Nostalgia.

I had a dream about Monterey Bay Academy last night. 
It was a sad dream. Of that I'm certain. I awoke feeling somewhat empty, as though I had lost something...

I can't fully recall the plot, but I do remember many of the people in it: good friends that I haven't seen in years and that I ache to laugh with again.


My heart yearns for the cry of seagulls and the smell of eucalyptus trees. 
The music of the Pacific Ocean as the breakers smash against the shore. 
Breathtaking sunsets.
And bonfires under the stars.

Purpose.

Last Tuesday night during class, a golden moment occurred: a trifecta of inspiration.


I was listening to Kurt Hummel sing "Blackbird," and then the paint and the music and my heart all aligned, and for the first time in a long time, I was absolutely certain I was doing exactly what I'm supposed to do.


I felt fulfilled-- completely and distinctly lost in pure creative bliss.


It was magical.

A Long Day.

I knew it would be long when... 

...I walked into my classroom and it was twenty degrees WARMER than outside.

...we had another pointless meeting at 7:30.

...the coffee was all gone.

...I unplugged the projector by tripping over the cord.

...one of my best students said he was moving back to his old school.

...the printer jammed. For the fourth time.

...a glass of wine sounded like Heaven: at ten o'clock a.m.

...seventh period took a test on following directions. And complained that the test wasn't fair. And still didn't follow directions. And yelled alot

...I received notification that our new administrator has actually been on campus for TWO DAYS: I'm just NOW finding out about this?? SERIOUSLY??????

Well, I guess the consolation prize is that in seven hours this day will be officially over and I'll never have to go through THIS day again...

C'est la vie.

I Meant to Blog Today.

I was feeling so creative this weekend after working on my color wheel and reading about the elements and principles of design.


Then I got online this afternoon and started doing lesson plans. 


All that joy just melted right out of me via my tense shoulder muscles. I tried to balance out the stress with some Vangelis, to no avail.


Where's my wine glass???

Wicked Stepmother

This is a short monologue I'm working on for our Mother's Day celebration at Living Water Fellowship. Just a RD but it's coming along nicely.

Villain? Or Victim?

I'm going to be a mom next week.
No, I'm not pregnant. I'm going to be... wait for it...
a STEPMOTHER! Tun tun tun.
I never thought I'd marry a man with a kid. It just wasn't ever a possibility I'd considered. But like it says in the Bible, God can do more than I can ever imagine.
And Tom is definitely the best thing that's ever happened to me. (beat) He's so much more than anything I thought I ever wanted.
So maybe that's why I decided to take The Plunge with him and Davey.
Yep, Davey is his kid's name. He's such a cute little guy. He runs around the house in his underoos, his lanky arms and legs everywhere. Typical nine year old stuff. He's great. (beat) Except when he's not. I love him because he's part of Tom. But sometimes, like when he gives me dirty looks over the dinner table, I his mother all over his face.
And then I get angry and I start to think, "What right do I have to expect this kid to even care whether I'm in the same room or not, much less finish the food I made for him."
And that thought inevitably leads me to Paranoia City. He's plotting to steal my favorite pen. He's poisoning the plants. (beat) He's trying to split up Tom and me. (long pause) He hates me.
And then I get really, really sad. BEcause no matter how much I love him, feed him, hug him, I'll never be his mother. There will always be that word between us:
Stepmother.
What is it about that term that strikes fear into the hearts of children everywhere? Maybe it's because Carol Brady's attempt to eradicate the centuries-old stereotype failed miserably.
Let's just think about this for a minute: in all those fabulous fairy tales your mom read to you when you were growing up, who the really evil villain?
The stepmother. (or the witch... sometimes she was one and the same.)
Doesn't that just take the biscuit?
A woman who is willing to give up her independence voluntarily to help raise someone else's child is the villain in the story. Always the villain. Always? ALWAYS.
And do you know the reward these women get for unselfishly raising another woman's kid, sacrificing her youth, dreams, and needs because she loves her husband and the kid is part of the package?
She DIES. Most of the time in the most horrible ways you can imagine.
In Hansel and Gretel, she perishes of "unknown causes" (while the kids are cavorting around the woods harrassing a poor old lady who just wants to bake cookies in peace...)!
Vasilisa the Beautiful had a stepmother who was instantaneously incinerated by looking at a skull, and there's an Irish story where the stepmother is burned at the stake.
Let's not forget Cinderella. The poor woman doesn't die... unfortunately. Her own girls' eyes get poked out by pigeons (ick) and pretty Little Cindy's stepmom got to spend the rest of her life penniless taking care of her two blind daughters. Fun.
Then there's the lesser known story called The Juniper Tree where the stepmother's blood literally begins to boil, and when she goes outside to cool off, a huge rock falls out of the sky and smashes her (at which point her husband and his children go inside and eat dinner)!
And of course, the classic. Snow White. Did you know that at Snow White's wedding reception, little Miss Perfect forced her stepmother to wear iron shoes that had been heated white hot in the fire? True. And then she made the woman dance... until she crawled into the forest, dragging her burnt and mangled feet behind her and died in agony. (beat)
Sometimes I have nightmares that I'll be eaten by leeches at Davey's high school graduation.

A Greek Mythology Challenge

A trickle of sweat rolled down the back of his neck and soaked into his tunic. Pegasus’ wings brush against his calf muscles as the horse pumped up and down in midair, waiting.

Bellerophon leaned forward, clutching the spear, feeling small splinters from the rough wood dig into his hand. He laid his head on the horse’s neck and breathed in the sweaty dustiness. Closing his eyes, he wrapped his free hand in the pure white mane, threading the coarse fibers securely around his fingers, so tightly the circulation seemed almost cut off.

Tightly now. Tightly.

Whatever happens, you must. not. let. go.

The grey fog raised goose bumps on his skin.  The spear seemed so heavy.

So heavy.

Whatever happens. You must not let go.

Do. Not. Let. Go.

The fear congealed around his heart. His muscles felt frozen, unyielding. Sluggishly, he turned his face sideways and looked at the distant peak of Mt. Olympus. He took a breath. Athena be with me.

Lifting his heavy head and hoisting the spear, he exhaled, the puff of air turning to steam in the frigid morning mist.

He softly pressed his right heel into the muscled flank of his mount and the horse banked steeply.

“Death and glory…" he whispered as the wind whipped his hair across his face and shrieked in his ears.

“Remember,” the horse’s low voice floated back to him. “Just within the entrance. You must strike first and you must not let go of me. Trust me to maneuver you and whatever happens. HOLD. ON.”

Just then, they broke through the bottom edge of the fog and Bellerophon saw the yawning black of the cave mouth, lit by a dim red glow, as if the monster’s fires burned low in his slumber. He tightened his grip on the lance.

Noiselessly, Pegasus glided toward the cavern.  Bellerophon glanced hastily at the landscape on which they were descending.  The valley was silent and still, almost tranquil. Like a temple, he thought, and then he saw the bones. Some were bleached clean as lamb’s wool. A skull leered at him. Bits of flesh still clung to a ribcage. Flies feasted on fingers, a foot. And the stench, ah Pallas! The putrescence and sulfur made the bile rise in his throat. He choked. Swallowed. Knew he would vomit out all of his courage along with his breakfast if he didn’t stop heaving.  He shook his head to clear his thoughts, then urged Pegasus forward.

“Death and glory.”

Graceful as a butterfly, Pegasus flitted into the blackness of the opening, his movements belying his powerful musculature and noble demeanor.

In the ruddy light, Bellerophon could see the three massive heads, each breathing in tandem. Pegasus touched down gently and the young man slid off the horse’s back, his bare feet immediately raising puffs of soft gray ash.

One stroke. Just one. Just enough to injure it. To make it angry. To make it want to kill me, he thought.

Just below the hip joint. Just one stroke.

His palms grew slick with sweat. He drew his dagger from its sheath strapped to the inside of his right leg.

Step. Step. One stroke. One small stroke. Small but effective. Just below the hip joint.

Step. Breathe. Step. Is the roaring in his ears the sound of the monster’s hideous snores or is it the throbbing of his own heart? He doesn’t know, but he moves onward, choking on waves of panic as he stares up at the slavering jaws, the golden mane, the coarse matted goat hair, the cloven hooves. That venomous serpentine tail lying curled around the Chimaera’s body.

He knew the prick of his dagger would be enough to annoy the monster: a gnat on a sleeping baby. It would wake and then he would slash the leg.

Athena, give me strength. Pallas, goddess of my heart, guide my hand.

Slash the leg, and then onto Pegasus’ back and no matter what don’t let go.

The Relevancy of Fahrenheit 451 in the Digital Age

While teaching Ray Bradbury's classic dystopian story to my seventh grade students, I came across several quotes in the novel that struck me as particularly relevant. After pointing them out, the kids and I had a  provocative discussion about the things in life that really matter and the times when we all felt the happiest. Not surprisingly, most of those times involved family, nature, games, and lots of laughter and home cooked meals.

Bradbury magically captures the indiscriminate apathy, unmitigated materialism, and PROFOUND technological overload that has been creeping so insidiously into American society since he first wrote the book in 1951.

This afternoon I remembered that I posted those two quotes on FB under the title of this post and I thought I should stretch my long neglected post-baccalaureate writing  muscles and do a little bit of literary application.

"You must understand that our civilization is so vast that we can't have our minorities upset and stirred. Ask yourself, What do we want in this country, above all? People want to be happy, isn't that right? Haven't you heard it all your life? I want to be happy, people say. Well, aren't they? Don't we keep them moving, don't we give them fun? That's all we live for, isn't it? For pleasure, for titillation? And you must admit our culture provides plenty of these..."

Titillation. Reminds me a lot of Snooky and the Situation. When a big-haired Jersey chick with a bad dye job and a Brobdingnagian mouth calling herself a "glam fairy" gets her own show because she knows how to slather on lipstick; when we'd rather watch Kate plus 8 plus Dancing with the Stars plus the surfeit of absolute havoc she leaves in her wake; when a man like Donald Trump decides to run for President just because he has enough money to buy any votes he needs?

I'd say we're living  for titillation. I'd say "our culture provides plenty".

"You can't build a house without nails and wood. If you don't want a house built, hide the nails and wood. If you don't want a man unhappy politically, don't give him two sides to a question to worry him; give him one. Better yet, give him none. Let him forget there is such a thing as war. If the government is inefficient, topheavy, and tax-mad, better it be all those than that people worry over it. Peace... Give the people contests they win by remembering the words to more popular songs or the names of state capitals or how much corn Iowa grew last year. Cram them full of noncombustible data, chock them so damned full of 'facts' they feel stuffed, but absolutely 'brilliant' with information. Then they'll feel they're thinking, they'll get a sense of motion without moving. And they'll be happy, because facts of that sort don't change. Don't give them any slippery stuff like philosophy or sociology to tie things up with. That way lies melancholy. Any man who can take a TV wall apart and put it back together again, and most men can, nowadays, is happier than any man who tries to slide-rule, measure, and equate the universe, which just won't be measured or equated without making man feel bestial and lonely. I know, I've tried it; to hell with it. So bring on your clubs and parties, your acrobats and magicians, your daredevils, jet cars, motorcycle helicopters, your sex and heroin, more of everything to do with automatic reflex. If the drama is bad, if the film says nothing, if the play is hollow, sting me with the theremin, loudly. I'll think I'm responding to the play, when it's only a tactile reaction to vibration. But I don't care. I just like solid entertainment."

Isn't that what we ALL "just like"? SOLID entertainment? Films about gigolos and Vince Vega? Music about "pussy poppin' on the gixter"? We play game shows against robots with mecha-brains.  3-D TV without the glasses is already being marketed in Japan. And I wonder how long it will be before all interactive technology becomes touchscreen/voice-activated. 

We don't chat about the meaning of life. We question whether Ron and Sam are EVER going to break up. Instead of Sophocles, we talk of Spears. There are no philosophers in our schools; students have become identification numbers on an exam that measures nothing at all.  Americans have plenty of opinions about Afghanistan, Iraq, and Libya; but how many can actually identify those countries on a globe? Does anyone even OWN a globe anymore? What's the point, after all, when the touch of finger will literally get you anything you've never wanted until you stumbled across it  on your iphone 10??

Bless you, Ray Bradbury. If only a few of us contained the fore-sight you showed sixty years ago, perhaps this sad, sad situation could have been avoided altogether.  Perhaps God wouldn't be dead, and neither would John Lennon..

Joseph's Story

The ink isn't flowing well enough to write today, she thought as she listened to the scratching of the nib on the paper. Clearly, it needs to be cleaned. That damn girl is so forgetful. One of these days I'm going to have to do something about her.


Moira glanced over at the enamel of her small brown angel, then lay down the pen, put the tips of her fingers together and leaned back in her chair.


She closed her eyes and slowly inhaled through her nose. She imagined his small brown body as he slept. His long lashes laying softly on his cheek. His hair mussed. His lips parted. The little-boy snores he made with each peaceful puff of breath in the semi-darkness of the nursery.


"What would Joseph do?" she muttered. Her thoughts were wisps of smoke, blown away before she could pin one down and examine it.


She'd been writing for three days, almost without ceasing, yet all she had to show for it were several crumpled pages of crossed out phrases and half-starts: paragraphs that strayed tangentially, beginnings that somehow lost the way to the middle.


She opened her eyes and massaged her forehead as she looked at the half-finished manuscript and then at the wadded pages on the floor.


Joseph was trapped, and she was the only one who could find him a way of escape. Moira and her pen must bring him salvation.

Gratitude

Every time I see this clip, I get a little emotional.


How can a heart express gratitude for all God's small miracles? Keeping constant watch. Reminding me in little ways to look UP.


I remember being a junior in high school at Monterey Bay Academy desperate to get to class after sleeping late-- groping half-blindly in the sink basin looking for a dropped contact lens. A plea: "God, help me!"-- and suddenly there it was, sitting right next to the drain. My lost little contact lens (unbelievably, I still made it to class on time!). 


This morning I was on the I-15 going south at 80 mph. I was going to church.
I was in the far left lane about to move right to pass a slow cab. As I made my move, I noticed a semi-truck pulled off to the right shoulder, clearly in distress. Neon orange triangles partially blocked the pavement near the rig.


I put on my blinker, and began to accelerate when I saw something on the road in front of me.


In a split second I realized I was going to hit it, and in the same instant, I knew it wasn't a shredded piece of tire (all too common on Las Vegas freeways). I also instantaneously realized two other things: I didn't have room to swerve around it, and ahead of me lay more terrifyingly large heaps of the same debris.


All of this occurred to me in less than a millisecond. Maybe even faster.


I felt my hands tighten on the wheel. Every muscle in my body grew taut as a new bowstring. And then, my foot stepped on the ACCELERATOR.


It was 10:51 a.m.


My mind went blank... quiet... completely empty of any conscious thought. My car swerved to the left, just in front of the cab and inches from what appeared to be a muffler. 


Then the car swerved back to the right, barely missing another huge piece of engine. Someone's fuel injector or intake manifold. I registered that. 


A chunk of metallic death. Just lying there in the middle of the road. 


The car straightened out and I remember stepping on the gas to slow down a little, then glancing to the right shoulder where, lo and behold, a vehicle sat surrounded by police cars with the engine dangling out the bottom of the chassis.


It was like I suddenly took off noise-reduction headphones. The intense silence lifted suddenly away and I realized I was alive and still on my way toward church.

I looked at the dashboard clock. It was 10:52.

Maybe it was instinct: Driver's Ed finally kicking in just when I needed it. But you'll never convince me of that. 

Because I don't remember being the one turning the steering wheel. I remember it moved, but I didn't turn it. I remember thinking, Why is my foot on the gas?? And then... a tranquil silence. And there was no fear at all. 

It was only after my brain finally processed what had just occurred that I felt fear, and only for what could have happened. 

When I think about what actually happened, it seems like what some people call an "out of body experience." Except I never looked down on myself driving. I remember seeing out of my own eyes as my car maneuvered like it was cornering on the Atlanta Motor Speedway. I remember the stillness most of all. And I remember how strange it felt that I should be so calm.

As I drove on, I kept thanking God. Over and over and over again.

Because I know, in my heart, I was not in control of that car.


It's not much of a miracle I know, when you really think about it. A Saturday morning drive on the 15... but maybe God was trying to tell me something, just the same.