes to wrap up everything. Ironically, we were discussing the theme the "failure of reason."
I zoomed through the reading and last minute announcements, satisfied that I had once again crammed in as much info into one 50 minute period as possible.
Students were packing their belongings up and I told them just to chill out for the remaining 60 seconds until the bell rang.
But the bell didn't ring...
I glanced back at the clock and was horrified- I had accidentally read the time wrong earlier and we still had 15 more minutes left of class!
Chaos burst down the flood gates. I tried desperately to reign students back in; read quietly, look at your grades in the back...but there was no chance coaxing these 9th grade savages back into sitting in their desks and reading demurely.
I simply had to put out fires for the remainder of class time.
Students opened the windows and were yelling outside, girls were flirtatiously hugging and snuggling up against my gangsta boys, people were milling around, laughing and arguing. It sounds painfully typical for high schoolers, which it is, but monitoring these hormone-bursting teenagers is enough to make me feel schizophrenic.
Moral of the story- fill up your class time.

Things they don't tell you in Teacher Education courses...

2009-02-25T18:08:00.000-08:00

1. students don't keep or look at the copies you make them (so don't waste paper on high schoolers!)
instead they use all your precious white paper to do the following:
a) make origami
b) write notes to friends
c) rip it up
d) step on it and leave it strewn about the classroom
e) fold up into odd shapes to stick in their back pocket or backpack
(Bare with me and try to imagine a gangsta wanna be high school boy with a week's worth of homework assignments folded up into quatrains and stuffed in his pants- nice organization; or the girl who has crumpled up all of her assignments and shoved them into her backpack so that it looks like she is carrying around a satchel of trash- awesome!)

I'm back...barely

2009-02-17T14:59:00.000-08:00

Ok- I am back to blogging.
This will be my cartharsis for student teaching, which more or less has been shattering my sense of self-worth.
What fantastic fun.

But I am ready to stop beating myself up, receive some grace, gain some perspective, and humility. These are my strategies for climbing out of a student teaching sink hole:
1. exercise daily- or at least go outside each day.
2. plan a week in advance on Thursday nights.
3. seek out support from older and wiser people.
4. write down things that I do well.
5. ask for more student feedback.

and work on remembering:
1. the job of savior is already taken (and I suck at it anyway...)
2. i am not responsible for student performance; students are responsible for their own choices and learning.
3. i am not in control
4. i cannot prove my self-worth by what i do or do not do.
5. for every winter there is a spring

falling

2008-10-30T15:42:00.000-07:00

Hope is almost beyond my grasp these days. The death of a beloved mentor has hit me unexpectedly hard. Grief seems to find me in every crack and crevice. Just today more news: my pastor's father died moments before she could make it to his bedside.

There are rivers of tears falling down on us all.

Yet, when I was reading the book of Common Prayer the other day, it said that the liturgy for the dead is an Easter liturgy.
This thought has kept me thinking all week. The liturgy for the dead is a celebration! How can we be expected to celebrate in moments of our deepest grief?

I am not sure how- but I believe that it everything to do with resurrection. The liturgy for the dead is characterized by joy in the certainty that because Jesus was raised from the dead, we, too, shall be raised.
New life comes from death-
always.

hope

2008-10-21T16:45:00.000-07:00

Exodus 14:14

2008-10-20T10:30:00.000-07:00

The Lord will fight for you while you keep still.

the glory of god

2008-09-05T14:25:00.000-07:00

"the glory of god is man fully alive"
~St Irenaeus

thought for the day: what does it mean to be fully alive?

Poem for last week

2008-08-22T13:12:00.000-07:00

I can taste anise thick
in the summer air. Hot licorice hangs like a wool curtain
on the back of my throat and coats my pink insides
brunneous like warm molasses traveling down, down-
deeper into dark pools of being.

perhaps there is lightning waiting
around the corner, around the block-
sleeping in the car with the windows rolled up.

Home Sweet Home

2008-08-15T10:31:00.000-07:00

Home sweet home. Finally. This is where I will be living with 6 other girls begining September 1. The house hunt has been a long one- especially because not many people want to rent out a place to 7 college students. But this place opened up miraculously. There are pros & cons about the property, but all in all I believe that it will be a good space to live. Of course, it is summer time now and the grass is no longer green, and the tree on the right has since been cut down. I'm trying not to over-romanticize the responsibility of having a large house to upkeep and clean, but at the moment am basking in thankfulness and excitement about a roof over my head and a community of friends to live with.

Friday head-bob and cookies

2008-07-25T08:09:00.000-07:00

Today I got the head-bob from an incredibly fit blond bicyclist in spandex. We were both changing in the women's restroom out of our bike clothes into office-wear. I smiled back at her sheepishly in disbelief; it was like I was in middle school again and had just been invited to the cool kid's table. Me? Really? I am part of the biking club now?
See, the last few days I have more or less felt like a hippo on a rock, trying to roll myself to work.
I am not in shape and what makes it worse is that I am not consistent either. As you might have guessed from my earlier blogging, a lot of my time has been consumed with taking care of my car these days. It is my new tempermental teenager, so to speak, so I have been driving it to work so that I can dart off directly when the 4:30 bell rings to drive to some government office in King County (pick one, any one) and do more paperwork. Seriously, I think it was easier to apply for college, than register my vehicle in the state of Washington.
Anyway, I basically had to force myself back on the bike today. I am one of those people who probably look like they are dying as they are riding; face clenched, sweat beading around my hairline, and breathing hard like I am practicing my lamaze. It's beautiful I am sure.
(If you are interested in some real beautiful bikes- check out my brother's website. He is a bike builder in Portland, OR and does fantastic work: http://www.mapbicycles.com )
Regardless, I am at work now. I made it and am currently (and painfully!) aware that I will have nothing to do for aproximately 7 more hours and that the oatmeal chocolate chip cookies I made last night for a co-worker's birthday are sitting in the kitchen like little loosers at lunch break. The birthday boy is out of the lab today- it is his birthday right? Silly me. So I made a card to sit next to my toasty little lumps of buttery love that says "Eat me! Happy Friday!" It will be an experiment...let's see what happens.

oh the ordeal o' the automobile

2008-07-22T16:44:00.000-07:00

-drive 3 days (17ish hours) from Monterey, CA to Seattle, WA
-go to the office of drivers licensing
-be turned away after 2 hours of waiting & informed that i am committing voter fraud and must change my voter registration address.

-change my voter registration mailing address...and wait some more.

-go back to office of driver's licensing. process paper work. give them money. go away happy and with a temporary WA license.
-receive my real WA license in the mail- be acutely aware that the pea-green turtleneck I am wearing in the photo will haunt me for many years to come.
-give away more money to have an emission's test done
-collect every important document on the face of the planet- passport, driver's license, proof of registration, title, emissions test report, bill of sale, registration paperwork...is that all?
-take off work (because office is only open M-F 8:30-4:30 pm) give them more money & register vehicle in the blessed state of Washington.
FINALLY.
ps...my driver side window broke...was informed that it will cost me aprox $400-
so i will wait and then give them a lot more money-a whole paycheck in fact...ouch.

Lab Mice...

2008-07-22T10:25:00.000-07:00

So this is what we do at my job for the GI Cancer Research Lab...
1. Scientists take tiny little creatures and give them tumors
2. Then take their blood
3. Then bleed them to death when they are done with them
4. I enter PSA data into spreadsheets
5. I feel a little bit icky about it, blog, and then go home at 5pm.

Reminiscing...

2008-07-18T12:57:00.001-07:00

These pictures were taken by a girl I traveled with on my study abroad trip. Above: taken on the train on our way to Bath.

A great shot of Dingle...dark and brooding and lovely.

Baking Bread

2008-07-18T10:02:00.000-07:00

I have debated whether or not to keep this blog of mine going. Life is busy and chances are that I will not do a good job posting regularly. The probability is high that I will forget my username and password for the hundredth time because I have the mind of a goldfish.
But today I am bored at work so I will write anyway.

Dear Summer,
The Spring has come and passed...Dublin, Oxford, London all feels so far away, like distant memories already. It is July now and I am living in Seattle, working two jobs. The weather for the past few weeks has been Eden like...so warm and lovely. I have enjoyed biking to and from work and sitting on the deck of my shared apartment, eating dinner as the blue sky is painted with streaks of pink and pale purple.
Today is overcast and cold. I woke up this morning disoriented because it was dark outside. I am crossing my fingers in hopes that it doesn't rain today because: 1) I have to ride my bike home from work 2) My car window is broken and although mostly up all the way, I don't want a little pool of water on my front seat. 3) It is Friday.
But I do have other things on my mind besides the weather- like baking bread for instance.
Last Saturday when I was at church an announcement was made asking for volunteers to help prepare the communion bread and sanctuary before service. My heart leapt within me! I almost shot my arm up like I was in 4th grade again- overeager and excited to participate.
For the past month I have been thinking about ways to get more involved in the church community I am apart of. There have been the normal requests for help with the Powerpoint, help with music etc...but I just couldn't get excited about any of it. But when the invitation came to bake bread, I knew this is how I wanted to participate.
For me, communion is central to my proclamation of faith. "Christ's body broken for you. take. eat." This is powerful for me because it is so tangible. The sensory experience is important for me. I need to be looked in the eye and called by name, to open my palms and recieve the dense, dark, sweet bread and taste it; to drink from the chalis of strong red wine and feel it travel down my throat in a thick warm current.
None of the broken saltine crackers and dixy cups of grape juice for me- I want the real deal.
This is true about my longing for God in general. I am so tired of the commodified Christ; of the club we misscall the church. I want the real thing- a real faith that is lived out and a real relationship with God that is honest about the beauty and brokeness that surrounds us -not just a device to comfort ourselves or make us feel self-righteous.
So, baking bread. I am very excited eventhough it means going to church 5 hours early to bake and set up the altar and sanctuary. I will report after my induction tomorrow.
In the mean time, here is something I have been thinking about in connection to baking bread.

"For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, so shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself. He threshes you to make you naked. He sifts you to free you from your husks. He grinds you to whiteness. He kneads you until you are pliant; and then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast."
It comes from a book called The Prophet by Kalhil Gibran, and I think it is lovely.

Oxford

2008-05-27T07:43:00.000-07:00

It is finals week for us here in Oxford. Just one more paper/presentation and then a long flight home. The last few weeks have been dragging on. It is clear that the majority of the pack (including myself) are tired of traveling. We are living in a youth hostel overrun with french and german 13 year olds. I have played almost every imaginable card game created and have read through a few books unrelated to classes. I think I'm ready to be back soon.
Sorry for the lack of pictures at this point...more to come soon.

As promised...

Here is a picture from Cambridge last week ...

Dr. Chaney, Bis & I are chatting under the spring boughs of the orchard- a famous location beloved by poets and Grassmere locals alike.

2008-05-16T03:31:00.000-07:00

Shakespeare's birth place in Stratford on Avon (meaning "street that fords the river").
Countryside in Stratford below...lovely.

so, that's all the photos i have for now. i am actually in Cambridge right now and will be here for about a week more. i am looking forward to settling into my surroundings here. it is a beautiful city- full of bicycles and college students, coffee shops, and trees.

My own work!

2008-05-16T03:27:00.001-07:00

I also had the chance to make my own stencil and spray paint my design in the Banksy tunnel exhibition...so I got to leave my own mark in London...

It's the green tree (not the really cool black and white man unfortunately)

Banksy

2008-05-16T03:18:00.000-07:00

For those of you who don't know, Banksy is a popular London graffiti artist. While in London I had the opportunity to see a special three day exhibition of his work (we stood in the queue for almost 2 hours to get in!) and it was fantastic! He is known for very startling and provocative images which often pry at politically and socially charged topics.

Here are a few photos of his work...

Hello!

2008-05-02T07:42:00.000-07:00

It is hard to believe that my time in London is almost drawing to a close; soon we will be heading to Bath by train. Exploring this great city has been wonderful- it is exploding with things to do, museums to see, and lots and lots of different people. I have attempted to be selective in the activities I have chosen to do in London because you can easily exhaust youself by trying to do too much each day. The city is bustling from morning to night- and it is huge! I am just now feeling like I have a relatively coherent understanding of the city layout. Fortunately, transportation is wonderful here. With a map and a tube pass I can get just about everywhere. "Topping up"(adding a few more pounds to my oyster card) has allowed me to get out of the major tourist areas where more of the locals live and work, including places such as Wimbledon (which was exciting for a tennis fan like me!).

The Globe

2008-05-02T07:37:00.000-07:00

this is a reconstruction of the original globe theatre. it is made out of a limestone plaster and aprox 1,000 oak trees and held together w. wood pegs (no nails!). also note the thatched roof (outlawed in London now because of fires). we saw king lear performed here and Henry IV part 2 at the Roundhouse theatre. a midsummer nights dream & the tempest are still to come when we are in stratford.

London

2008-05-02T07:36:00.000-07:00

on the tube...the underground is amazing

Dingle pictures

2008-05-02T07:29:00.000-07:00

Left to right...

Gallarous Oratory-built between 6th & 9th century-place of early Christian worship.

Friends down at the waterfront: Kait, Katie, Me, Jill, Bis, & Kristi

Beautiful landscape- photo taken during a bus tour of the peninsula

PICTURES!

2008-05-02T07:23:00.001-07:00

Backtracking a bit...here I am in the Lake District. This is Coleridge and Wordsworth's territory. Their poetry resounds with the goodness of nature. Below is a dock there I read As You Like It with a group of friends.

Dingle

2008-04-14T06:51:00.000-07:00

I am in Dingle now, a small town on the west coast of Ireland, and I am in love with this place. It is my favorite location so far on our trip because it has a beautiful landscape, a quaint homey feeling, and although it is very small, it has a thriving music scene. I have gone out the past two nights to listen to traditional Irish music which has been great fun. The first night here I hit up a pub called "The Small Bridge" with some friends and listened to a lively twosome who played fast, upbeat tunes on the penny whistle, guitar & fiddle. Last night I went to a different location and heard a more mello set of sentimental, romantic love songs. (Dad- I am continually surprised by how much of the music is familiar to me. I think the entire population has you "Celtic Tides" CD memorized...) In contrast with the bar scene in America, the pubs here really are the center for social life in Ireland. Music, town gossip, dancing, and storytelling are all snuggly crammed into the local tavern, or rather one of the many pubs on the same street. Pubs are like coffee shops in Seattle: they are everywhere. Dingle has a population of about 1500 and has 52 pubs. And going to out to your favorite pub can be a multi-generational experience as well; old men, women, and even children file in an out of your local pub to hear music and chat over a pint of Guinness.

Yesterday we went on a bus tour around the peninnsula and explored a museum about the Blasket Islands, which focused mostly on the writers and literary history that came out of remote island villages. Peig Sayers, for example, a well known storyteller, represents part of the Blasket tradition.
The coastline was beautiful. The hills were bare, save innumerable colonies of sheep and baby lambs, and dropped off to the sea in a very dramatic way which reminded me of the rocky and windbeaten cliffs of Big Sur. We walked along the cliffs, considered to be the western most point of Europe, and climbed out on the rocks to gaze at the Atlantic. It was enlivening to feel the wind against my skin and to sit in the crevices of the rock, listening to the thunder of the waves smash against the coastline.
Today I am sticking closer to home (we are staying in a hostel) to bunker down with my books and tea (I do have to do homework you know!) but am planning on hiking around the next two days we are here because the wildness of this place keeps calling me outdoors. All for now.

Dublin- part 2

2008-04-11T06:58:00.000-07:00

Today I have been out with my friend Jill simply walking the streets, enjoying St. Stephen's Green (a large park by the famous Grafton St), drinking good coffee (very hard to come by- everyone is into instant coffee over here. This has been a serious trial for me), reading, post-office running and so forth.
It is nice to have a lazy day to trip around the city and feel like a normal resident taking care of life.
While walking through St. Stephen's Green we came across a large bronze bust in memorial to Thomas Kettle. I had never heard of the man before. Apparently he is a poet/ essayist/ patiot who was killed in 1916. The inscription on the memorial struck me; it read:
"Died not for flag, nor King, nor Emperor. But for a dream born in a heardsman's shed. And For the secret Scripture of the poor."
I wonder what his story is...it's clear that there is a lot to learn...

Dublin

2008-04-09T05:12:00.000-07:00

I have finally arrived in Ireland folks and I am happy...
First of all, we are in apartment style living which means that I am sharing a two bedroom apartment w/ a kitchen and full bathroom with Bis and Jill, two people that I genuinely enjoy- instead of one large hostel room with 18 other girls.
This is a wonderful sigh of relief if you couldn't tell...
So Dublin- what do I have to say? Unfortunately I will have to write instead of show the surroundings for the time being because I have been having computer problems in the internet cafes I have tried to use- meaning I haven't had the opportunity to successfully upload any pictures so as soon as I get the capability you will get to see the Lake District and Dublin all in one fell swoop.
Yesterday we had a small tour of the city w a postgrad student from Trinity College who is working on her PhD in history. She gave a wonderful tour and by the end Ireland's complicated history finally made some sense! It was wonderful to see the puzzle pieces come together as we walked the streets, looked at buildings, and stood in a few central locations- so much better than a textbook!
Did you know that Trinity opened its doors to Catholic students in the late 1970's?
I also had the chance to see the Book of Kells at Trinity which was amazing! The portrait of St John & the text of Luke 17:27-18:2 was on display the day we went and it was incredible to see the actual pages that survived considering they are over a 1000 yrs.
Today we have class so I will be reading and writing and exploring some more.
Time is going by soo fast- it is hard to keep up.
Thanks to all who have sent me little notes along the way- it is nice to feel connected to you back at home- I already have many stories to share.
love love love to all-

Liverpool

2008-04-06T05:27:00.000-07:00

We left Keswick this morning and took a 3 hr busride to Liverpool where we will be staying for one night and then fly off to Dublin. I haven't had enough time to truly process everything but will post some thoughts and pictures soon. Sending my love in the mean time...

Keswick

2008-03-31T08:35:00.000-07:00

We have arrived in Keswick via a terrible bus ride from Edinburgh but the Lake District is beautiful...rolling hillsides, sheep, and cobble stone pathways, so my spirit is holding onto hope.
Unfortunately, both Bis and I are sick and it has gone from bad to worse (a nasty sinus infection that has evolved into an ear infection....) Today we made the treck into town from our hostel in attempt to find a doctor. It was quite a pitiful sight to see us tromping through the mud in search of drugs but we finally made our way to town, found the "surgery" and spoke to a nurse. Fortunately beacuse my mommy has taught me to remember the medicines my body loves we were able to skip a very expensive consulatation with a doctor and basically tell her what we wanted. I'm off now to see the chemist, to finish Romeo & Juliet and then to bed. Oh sweet sleep!Hoping the morrow will bring healing. Farewell and love to you all.

Tea Time

2008-03-28T07:17:00.001-07:00

Bis and I are enjoying a cup of tea
at a local shop off the Royal Mile.

2008-03-28T07:04:00.000-07:00

Here is a huge monument in honor of Sir Walter Scot. Besides being a helpful point of navigational reference, this monument indicates how much the Scottish people revere their writers. They consider literature to have a significant voice and role in shaping their national and cultural identity. I wonder why we don't honor our American authors in the same way?

I have arrived!

2008-03-27T10:47:00.000-07:00

Travel Day: We flew direct from Seattle to London and then from London to Edinburgh and finally took a bus ride into the city and our hotel. That night I got a bite to eat, walked around the sleepy city, already locked up for the night, and then attempted to retire for the evening as well. All to no avail. Two days of travel and zero hours of sleep. Hope tonight will be better...

Day 2: Today we went on a walking tour of the city in the morning. Our guide led us past Victoria's garden, art museums, many monuments, and finally to a huge stone castle. It is situated high up on a mount of volcanic rock and is paved with cobble stones that were laid by French POWs. There is so much history in this place- you can literally see the layers of it in the architecture and city construction. After our group time ended my friend Bis and I traveled through the streets on our own. We ate lunch at a little cafe, spoke with a friendly little man at the Writer's Museum (featuring Robert Burns & RL Stevenson of course), visited a massive gothic cathedral, got a local paper, and scoped out little events including a storytelling gathering we are planning on attending tomorrow. The people are interesting. At first they seem to be cold and very reserved; locals walk around with stony faces and make no effort to acknowledge your existence. Yet, after making an inital effort to talk to people I have discovered that they are very warm, eager to tell stories and display their rich history. Their stony exteriors melt away to reveal an endearing sense of hospitality. It feels something like being taken in from the cold and seated by the fire to warm your hands and sip a cup of tea.

British Isles Itinerary

2008-03-24T22:19:00.000-07:00

Edinburgh 26 March – 30 March
England’s Lake District 31 March – 5 April
Liverpool 6 April
Dublin 7 -11 April
Dingle 12 -16 April
London 17 April – 5 May
Bath 6 – 8 May
Stratford 9 – 12 May
Cambridge 13-22 May
Oxford 23-29 May

Easter

2008-03-23T11:19:00.000-07:00

He is risen! He is risen indeed!

2008-03-23T11:08:00.000-07:00

Here is a love note for Carissa Joy, the artistic/tech-creator of this site:
Shouts and claping and a whistle for creating my blog! Thank you dearie.

“I do not at all understand the mystery of grace - only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.”