Back to school again.

I am honestly sorry for the dearth of posts over the last week. I have, at long last, been back to school this week. No full-time kids yet, but meeting, planning, drama, morale-building, schedule arranging, classroom decor, and open houses full of anxiety, angst and apprehension. But, after our retreat today, I realized that the kids are not the only ones struggling with the idea of finding a middle school identity. I too am attempting to flag and file myself with my own peers. Why is it that the particular peers in question, the other middle school teachers at my school, turn me to a shy, sniveling child? I feel like the moment I enter the room with their boisterous clique, I regress to the ways of my own awkward school years. I mean, I know all of what you may be thinking. It is hard to be shy. Also, it is hard to enter into a preexisting group of peers, particularly when they have had years to develop a particular rapport. Yet, what choice do I have? And for those of you who know me, probably half would say I am shy, and half would describe me as, I dare say, quite outgoing. And somehow, both are true. In select situations (mostly ones in which I am made to feel wanted), I adapt easily, and quickly become an integral part of the team. And, such experiences led me to believe (falsely) that I was beyond being shy. Now, I know I am wrong. I feel like an awkward teen again. Mostly, if I don't talk to you, it's because I am doing my own thing. But, with these other teachers, I would love to be included in lunchroom discussions, and more importantly, jokes! I know I don't need anymore friends, but seriously, I love to be funny. Why is it that my sense of humor is paralyzed when it comes to these potential buddies? Advice?

Anonymous said...

...here are some links I think you would like.
..."thnx" for the great information.
...your site is one of my favourites.
...great idea for a site.

What? Where am I getting these random and obviously form comments? I mean, how irritating. Whoever the shlepp is that feels the need to repeatedly copy and paste used and useless comments onto my blog at 4 am, the jig is up. I have caught onto your insincere and redundant additions to my page.

I mean, "kudos to your web master"...Who is under the impression that every or any blogger on this do-it-yourself site has a web master? I mean, what would he or she do? Users don't even have to know html. Come on.

"Thnx"? Who is thanking me? For what? For a sob story? Yeah, okay.

Links I would like? What makes you think that there are links I would like? And, at least, why would you comment, claiming you have some link knowledge, and the...NO LINKS! No way to even get in touch with the sender.

Anonymous my aunt.

Foreshadowing Fall-Time.

It is decidedly chilly, and the light is pouring over the trees, just so. Red, bright and smoke-heavy. I step out outside for a moment, and feel the cold solid weighty truth of my feet rooted on the deck boards. There is a fist of twine sleeping in the pit of my stomach, and it sneaks upward through my esophogas, triggering my crying and choking as the days grow longer and fall inches toward me. It is still summer, but there is autumn in the air - smelling of burnt leaves and screaming out, harvest. I shiver in the mornings now, with anticipation. I feel an almost-intrinsic pull toward apple orchards, pumpkin patches - the reeping places of the withering season. Places that smell of apple cores, and cinnamon-rolled expanses of past. Places that remind me that death goes on in perpetuity, and cry out of the pumpkins left sad to rot on our porch late into last season. Places that remind me of the still-new, gilded gravestone, lonely bearing the name and body of my daughter. Places that remind me of a knife-sharp piercing and yet somehow serrated sadness, and the soft crackle of leaves as they drop on the small grassy spots where babies sleep away forever, amidst apartment buildings and scarecrow images marching in and out of made-identical hay maze offices. As footsteps and mothers and children and fathers and birth and dying and war and crying whip by in their frenzied timeline, I stand here amidst them all, perfectly still. I daily take on this sadness. Let myself feel the red-gold dawn of the death of deciduous times. This emptiness unspeakable, as the earth turns its way toward a time when the burning leaves and last attempts at outdoor life will surely sneak their way into my room at dusk. Curl around my throat and choke me with the smoked odor of autumn roots and life's frigid certainties. My soft, wracked body is complete and dense in its sadness, as I shudder away from a leaf that gently whispers accross my bare right shoulder on its descent to the purple, climbing earthfloor. I sob silently while my teeth are chattering, and there is the faint and imagined odor of pumpkin pie on the air as my shoulders heave in the privacy of early morning.

I Expect A Lot From My Soap.

So, I realized this morning that I have a totally love-hate relationship with decorative soap. I mean, is there really anything more beautiful than decorative soap? I have lovely soaps inlayed with strawberries, candy canes, tomatoes, tiny stars, lemons, ducks, and poppy seeds. I have pricey little soaps cloaked in embroidered cloths, and scented like heaven. I have French soaps chiseled with quaint phrases. I have soaps shaped like animals, fruits and flowers. I even have racey little bits of soap from London boutiques, and peppermint soaps strong enough to scour kitchen floors. I have hundreds of sweetly-scented bars, chunks and statuettes quietly collecting dust, tucked away in linen closets, resting in dark caverns beneath sinks, and displayed, futile and obsolete, on oaken bathroom shelves. And yet, somehow, they just continue to accumulate. But, I never use these delicious fragrant darlings. Because, here is the dilemma - once a person unwraps and puts water to the surface of her soap, its mystery is gone. That unmarred bit of print, that soft threaded wrap, those carefully cut edges and perfectly sliced-through shapes - gone. How could I knowingly take that remarkably crafted powder-soft sweetness of some young not-yet-disillusioned soapstress and use it for the banal pleasure of cleansing dirty hands, feet and faces. I will save these things forever - for the quietest of moments with myself, in which I slowly, deliberately, peel off a perfect soap's perfect plastic wrapper, and sit for many breathes, soap cupped in warm hands. I will hold the soaps to my face, remembering where they have been and who they have known, and drink their memorable perfumes with relish. Then, someday even, I will douse them in perfectly warm water, run my hands over them and around them, and suds will form. Those suds will wash me with memories and sweet moments I will have otherwise been sure were lost long, long ago.

For Juliet, on the day of her Christening.

As I sit, tired, my eyes are blinking over the strawberry-washed memories of the day with Juliet.
Touching a sweet small hand, that is silken and tea-warm, reminds me of the existence of life's sweet tiny joys -
And massive, sloping futures.

Juliet, in one perfect moment in chaos - an eclipse of the feelings of swooping, wingswept, and also sitting still.
She is a tiny, self-contained intricately-woven basket, capturing and enrapturing us in the reasons why we live.

Holding a new baby, soft as a sack of sandman's warm night-giving dust.
A feeling such as that resonates like deep sea booming song through the holder's torso.
Feeling a locket-sized heartsnap beautifully beating shocks sunshade-perfumed air into my lungs -
For the first time in centuries, Juliet has made me feel alive.