I've forgotten how to subtract. Or something akin to it. I know this phenomenon. I've witnessed it in my students countless times when I introduce a complex new process, e.g. long division. Suddenly, kids who've been subtracting beautifully since the 2nd grade forget they ever even knew how. Their brain is spread too thin trying to grasp the whole divide, multiply, subtract, bring-it-down process of long division.
That is me in this new job. I've forgotten basic things. I am a space cadet, a walking hazard to the planet. I double book myself for meetings, I respond to parents in ways I've never responded before, I forget things. And I realize that it is happening and then second guess myself all the more. Eejah. It is horrible.
I know what it is - I am overwhelmed right now, my poor little neural energy tapped right out - but it doesn't help my feelings of utter inadequacy.
I benchmark this spot because I know that someday I will regain my old automaticity. I will get my groove back. I will be the teacher and reading specialist that I once was: organized, with-it, there for kids and parents and other teachers, a trusted resource. For now... 1+1 = 2, 2+2 =4.
I think.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
My Hair Smells Good
My hair smells good
I am just back from a hike
where all the spicy, sagey
plants of CO were on the bake
I have picked up their odor
integrated their roots
borrowed their sage-acity
I have met countless people these last two weekssome kind
some curious
about me, about Wisconsin, about tris and running,
some self-absorbed
bridges that led only inward
Still others who have sniffed me out and tucked tail to run
They didn't like me
Others with stories bigger and longer and more interesting than mine
I have met countless people
I worked at their sides at our new school
I biked at their sides and
- on the hills -
at their backs (Gax!)
I hiked in their wake
talked and smiled and sifted and sorted
and absorbed this new place
I am herepinching myself when the sight of the mountains
astonishes me yet again
gripping my handlebars a little tighter
when the Denver lights come into view
and
shaking my head to get a whiff of this
awesome
sagey
spicy
good-smelling hair.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
I Am Bike Commuter
It's not as if I didn't see the yellow light. I just knew better than to stop. I know this suburbia-land community well enough to know that at 5:30 AM, the roads are mine. All the mama-teachers, corporate daddies, and burbie-babies are still fast asleep or waking up to laidback cups of latté and ... other fru-fru stuff.
So it's not like I didn't see the light. I just knew better. I also knew that my ride to school is mostly uphill and I'd be damned if I was going to brake for a yellow (-ish, OK, more red by the second, shall we call it orange?) light when I have the only downhill of the ride. Also, it should be said that this was my first commute in the dark so far this year. The air was cool and moist and sweet and... sort of intoxicating. So I blew it. Blew right through that baby at 5:30 AM and fleetingly wondered out of my peripheral vision - out of my peripheral brain - if either of the two cars waiting at the cross streets were police vehicles.
One was. He pulled me over. On my bike. For running an orange light. And I told him the truth. "I'm high on the morning ride." I beamed at him. My face, my smile exuded all the happiness and joie de vivre you can squeeze out of a cool, moist, sweet, fast downhill in the morning. He understood, I think. He gave me a verbal warning. (My third traffic warning in 8 months; the other two were for speeding. In my car, silly! But I digress. Except I am sort of spotting a pattern here. Oops...) Funny thing is - I was almost happy to see him. Such beautiful rides and feelings should be shared with someone.
My little joyfest concluded, I continued on my merry way.
La-la-la-dee-lah. I'm goin' uphill, but's it's all good cuz life is good. The Denver lights are to my right, the mountains to my back. La-la-la-dee-lah.
Then.
Thumpity, thumpity, thump.
Wait. That sound is not a happy sound. I craned my neck down and back to view my rear tire. Flat. Dead as a doornail. Baaaad.
I pulled off onto the side of the road and quickly ascertained that I'd picked up a shard of some moron's glass bottle in my back tire. I carry an extra tube and tire for just such occasions. I whipped them out and changed my first tire of this commute year about halfway through my ride on the side of a getting-busier street with traffic zooming by me. There was no way I was getting that tire up to pressure with my telescoping pump, but I got it up to "rideable" and was back on my way in 15 minutes. Thinking: this would have to happen to me this first week of school when I'm trying to impress my 78 new colleagues and four new administrators. On the first day that I decide to retry the road route instead of the trail. On the first day that I got to wear my headlamp, reflective vest and flashy red tail light. Big, bad boo.
Unbelievably, I made it to school on time. Through orange lights, flashing reds & blues, and a tire change. Up, up with Type As! We leave early enough so that a typhoon wouldn't impinge on our punctuality.
After this morning's ride, I wear the badge. I am Bike Commuter. Hear me roar. See me soar.
So it's not like I didn't see the light. I just knew better. I also knew that my ride to school is mostly uphill and I'd be damned if I was going to brake for a yellow (-ish, OK, more red by the second, shall we call it orange?) light when I have the only downhill of the ride. Also, it should be said that this was my first commute in the dark so far this year. The air was cool and moist and sweet and... sort of intoxicating. So I blew it. Blew right through that baby at 5:30 AM and fleetingly wondered out of my peripheral vision - out of my peripheral brain - if either of the two cars waiting at the cross streets were police vehicles.
One was. He pulled me over. On my bike. For running an orange light. And I told him the truth. "I'm high on the morning ride." I beamed at him. My face, my smile exuded all the happiness and joie de vivre you can squeeze out of a cool, moist, sweet, fast downhill in the morning. He understood, I think. He gave me a verbal warning. (My third traffic warning in 8 months; the other two were for speeding. In my car, silly! But I digress. Except I am sort of spotting a pattern here. Oops...) Funny thing is - I was almost happy to see him. Such beautiful rides and feelings should be shared with someone.
My little joyfest concluded, I continued on my merry way.
La-la-la-dee-lah. I'm goin' uphill, but's it's all good cuz life is good. The Denver lights are to my right, the mountains to my back. La-la-la-dee-lah.
Then.
Thumpity, thumpity, thump.
Wait. That sound is not a happy sound. I craned my neck down and back to view my rear tire. Flat. Dead as a doornail. Baaaad.
I pulled off onto the side of the road and quickly ascertained that I'd picked up a shard of some moron's glass bottle in my back tire. I carry an extra tube and tire for just such occasions. I whipped them out and changed my first tire of this commute year about halfway through my ride on the side of a getting-busier street with traffic zooming by me. There was no way I was getting that tire up to pressure with my telescoping pump, but I got it up to "rideable" and was back on my way in 15 minutes. Thinking: this would have to happen to me this first week of school when I'm trying to impress my 78 new colleagues and four new administrators. On the first day that I decide to retry the road route instead of the trail. On the first day that I got to wear my headlamp, reflective vest and flashy red tail light. Big, bad boo.
Unbelievably, I made it to school on time. Through orange lights, flashing reds & blues, and a tire change. Up, up with Type As! We leave early enough so that a typhoon wouldn't impinge on our punctuality.
After this morning's ride, I wear the badge. I am Bike Commuter. Hear me roar. See me soar.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Chasin' Trail: Colorado & Mexico
Well, it took four hours and all the water I had, and my nether regions hurt, but I've found it. My bike commute route to school. Yesterday I did the first trial - a one-way trip that took me 1:10. I swore to my family that the way home from my new school was all downhill as speedy as it went. But I also went fast because I was nervous about the cars whizzing past me. So today I decided to try it round trip, looking for trail to circumvent the heavily-trafficked streets and highways of yesterday. I found about 2/3 trail on the way there and then on the way back looked even harder.
I can claim unmitigated success - providing I can piece the thing all together again. I was out there searching for four hours, but I predict that once I get it downpat, the commute will take me an hour and a half tops. And all but 10 minutes of that will be on trail.
I re-fell in love with Colorado today. Finding my way through this, figuring out how the paths connected - and the fact that there were bike paths to be found - was enchanting. And these are optimal bike paths - wide smooth concrete that threads its way along gulches (mostly dry this time of year), through neighborhood open spaces, and under the shade of the occasional willow tree. And they all hook up! Ahhh... a biker's dream.
Tomorrow takes me out into the wilderness for my first-ever solo backpacking trip. I have a long list of business I should be taking care of, but I see those mountains to the west and - just like that - they trump business for now. I'm only able to go for one night, but I'm thrilled to be trying this out. I have a couple of goals. My Albuquerque uncle boasted of a 29-pound pack while all the women in his hiking group had 40-pound packs. The gauntlet has been thrown. I would like to be able to send him an email evening the score. My other goal is to write. I'm back from a 2 week trip to Mexico that was HUGE. I haven't even begun to process it all. We set a breakneck pace of traveling and touring that took us:
I can claim unmitigated success - providing I can piece the thing all together again. I was out there searching for four hours, but I predict that once I get it downpat, the commute will take me an hour and a half tops. And all but 10 minutes of that will be on trail.
I re-fell in love with Colorado today. Finding my way through this, figuring out how the paths connected - and the fact that there were bike paths to be found - was enchanting. And these are optimal bike paths - wide smooth concrete that threads its way along gulches (mostly dry this time of year), through neighborhood open spaces, and under the shade of the occasional willow tree. And they all hook up! Ahhh... a biker's dream.
Tomorrow takes me out into the wilderness for my first-ever solo backpacking trip. I have a long list of business I should be taking care of, but I see those mountains to the west and - just like that - they trump business for now. I'm only able to go for one night, but I'm thrilled to be trying this out. I have a couple of goals. My Albuquerque uncle boasted of a 29-pound pack while all the women in his hiking group had 40-pound packs. The gauntlet has been thrown. I would like to be able to send him an email evening the score. My other goal is to write. I'm back from a 2 week trip to Mexico that was HUGE. I haven't even begun to process it all. We set a breakneck pace of traveling and touring that took us:
- through 15 Mexican and American states
- across 5063 miles
- to sea level at a Pacific coast beach
- to 9000 feet at our highest mountain pass
- to hell and back with each other; we laughed until our faces hurt and alternately, snapped at each other so that we left toothmarks
- to Lake Pátzcuaro, one of the world's highest lakes
- past countless mudbrown, unappetizing rivers
- to pyramids built by ancients
- to resort hotels built by moderns
To New Friends
I have a newfound
new
tall
friend
named Cindy
I told her I'd be there the 20th
I arrived the 22nd
Called her at 9:30 PM
Proposed a run for 7 AM
the next morning
She batted not an eyelid
I gave her a bum steer on directions
She drove 45 minutes out of her way
She batted not an eyelid
We ran
We talked
We laughed
My newfound
new
tall
friend
is cool.
(My apologies for the blurry pic; we'll take a better one the next time I'm in Albuquerque!)
new
tall
friend
named Cindy
I told her I'd be there the 20th
I arrived the 22nd
Called her at 9:30 PM
Proposed a run for 7 AM
the next morning
She batted not an eyelid
I gave her a bum steer on directions
She drove 45 minutes out of her way
She batted not an eyelid
We ran
We talked
We laughed
My newfound
new
tall
friend
is cool.
(My apologies for the blurry pic; we'll take a better one the next time I'm in Albuquerque!)
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Paradise Valley Tri Race Report
Hannah came out of the water even with me though I didn't know it until much later. I heard Mom yelling to Sam that he could be the first on the bike - get going. I didn't look at him yet either. Instead I was watching Strong Sister, willing her to hurry up and land her kayak so we could do the bike together. I wanted to be with someone, didn't know if I could do it alone.
You cruise along thinking it's all OK and then ten minutes before the race, your 26 year old nephew whom you love like a brother but haven't seen since Christmas asks you a simple question and you bust out in tears. Big juicy unstoppable ones. You apologize for the failure of the impermeable smile; you're just too comfortable with him to fake it. He, however, does not always expect strength and wraps you in an embrace, then walks you to the outhouse where he rips off a healthy dose of TP to mop up the tears and snot. You know you have to get it together, to swallow the lump in your throat so you can breathe around it, so you can gulp air - cuz the tri is starting.
Then you stand on the beach, having managed to breathe around the lump long enough to get you across the lake, all told 6 minutes, 49 seconds. You breathe around the lump but inside you still have the emptiness, the ache. You think to fill it with Strong Sister but she is taking too long and you're just standing there idle by your bike. So you hop on and push off through the gravel down the road, still not sure but going anyways, past Mom's house where the impulse to go inside, to curl up in the dark sanctuary of the basement is almost overpowering. But that would cause concern. So you do what you do best and just keep steppin' and think with each pedal stroke how much you appreciate the finite pain of tri.
Then you remember to look for Sam, the 16 year old who you should be reeling in, and you see him way ahead of you, turning onto the first paved part of the course and you half register that he is looking strong, has maintained the gap. However, he will surely tire when he hits the gravel again. Next thing you know you're wishing your mountain bike had aerobars so you lean forward on the handlebars and get sore forearms for your efforts. And now you don't see Sam at all but you're sure that he's just around the curve or over the hill cuz you're back on the gravel - and he must be tiring. You get to the last straight part of the course and spot him. He is two minutes ahead and you think, "Dang! Sixteen year old boys are fast on their bikes," and you start racing in earnest but it is too late. 47 minutes was not enough to catch him.
He has made it to the bike drop first and in case there is any doubt, your mom says, "Moriah and Kate are out ahead" and you catch yourself thinking "Ah heck, I can reel in a 14 year old and a 10 year old." You are half right.
Kate is in the bag within the first half mile, but Moriah, the real third leg of their relay team, is off in the distance. You don't see her until the last mile and you yell, "Go, Moriah! You're doing great, girlie!" She gives you a big goofy grin - and goes. And inside you turn up the heat because now she is in sight and you are hungry to win this thing free and clear. You pull up on her, you gain. Enough to round the curve right before the finish line and see her cross. Your run times out at 19:19, which is just about 20 seconds too late, but you hug those three teenagers anyways, those 2nd cousins who you now want for training partners.
You receive a bellyfull of smack talk all weekend about getting whooped by the kids - and you give back equal amounts. It is only three days later when you're out on the boat writing this race report on the inside flap of a National Geographic magazine that you wonder what's the line between distraction and actual enjoyment of the moment. And when are the big crocodile tears gonna crawl out of the sewer again. And then you realize that it doesn't matter, that it's all OK, that they'll come when there's a person you love around, someone who'll give you TP and a warm shoulder - and that life isn't for taking that seriously anyways. You wrap up this race report (total tri time 1:14), close up the National Geo, and dive into the lake.
You cruise along thinking it's all OK and then ten minutes before the race, your 26 year old nephew whom you love like a brother but haven't seen since Christmas asks you a simple question and you bust out in tears. Big juicy unstoppable ones. You apologize for the failure of the impermeable smile; you're just too comfortable with him to fake it. He, however, does not always expect strength and wraps you in an embrace, then walks you to the outhouse where he rips off a healthy dose of TP to mop up the tears and snot. You know you have to get it together, to swallow the lump in your throat so you can breathe around it, so you can gulp air - cuz the tri is starting.Then you stand on the beach, having managed to breathe around the lump long enough to get you across the lake, all told 6 minutes, 49 seconds. You breathe around the lump but inside you still have the emptiness, the ache. You think to fill it with Strong Sister but she is taking too long and you're just standing there idle by your bike. So you hop on and push off through the gravel down the road, still not sure but going anyways, past Mom's house where the impulse to go inside, to curl up in the dark sanctuary of the basement is almost overpowering. But that would cause concern. So you do what you do best and just keep steppin' and think with each pedal stroke how much you appreciate the finite pain of tri.
Then you remember to look for Sam, the 16 year old who you should be reeling in, and you see him way ahead of you, turning onto the first paved part of the course and you half register that he is looking strong, has maintained the gap. However, he will surely tire when he hits the gravel again. Next thing you know you're wishing your mountain bike had aerobars so you lean forward on the handlebars and get sore forearms for your efforts. And now you don't see Sam at all but you're sure that he's just around the curve or over the hill cuz you're back on the gravel - and he must be tiring. You get to the last straight part of the course and spot him. He is two minutes ahead and you think, "Dang! Sixteen year old boys are fast on their bikes," and you start racing in earnest but it is too late. 47 minutes was not enough to catch him.
He has made it to the bike drop first and in case there is any doubt, your mom says, "Moriah and Kate are out ahead" and you catch yourself thinking "Ah heck, I can reel in a 14 year old and a 10 year old." You are half right.
Kate is in the bag within the first half mile, but Moriah, the real third leg of their relay team, is off in the distance. You don't see her until the last mile and you yell, "Go, Moriah! You're doing great, girlie!" She gives you a big goofy grin - and goes. And inside you turn up the heat because now she is in sight and you are hungry to win this thing free and clear. You pull up on her, you gain. Enough to round the curve right before the finish line and see her cross. Your run times out at 19:19, which is just about 20 seconds too late, but you hug those three teenagers anyways, those 2nd cousins who you now want for training partners.
You receive a bellyfull of smack talk all weekend about getting whooped by the kids - and you give back equal amounts. It is only three days later when you're out on the boat writing this race report on the inside flap of a National Geographic magazine that you wonder what's the line between distraction and actual enjoyment of the moment. And when are the big crocodile tears gonna crawl out of the sewer again. And then you realize that it doesn't matter, that it's all OK, that they'll come when there's a person you love around, someone who'll give you TP and a warm shoulder - and that life isn't for taking that seriously anyways. You wrap up this race report (total tri time 1:14), close up the National Geo, and dive into the lake.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Five Days Hiking
A strange blue lightweaves a spell around me
makes a click
makes a crunch
in this ol' granola soul
A strange blue light
wreathes around the mountains
draws me further
pulls me inward
pulls me upward
pulls me out
Out into the wilderness
up the peaks
across the ridges
I don't stop walking
I can't stop looking
could go forever
above the treeline
across June snowfields
surprising herds of elk
past glacial cirques
feeding rushing streams
This strange blue light
that bathes
rock-clad mountains
captures
this granola soul
Colorado
Crunch
and
Click
wreathes around the mountains
draws me further
pulls me inward
pulls me upward
pulls me out
Out into the wildernessup the peaks
across the ridges
I don't stop walking
I can't stop looking
could go forever
above the treeline
across June snowfields
surprising herds of elk
past glacial cirques
feeding rushing streams
This strange blue light
that bathes
rock-clad mountains
captures
this granola soul
Colorado
Crunch
and
Click
Monday, June 23, 2008
SWC Y Tri Race Report - Sprint
My only "official" tri of this season is done and done well. I pushed.
Warm-up
Having not ridden my race bike for the last two weeks, I rode to the race (about 3 miles) and re-acclimated to my pedals, clipping in and out of each pedal about a million times. Once those neurons were refired, I hit the beach, swimming an 8:32 warm-up. I ran through the swim-to-bike transition and mentally-rehearsed the changing of the clothes for T1.
Swim
Normally a bilateral breather, this habit disappears when I race. I breathe on my right side with every stroke. It just is. I felt smooth and fast. It seemed that all of my wheezing sessions with Coach were serving me well; I was wheezing with the best of them, but it felt like the right thing to be doing since I was racing. I wore my wetsuit and was glad - the water was "refreshing".
Swim time: 7:11
T1
Woot! I ran fast past my cheering section and into the corral. I had a really good position for my bike and made the smoothest transition out of my wetsuit I've ever made. I learned to put it over my timing chip (duh!) so it slips off more easily. No problemo.
T1 time: 1:13
Bike
Onto the bike and speedy flat land for 14.5 miles. I was chugging air but didn't want to slow down at all. My mantra became, "I'll breathe when I'm dead." (The humor of the statement was not lost on me and my self-satisfaction with my own cleverness buoyed my spirits even more.) I passed a lot of people and was passed by one guy. (#185 - grr! I still remember his number.) I tried to stick with him for about 3 seconds and realized it was hopeless. He was fast.
Bike time: 39:23
T2
This went OK. I fumbled when re-racking my bike a little bit and tangled my sunglass on my bike helmet when I removed it. I was quick getting into my running shoes but then in my nervousness and race-dizziness, I forgot where the exit to the run was. I had that panicky feeling and snapped my head in all directions looking for the exit while also trying to fasten my watch. Future plan: Run through T2 before the race! (Duh.)
T2 time: 0:38
Run
I really love myself sometimes. (You may gag.) I raced this whole 3.7 miles even though there was no other racer in sight. It struck me as weird even as I was doing it. What compels you to breathe hard and push even when no one else is around? In my head, I was Ariel the mermaid singing, "I wanna be where the people are!" but I just kept chugging along, pushing, pushing, pushing. I knew I'd be pissed at myself afterwards if I left anything on the course. Plus, it just felt good to race. I was in the mood. It didn't always feel good, but it certainly felt right.
AND - I'm happy, happy, happy with the 7:31 pace I held up. I've been running 3 times a week for 30-45 minutes. I have done no speed work - in fact, I would call what I've been doing "SLOW" work. So 7:31s feel like a gift. And miracle of miracles, my knees don't hurt. My piriformis is a little tweaky, but I have a tennis ball for that!
Run time: 27:48
Post race - I had pain between my shoulder blades, piriformis, and a growling stomach - I haven't stopped eating since I crossed the line! ;-) but otherwise I am A-OK. It's all that good kind of pain, that it-feels-like-achievement kind of pain. I'll take it!
Awards ceremony - My brother and his 3 kids (ages 2-5) had come to watch the race. When I received my age group medal, they had to jog up to get it with me. Then they took turns all afternoon wearing "the gold". Some things are just better with kids. :-) When I'm old and crippled up, I hope to go places and cheer for them. Won't be nothing wrong with my teacher lungs!
Overall: I was very happy with this race. As mentioned, I was first in my AG. Official results can be found here. I was bib #192.
Total time: 1:16.11
Gender place: 2/74
(The #1 Female beat me by 4 minutes instead of like 30 seconds, thank gawd! She's 23 years old - she has a career ahead of her!)
One last thing: my finisher's photo a la Robby B.
Cheers, everyone!
Warm-up
Having not ridden my race bike for the last two weeks, I rode to the race (about 3 miles) and re-acclimated to my pedals, clipping in and out of each pedal about a million times. Once those neurons were refired, I hit the beach, swimming an 8:32 warm-up. I ran through the swim-to-bike transition and mentally-rehearsed the changing of the clothes for T1.
Swim
Normally a bilateral breather, this habit disappears when I race. I breathe on my right side with every stroke. It just is. I felt smooth and fast. It seemed that all of my wheezing sessions with Coach were serving me well; I was wheezing with the best of them, but it felt like the right thing to be doing since I was racing. I wore my wetsuit and was glad - the water was "refreshing".
Swim time: 7:11
T1
Woot! I ran fast past my cheering section and into the corral. I had a really good position for my bike and made the smoothest transition out of my wetsuit I've ever made. I learned to put it over my timing chip (duh!) so it slips off more easily. No problemo.
T1 time: 1:13
Bike
Onto the bike and speedy flat land for 14.5 miles. I was chugging air but didn't want to slow down at all. My mantra became, "I'll breathe when I'm dead." (The humor of the statement was not lost on me and my self-satisfaction with my own cleverness buoyed my spirits even more.) I passed a lot of people and was passed by one guy. (#185 - grr! I still remember his number.) I tried to stick with him for about 3 seconds and realized it was hopeless. He was fast.
Bike time: 39:23
T2
This went OK. I fumbled when re-racking my bike a little bit and tangled my sunglass on my bike helmet when I removed it. I was quick getting into my running shoes but then in my nervousness and race-dizziness, I forgot where the exit to the run was. I had that panicky feeling and snapped my head in all directions looking for the exit while also trying to fasten my watch. Future plan: Run through T2 before the race! (Duh.)
T2 time: 0:38
Run
I really love myself sometimes. (You may gag.) I raced this whole 3.7 miles even though there was no other racer in sight. It struck me as weird even as I was doing it. What compels you to breathe hard and push even when no one else is around? In my head, I was Ariel the mermaid singing, "I wanna be where the people are!" but I just kept chugging along, pushing, pushing, pushing. I knew I'd be pissed at myself afterwards if I left anything on the course. Plus, it just felt good to race. I was in the mood. It didn't always feel good, but it certainly felt right.
AND - I'm happy, happy, happy with the 7:31 pace I held up. I've been running 3 times a week for 30-45 minutes. I have done no speed work - in fact, I would call what I've been doing "SLOW" work. So 7:31s feel like a gift. And miracle of miracles, my knees don't hurt. My piriformis is a little tweaky, but I have a tennis ball for that!
Run time: 27:48
Post race - I had pain between my shoulder blades, piriformis, and a growling stomach - I haven't stopped eating since I crossed the line! ;-) but otherwise I am A-OK. It's all that good kind of pain, that it-feels-like-achievement kind of pain. I'll take it!
Awards ceremony - My brother and his 3 kids (ages 2-5) had come to watch the race. When I received my age group medal, they had to jog up to get it with me. Then they took turns all afternoon wearing "the gold". Some things are just better with kids. :-) When I'm old and crippled up, I hope to go places and cheer for them. Won't be nothing wrong with my teacher lungs!
Overall: I was very happy with this race. As mentioned, I was first in my AG. Official results can be found here. I was bib #192.
Total time: 1:16.11Gender place: 2/74
(The #1 Female beat me by 4 minutes instead of like 30 seconds, thank gawd! She's 23 years old - she has a career ahead of her!)
One last thing: my finisher's photo a la Robby B.
Cheers, everyone!
Friday, June 20, 2008
Where You'll Find Me
Where troubles melt like lemondrops
Away above the chimney tops
That's where you'll find me...
But just in case I'm not there, try one of the following places:
June 21 = My only official tri of 2008 - South Wood County Y Tri
June 23 - July 2 = Moving my stuff to CO and doing some hiking. I'll miss WIBA. Have fun, everyone, and have a glass of Merlot for me.
July 2 - 11 = Wisconsin - 4th of July parties and last good-byes. My only other tri of the season will be my family's tri on July 5th. (Remember you're invited, JLT folks. Drop me an email if interested.)
July 11 - 27 = Mexico trip
July 27 for the duration = Back to CO to live!
August 1-2 = Wild West Relay - This will be a challenge; altitude, err - hillier - terrain, and on a team where the only person I know once pulled my hair so hard that I felt the need to pull it back into a pony tail and snip it off. Good times.
So that's where you'll find me. I'll check in here as frequently as I can, of course. Other notes of interest this AM...
Metrics
12 minutes is what it takes me to warm up on the swim. I meant it when I said this would be a building season. I am gathering the data as we speak! I will use this little metric tomorrow morning before my tri. How nice to apply my learnin' right away.
'Fessin' up
Does anyone else make aeroplane noises as you're speeding down a hill and rounding a curve on your bike?
Away above the chimney tops
That's where you'll find me...
But just in case I'm not there, try one of the following places:
June 21 = My only official tri of 2008 - South Wood County Y Tri
June 23 - July 2 = Moving my stuff to CO and doing some hiking. I'll miss WIBA. Have fun, everyone, and have a glass of Merlot for me.
July 2 - 11 = Wisconsin - 4th of July parties and last good-byes. My only other tri of the season will be my family's tri on July 5th. (Remember you're invited, JLT folks. Drop me an email if interested.)
July 11 - 27 = Mexico trip
July 27 for the duration = Back to CO to live!
August 1-2 = Wild West Relay - This will be a challenge; altitude, err - hillier - terrain, and on a team where the only person I know once pulled my hair so hard that I felt the need to pull it back into a pony tail and snip it off. Good times.
So that's where you'll find me. I'll check in here as frequently as I can, of course. Other notes of interest this AM...
Metrics
12 minutes is what it takes me to warm up on the swim. I meant it when I said this would be a building season. I am gathering the data as we speak! I will use this little metric tomorrow morning before my tri. How nice to apply my learnin' right away.
'Fessin' up
Does anyone else make aeroplane noises as you're speeding down a hill and rounding a curve on your bike?
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Lesson Learned from my Paddle
He was scared. White-knuckling the sides of the kayak, screaming every time it dipped to the side, imploring me to keep the boat straight, to stay away from the side, to avoid branches and rocks.
I assured him. "What's the worst that can happen? If the kayak tips, you'll swim for the paddle, I'll swim for the boat. We'll meet up on the side and hop back in."
We'll just swim to the side and hop back in...
Happy ending for Nephew: By the end of the trip he was imploring me to hit the "big waves" as we went through the rapids. He even got to the point of throwing his arms up in the air, squealing with delight, as we swooped through the troughs. Go baby!
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Time Trial
Sometimes I am scared shitless.
What am I thinking moving to a metropolitan area? I feel like I can't. Like I'll be swallowed whole, eaten alive. Lost. I'm scared about all the solitary decisions I'm making. I am deciding for myself. It's scary as all get out sometimes. I have never done this before. I never truly realized how much of a foundation my husband was.
Other times. I know it is possible. I trust myself. And I know that there are good people everywhere you go. There is lots of fresh air in CO. There are reading specialists, runners, triathletes, bikers... people like me. I have a job, I have my sister, I have a support network. I'll land on my feet...
Churning with these thoughts, I blow past the turn to meet up with my new-found (yep, just before the move) time trial group. I daydream way too much. Thankfully, a friend phones and pulls my head out of the clouds with solid directions. I arrive on time for the start.
Then I find myself out on the bike. Time trialing down a country road in the middle of nowhere-Wisconsin. Blazing away at the biker in front of me, burning my quads to stay on his wheel. Down that country road on a sunny night it comes to me that I should race. I should race and race and race. Because it boils me down to my essence. I can't help but race. I see him and I have to, have to - no questions asked - burn my lungs chasing him. It isn't a conscious choice. It just is. The drive takes over and I thrive. I come alive, more in tune with myself but paradoxically less self-obsessed than at any other time I draw breath.
And I'm drawing a lot. I heave. I pass him. He passes me. I pass him back. Finally he sling-shots ahead of me and I know that I will not catch him again. "Fucker," I say to myself (the potty mouth comes with the competition). To him, I say, "Nice ride."
On the ride home I think: this decision is easy. It is crying to be made. I know where I fit. I have looked around enough to know what I want and what I'm good at. Professionally, I am a middle school reading specialist. Period. It's where I fit. Athletically? I am a fighter, a warrior - a competitor. It's where I fit.
With my newfound insight, I wanna run out and register for every race and run, race hard. But. I have been working out, not training. There is a critical difference. Grr. Time will be a trial to impatient me.
I rein myself in and get reasonable. I plan. I have a rather large move to accomplish and lotso travel plans. This summer is booked. This will be a building season. I will continue to work out, and I will hone the vision. Gradually my workouts will give way to training as I decide what the big show will be.
I am ready for something big in '09. I am ready to focus, to look neither right nor left. Next year, I am going to do triathlon. After two rather lackadaisical seasons post-Ironman, I am ready to compete.
Tonight's total Time Trial including the ride to the rendezvous point and back lasted 1 hour, 45 minutes.
Its impact? Only time will tell.
What am I thinking moving to a metropolitan area? I feel like I can't. Like I'll be swallowed whole, eaten alive. Lost. I'm scared about all the solitary decisions I'm making. I am deciding for myself. It's scary as all get out sometimes. I have never done this before. I never truly realized how much of a foundation my husband was.
Other times. I know it is possible. I trust myself. And I know that there are good people everywhere you go. There is lots of fresh air in CO. There are reading specialists, runners, triathletes, bikers... people like me. I have a job, I have my sister, I have a support network. I'll land on my feet...
Churning with these thoughts, I blow past the turn to meet up with my new-found (yep, just before the move) time trial group. I daydream way too much. Thankfully, a friend phones and pulls my head out of the clouds with solid directions. I arrive on time for the start.
Then I find myself out on the bike. Time trialing down a country road in the middle of nowhere-Wisconsin. Blazing away at the biker in front of me, burning my quads to stay on his wheel. Down that country road on a sunny night it comes to me that I should race. I should race and race and race. Because it boils me down to my essence. I can't help but race. I see him and I have to, have to - no questions asked - burn my lungs chasing him. It isn't a conscious choice. It just is. The drive takes over and I thrive. I come alive, more in tune with myself but paradoxically less self-obsessed than at any other time I draw breath.
And I'm drawing a lot. I heave. I pass him. He passes me. I pass him back. Finally he sling-shots ahead of me and I know that I will not catch him again. "Fucker," I say to myself (the potty mouth comes with the competition). To him, I say, "Nice ride."
On the ride home I think: this decision is easy. It is crying to be made. I know where I fit. I have looked around enough to know what I want and what I'm good at. Professionally, I am a middle school reading specialist. Period. It's where I fit. Athletically? I am a fighter, a warrior - a competitor. It's where I fit.
With my newfound insight, I wanna run out and register for every race and run, race hard. But. I have been working out, not training. There is a critical difference. Grr. Time will be a trial to impatient me.
I rein myself in and get reasonable. I plan. I have a rather large move to accomplish and lotso travel plans. This summer is booked. This will be a building season. I will continue to work out, and I will hone the vision. Gradually my workouts will give way to training as I decide what the big show will be.
I am ready for something big in '09. I am ready to focus, to look neither right nor left. Next year, I am going to do triathlon. After two rather lackadaisical seasons post-Ironman, I am ready to compete.
Tonight's total Time Trial including the ride to the rendezvous point and back lasted 1 hour, 45 minutes.
Its impact? Only time will tell.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Me-Me-Me Meme
Here are the rules.
If you’re tagged, you will find your name at the end of this post. You should then copy the rules (or your version of them), and the set of questions onto your blog post, provide your own answers, and then tag 5 new people.
Just to be sure that everyone tagged knows they have been invited to play, go to their blogs and leave them a special comment letting them know, and refer them to your blog for details.
Once the chosen have answered the questions on their own blog, they should come back to yours to tell you.
Here are my responses.
1. How would you describe your running 10 years ago?
Diesel engines, concrete powder and tiled sidewalks. I was studying abroad in Spain and I'd run on the fringes of the city - in the new development. I still get a little heady when there's just the right concoction of construction smells in the air. I'm snapped back in time to those 30-45 minute Spain runs and my giddy feelings of excitement and curiosity and wonderment at the newness of it all. It was not about the running at all; rather running was my vehicle for exploration.
2. What is your best and worst run/race experience?
My best and worst come from the same race. Great River Relay, August 2007. Here's the scoop.
Worst - My first leg of this race was projected to be a 58 minute, 7.4 mile deal. But, I got lost and turned it into a 2:24, 15 mile ordeal. Now, don't get me wrong - I am long-habituated to getting lost and don't mind a little extra mileage, but I had a team waiting for me, a next runner to tag. I also had to run two more legs of this thing, totaling another 12.6 miles. To say the least, I was anxious. To say the most, click here.
My second leg - aside from being pitch black (9:30 PM) - was an uneventful 8.2 miles.
Best - My third leg was a 4.4 mile shortie that I was projected to do in 36 minutes. I'd slept for four hours and was fresh as a daisy, ready to run. Until I got started, that is. My knees positively creaked. As I tossed my headlamp to my support van, I shouted, "Stick a fork in these legs - they're done!"
And then I heard the tap, tap, tap of footsteps behind me. Enter Bill. AKA Eye Candy. AKA the reason I run. (See #3 of this meme.) As he passed me, we exchanged greetings. I told him he looked strong, he claimed he wasn't, and that's where it could have ended.
But I didn't want it to. His gait was beautiful. I couldn't take my eyes off of him and that gorgeous, rhythmic stride. In order to keep him in my sights, I had to stick with him. So I did.
For the first two miles, I hung off his backside, about 5 strides back. Then I managed to pull even with him. Our vans were leap-frogging each other, offering us water, energy bars - and the berries. My very funny teammates were giving me a hard time. "Um, Teach, your run has been changed to a 7.2 miler."
"Ha. Funny guys," I commented to Bill, having already shared with him the trauma of my first leg. He mumbled something in reply, but I had inched ahead of him and took it to be filler so didn't ask for a repeat. When he pulled even with me again, we chatted a bit more. He was new to distance running, had been a sprinter. I couldn't sprint to save my life, but could run forever and a day -- good thing with my navigational abilities. Ha, ha. Yada, yada.
I checked my watch and registered 34 minutes and saw what I thought was the exchange point. I began to pour it on and encouraged Bill to stay with me, we were almost there!!! He again said something that I failed to hear, but hell if I was slowing down to ask for a repetition - my blood was up.
It was to stay up for another 20 minutes.
My funny guys hadn't been joking. My 4.4 mile route HAD been changed to a 7.2 miler. But I couldn't stop now because Bill was right on my tail. I could hear that insidious, rhythmic tap, tap, tapping at my back door - and nice as the view from behind had been, I wanted him to stay behind me now, dammit!
I had no energy to calculate distance at this point. I couldn't risk looking at my watch. I needed to concentrate, to live in that forward motion focal point in my head, right between my temples. All I registered was the pain in my chest, the ache in my quads - and the stronger will to stay ahead of Bill. He would pull even and we'd grunt encouragement at each other, but we both knew by now that this was a pissing match. Our vans and those supporting other runners did too. I fuzzily registered their presence and knew they were watching the whole thing unfold.
Now, I don't know about you, but I am an incurable show-off. Give me an audience and I will move mountains. Or just run pretty damn fast.
We reached the 1 mile to go signal and it was showtime. I hit my lap split and conjured energy. My forked-up legs, my guts, and my sleep-deprived brain all pitched in. To push me, to propel me forward. And then I saw the beautiful orange cones and flags of the exchange point. I saw that it was at the bottom of an incline and I cracked. A smile split across my face - or at least I pulled my lips back from my gaping, gasping hole of a mouth. I am good on the downhill.
I leg go of my legs, let them free fall, flapping down the hill, carrying me home. I snapped the relay bracelet on my friend's waiting wrist and turned around to watch Bill snap his partner. For the first time, we looked each other full in the face and shook hands, exchanging wide, sweaty, exhausted smiles. We were both breathing like freight trains but managed to gasp our congrats to each other and introductions to our respective teams. (My team then grabbed me for this commemorative photo.)
My best race? August 25, 2007 when Eye Candy Saved the Day
7.2 miles, 54.24 with a 6.31 last mile
YAHOO & THANK YOU, BILL!!!
3. Why do you run?
I think I've adequately spoken to this one already, no? ;-)
4. What is the best or worst piece of advice you've been given about running?
Best: "Run like you mean it!"
To my cousin Dan at his first race last year. He followed it, smashing his predicted time into itsy-bitsy bits.
Worst: "I'm not sure our big-boned, voluptuous bodies are made for running marathons."
To my sister. Just to prove me wrong, she ran two marathons in her 40th year - and did quite well with them, to boot.
5. Tell us something surprising about yourself that not many people would know.
All my life, I have been Type A, wound-too-tight-for-livin', driven. Last weekend someone called me laid back. LAID BACK?? That one's a surprise even to me.
I'm tagging 5 of my Wisconsin buds. Consider it my good-bye gift!
XT4
Erin
Brazo
JWM
Rural Girl
If you’re tagged, you will find your name at the end of this post. You should then copy the rules (or your version of them), and the set of questions onto your blog post, provide your own answers, and then tag 5 new people.
Just to be sure that everyone tagged knows they have been invited to play, go to their blogs and leave them a special comment letting them know, and refer them to your blog for details.
Once the chosen have answered the questions on their own blog, they should come back to yours to tell you.
Here are my responses.
1. How would you describe your running 10 years ago?
Diesel engines, concrete powder and tiled sidewalks. I was studying abroad in Spain and I'd run on the fringes of the city - in the new development. I still get a little heady when there's just the right concoction of construction smells in the air. I'm snapped back in time to those 30-45 minute Spain runs and my giddy feelings of excitement and curiosity and wonderment at the newness of it all. It was not about the running at all; rather running was my vehicle for exploration.
2. What is your best and worst run/race experience?
My best and worst come from the same race. Great River Relay, August 2007. Here's the scoop.
Worst - My first leg of this race was projected to be a 58 minute, 7.4 mile deal. But, I got lost and turned it into a 2:24, 15 mile ordeal. Now, don't get me wrong - I am long-habituated to getting lost and don't mind a little extra mileage, but I had a team waiting for me, a next runner to tag. I also had to run two more legs of this thing, totaling another 12.6 miles. To say the least, I was anxious. To say the most, click here.
My second leg - aside from being pitch black (9:30 PM) - was an uneventful 8.2 miles.
Best - My third leg was a 4.4 mile shortie that I was projected to do in 36 minutes. I'd slept for four hours and was fresh as a daisy, ready to run. Until I got started, that is. My knees positively creaked. As I tossed my headlamp to my support van, I shouted, "Stick a fork in these legs - they're done!"
And then I heard the tap, tap, tap of footsteps behind me. Enter Bill. AKA Eye Candy. AKA the reason I run. (See #3 of this meme.) As he passed me, we exchanged greetings. I told him he looked strong, he claimed he wasn't, and that's where it could have ended.
But I didn't want it to. His gait was beautiful. I couldn't take my eyes off of him and that gorgeous, rhythmic stride. In order to keep him in my sights, I had to stick with him. So I did.
For the first two miles, I hung off his backside, about 5 strides back. Then I managed to pull even with him. Our vans were leap-frogging each other, offering us water, energy bars - and the berries. My very funny teammates were giving me a hard time. "Um, Teach, your run has been changed to a 7.2 miler."
"Ha. Funny guys," I commented to Bill, having already shared with him the trauma of my first leg. He mumbled something in reply, but I had inched ahead of him and took it to be filler so didn't ask for a repeat. When he pulled even with me again, we chatted a bit more. He was new to distance running, had been a sprinter. I couldn't sprint to save my life, but could run forever and a day -- good thing with my navigational abilities. Ha, ha. Yada, yada.
I checked my watch and registered 34 minutes and saw what I thought was the exchange point. I began to pour it on and encouraged Bill to stay with me, we were almost there!!! He again said something that I failed to hear, but hell if I was slowing down to ask for a repetition - my blood was up.
It was to stay up for another 20 minutes.
My funny guys hadn't been joking. My 4.4 mile route HAD been changed to a 7.2 miler. But I couldn't stop now because Bill was right on my tail. I could hear that insidious, rhythmic tap, tap, tapping at my back door - and nice as the view from behind had been, I wanted him to stay behind me now, dammit!
I had no energy to calculate distance at this point. I couldn't risk looking at my watch. I needed to concentrate, to live in that forward motion focal point in my head, right between my temples. All I registered was the pain in my chest, the ache in my quads - and the stronger will to stay ahead of Bill. He would pull even and we'd grunt encouragement at each other, but we both knew by now that this was a pissing match. Our vans and those supporting other runners did too. I fuzzily registered their presence and knew they were watching the whole thing unfold.
Now, I don't know about you, but I am an incurable show-off. Give me an audience and I will move mountains. Or just run pretty damn fast.
We reached the 1 mile to go signal and it was showtime. I hit my lap split and conjured energy. My forked-up legs, my guts, and my sleep-deprived brain all pitched in. To push me, to propel me forward. And then I saw the beautiful orange cones and flags of the exchange point. I saw that it was at the bottom of an incline and I cracked. A smile split across my face - or at least I pulled my lips back from my gaping, gasping hole of a mouth. I am good on the downhill.I leg go of my legs, let them free fall, flapping down the hill, carrying me home. I snapped the relay bracelet on my friend's waiting wrist and turned around to watch Bill snap his partner. For the first time, we looked each other full in the face and shook hands, exchanging wide, sweaty, exhausted smiles. We were both breathing like freight trains but managed to gasp our congrats to each other and introductions to our respective teams. (My team then grabbed me for this commemorative photo.)
My best race? August 25, 2007 when Eye Candy Saved the Day7.2 miles, 54.24 with a 6.31 last mile
YAHOO & THANK YOU, BILL!!!
3. Why do you run?
I think I've adequately spoken to this one already, no? ;-)
4. What is the best or worst piece of advice you've been given about running?
Best: "Run like you mean it!"
To my cousin Dan at his first race last year. He followed it, smashing his predicted time into itsy-bitsy bits.
Worst: "I'm not sure our big-boned, voluptuous bodies are made for running marathons."
To my sister. Just to prove me wrong, she ran two marathons in her 40th year - and did quite well with them, to boot.
5. Tell us something surprising about yourself that not many people would know.
All my life, I have been Type A, wound-too-tight-for-livin', driven. Last weekend someone called me laid back. LAID BACK?? That one's a surprise even to me.
I'm tagging 5 of my Wisconsin buds. Consider it my good-bye gift!
XT4
Erin
Brazo
JWM
Rural Girl
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Sunday, June 08, 2008
Views from a Kayak in Wisconsin
I went for a paddle with some friends. 
Wave at the mirror, trees.
Labyrinthine
The things I learned from my paddle...
Dive nosefirst into life. Let your puppy do so too - even if it means he's diving nosefirst into the smelliest, deadest thing in a 50-mile radius.
Be Stevie Nicks and sing for the things money can't buy. I sing for the way my paddle gives a little "kick" and shoves the water back just like my hand as it flexes at the wrist during my catch on the swim.
I sing for a superintendent who has the courage to live by her convictions - and who embraces me as I leave to do the same.
I sing for family and friends, and for all the places to love. Like kayak trips on Wisconsin rivers.
Wave at the mirror, trees.Shadows out the back way.
I took a detour on an impromptu, flood-created oxbow. As I came out, there were shadows.
I took a detour on an impromptu, flood-created oxbow. As I came out, there were shadows.
Labyrinthine
The things I learned from my paddle...
Dive nosefirst into life. Let your puppy do so too - even if it means he's diving nosefirst into the smelliest, deadest thing in a 50-mile radius.
Be Stevie Nicks and sing for the things money can't buy. I sing for the way my paddle gives a little "kick" and shoves the water back just like my hand as it flexes at the wrist during my catch on the swim.
I sing for a superintendent who has the courage to live by her convictions - and who embraces me as I leave to do the same.
I sing for family and friends, and for all the places to love. Like kayak trips on Wisconsin rivers.
Endurance Events: Not Just for Triathletes Anymore
I slept for 12 hours yesterday. I was exhausted. Cindy hit the nail on the head with her comment; interviewing this last week was the Ironman of my professional world. It was a whirlwind. From Thursday, May 29th until Friday, June 6th my life consisted of phone calls, flights, and interviews. I had to be "on." And I was. Have you ever felt like you're a walking ball of electricity? I was crackling with ideas and teaching philosophy and kid stories. I was like a middle schooler on Mountain Dew. Buzz, buzz, buzz.
I still did workouts, but once I got the phone calls, I stopped chasing the odd minutes - or hours - that would bring me to my pre-ordained workout time. It simply was not possible. At one point, I'd driven 55 minutes to a trailhead, only to have my phone ring. "Since you're in town, would you be willing to interview at 1:00 today?" Instead of my planned 6-hour hike, I did a 45 minute run (starting elevation 7600 feet = huff and puff), and drove straight back home to get ready.
No one, of course, does this kind of electricity-hecticity alone; suffice it to say I have the best family, friends, and (*sniff*sniff*) set of colleagues a guy could want.
The job I've landed. Will rock. From the moment I saw the posting, I knew. It's me. It's part teaching, part teacher-leadership. I've been doing this kind of mix for the past five years in my current district. I'd been watching CO teaching postings since April (though I couldn't start applying until May because of the red tape in applying for my license - grrr) and I'd seen nothing like it. I was convinced that it did not exist in CO, so when I saw it, woof - my heart leapt. I immediately emailed my references and asked them to tweak my letters of recommendation for this job - THE job - as I referred to it. I wrote and re-wrote my cover letter, had my Sweet (smart, talented, beautiful) Sister help me revise it, and sent it off with fingers crossed.
I got the call May 29th, flew out May 31st, interviewed June 3 & 5, got the job June 6th. Smiles.
Mixed in were calls and an interview for another job - for which I can now cancel my 2nd interview, teaching, writing sub plans, working out, keeping family and friends posted, and ... woof, isn't that enough? I think I earned my Friday Night Freedom and Saturday Sleep.
But now. I have found the one. I will work with kids, I will research reading strategies and apply brain-based research in my classroom, I will team-teach with other professionals, I will analyze the needs of the teachers and the students, and I will be elbow-to-elbow, nose-to-nose with them becoming better teachers and readers.
I am happy about this position.
I still did workouts, but once I got the phone calls, I stopped chasing the odd minutes - or hours - that would bring me to my pre-ordained workout time. It simply was not possible. At one point, I'd driven 55 minutes to a trailhead, only to have my phone ring. "Since you're in town, would you be willing to interview at 1:00 today?" Instead of my planned 6-hour hike, I did a 45 minute run (starting elevation 7600 feet = huff and puff), and drove straight back home to get ready.
No one, of course, does this kind of electricity-hecticity alone; suffice it to say I have the best family, friends, and (*sniff*sniff*) set of colleagues a guy could want.
The job I've landed. Will rock. From the moment I saw the posting, I knew. It's me. It's part teaching, part teacher-leadership. I've been doing this kind of mix for the past five years in my current district. I'd been watching CO teaching postings since April (though I couldn't start applying until May because of the red tape in applying for my license - grrr) and I'd seen nothing like it. I was convinced that it did not exist in CO, so when I saw it, woof - my heart leapt. I immediately emailed my references and asked them to tweak my letters of recommendation for this job - THE job - as I referred to it. I wrote and re-wrote my cover letter, had my Sweet (smart, talented, beautiful) Sister help me revise it, and sent it off with fingers crossed.
I got the call May 29th, flew out May 31st, interviewed June 3 & 5, got the job June 6th. Smiles.
Mixed in were calls and an interview for another job - for which I can now cancel my 2nd interview, teaching, writing sub plans, working out, keeping family and friends posted, and ... woof, isn't that enough? I think I earned my Friday Night Freedom and Saturday Sleep.
But now. I have found the one. I will work with kids, I will research reading strategies and apply brain-based research in my classroom, I will team-teach with other professionals, I will analyze the needs of the teachers and the students, and I will be elbow-to-elbow, nose-to-nose with them becoming better teachers and readers.
I am happy about this position.
Friday, June 06, 2008
Friday Night Freedom
I sigh and smile and shiver with anticipation of Friday night freedom. I feel good tonight. I am gainfully employed. I got the call today from CO-way that I am in like Flynn.
Just. Like. That. My very first cover letter was the one. Wow. My head is kind of spinning, yet I'm also calm, at peace. I've worked so hard, focused so much attention on this job search that it feels strangely empty to have it done. Yet satisfying.
And I wanted tonight for myself. I took it. Away from anyone else so I could just steep in my own self. Sometimes I get so busy and otherways-focused that I forget who I am. And I AM. That is enough for tonight.
You got a sliver of me because I feel the need to write. I can feel a pour coming on -- a volcanic eruption of Triteacher news and photos and blog commenting nonpareil!
... but it may have to wait until after Friday Night Freedom.
A good one to you.
-TT.
Just. Like. That. My very first cover letter was the one. Wow. My head is kind of spinning, yet I'm also calm, at peace. I've worked so hard, focused so much attention on this job search that it feels strangely empty to have it done. Yet satisfying.
And I wanted tonight for myself. I took it. Away from anyone else so I could just steep in my own self. Sometimes I get so busy and otherways-focused that I forget who I am. And I AM. That is enough for tonight.
You got a sliver of me because I feel the need to write. I can feel a pour coming on -- a volcanic eruption of Triteacher news and photos and blog commenting nonpareil!
... but it may have to wait until after Friday Night Freedom.
A good one to you.
-TT.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Alive and Well in...
Colorado!
I flew out here for two interviews and have made a mini-vacation of it. It took the place of what was going to be my first triathlon on Sunday, but hey! - I will take it. I took a leap (quit my WI job) and now am seeing that there just might be a net in place to catch my fall after all.
I have been busy with work and play, but thought I'd do a quick post to let you all know that I am, indeed, alive and well. :-)
Oh, and I will post pictures and thoughts on this whole change process as soon as I can.
Best,
TT.
I flew out here for two interviews and have made a mini-vacation of it. It took the place of what was going to be my first triathlon on Sunday, but hey! - I will take it. I took a leap (quit my WI job) and now am seeing that there just might be a net in place to catch my fall after all.
I have been busy with work and play, but thought I'd do a quick post to let you all know that I am, indeed, alive and well. :-)
Oh, and I will post pictures and thoughts on this whole change process as soon as I can.
Best,
TT.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
The Y Factor
Alarm bells ring at 5 AM
Fingers fuzzily fumble for the snooze
But then relinquish the covers
Before the bell sings again
It is not bells to whom we reply
But rather it is…
The call of the Y
We shuffle through its doors
Mumble hellos through unbrushed teeth
Or maybe just nod
Clang our lockers
And done our battle gear
Uncombed hair
Is pulled back in pony tails
Tucked under swim caps
Plastered to our skulls
We commence
Sleepy brains count yards
And strokes
And strokes per x amount of yards
They count heartbeats and measure miles
And calculate minutes per mile
Slope-intercept form ready
We reach and we pull
We lengthen our stride
Extend our reach
We work and we sweat
All accompanied by
the heavy (morning) breath symphony
Sixty minutes and many heartbeats later
We reunite in the locker room
Gone are the trudging drones with messy hair
The Y has worked its magic
Our smiles are exuberant
Our bodies lithe
Our greetings and exchanges
Charged with the electricity of
Endorphins
We spring out through Y doors
In school clothes
In work suits
Our rouged cheeks and lips
Curled into satisfied smiles
That leak out
And meld with the sunshine
Cuz underneath it all
We carry the Y factor
We know the secret
Underneath it all
We are bone and tissue
well-toned muscle
chlorine-tinged skin
and steadily-beating heart.
Fingers fuzzily fumble for the snooze
But then relinquish the covers
Before the bell sings again
It is not bells to whom we reply
But rather it is…
The call of the Y
We shuffle through its doors
Mumble hellos through unbrushed teeth
Or maybe just nod
Clang our lockers
And done our battle gear
Uncombed hair
Is pulled back in pony tails
Tucked under swim caps
Plastered to our skulls
We commence
Sleepy brains count yards
And strokes
And strokes per x amount of yards
They count heartbeats and measure miles
And calculate minutes per mile
Slope-intercept form ready
We reach and we pull
We lengthen our stride
Extend our reach
We work and we sweat
All accompanied by
the heavy (morning) breath symphony
Sixty minutes and many heartbeats later
We reunite in the locker room
Gone are the trudging drones with messy hair
The Y has worked its magic
Our smiles are exuberant
Our bodies lithe
Our greetings and exchanges
Charged with the electricity of
Endorphins
We spring out through Y doors
In school clothes
In work suits
Our rouged cheeks and lips
Curled into satisfied smiles
That leak out
And meld with the sunshine
Cuz underneath it all
We carry the Y factor
We know the secret
Underneath it all
We are bone and tissue
well-toned muscle
chlorine-tinged skin
and steadily-beating heart.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Battle Hymn
I fly but with my wings tucked
my head cradled between them
sucking in my gut (as if)
tightening abs and ass
to minimize the drag
Even my lips are compressed
until I see
and feel
39 MPH
EXHILARATION
tinged with not a little fear
pries open my lips
unclenches my throat
and allows
Gillian Welch's Indian War Whoop
to escape from my mouth
The cry ricochets off the asphalt
is carried on the winds
all the way down the hill
into the surrounding ditches and woods
threading its way into the very fabric of the day
proclaiming that
FAST
feels good.
my head cradled between them
sucking in my gut (as if)
tightening abs and ass
to minimize the drag
Even my lips are compressed
until I see
and feel
39 MPH
EXHILARATION
tinged with not a little fear
pries open my lips
unclenches my throat
and allows
Gillian Welch's Indian War Whoop
to escape from my mouth
The cry ricochets off the asphalt
is carried on the winds
all the way down the hill
into the surrounding ditches and woods
threading its way into the very fabric of the day
proclaiming that
FAST
feels good.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Nourish
I fought her in fourth grade. She struggled with Reading, Math, Science, Social Studies and me. She stole things, she lied, she alienated her peers.
She stockpiled food. The granola bar and apple I’d give her for breakfast would later be spied in parts – pieces stashed in her locker, her coat pocket, her backpack, her desk. She came to school hungry. She came dirty, tired, cranky, and with toothaches. She in no way could be termed “ready to learn.”
I fed her, yes. I ignored her smell, yes. I gave her pencils and books, stickers and hugs. But make no mistake - I pushed her, yes. Sometimes to tears. She’d leave my room to go to the counselor, to cry. I begged the speech teacher to continue to see her, if only to give her a reprieve from me. To give her another outlet, someone who could be softer, who didn’t feel compelled to teach her, who didn’t see so clearly and believe so dearly that education was her only ticket out.
I fought her in fourth grade.
Now she is in eighth grade, her locker across from my room. She unfailingly greets me when we pass in the hallways, she has joined my book club. She confides in me about her period and boys, her sister, her grandma, and – once in a while – her dad.
This girl I fought in fourth grade. I think she knows. I pushed her, yes. I ignored her smell, yes. I even fed her. But what I really wanted all this time was to nourish her.
She stockpiled food. The granola bar and apple I’d give her for breakfast would later be spied in parts – pieces stashed in her locker, her coat pocket, her backpack, her desk. She came to school hungry. She came dirty, tired, cranky, and with toothaches. She in no way could be termed “ready to learn.”
I fed her, yes. I ignored her smell, yes. I gave her pencils and books, stickers and hugs. But make no mistake - I pushed her, yes. Sometimes to tears. She’d leave my room to go to the counselor, to cry. I begged the speech teacher to continue to see her, if only to give her a reprieve from me. To give her another outlet, someone who could be softer, who didn’t feel compelled to teach her, who didn’t see so clearly and believe so dearly that education was her only ticket out.
I fought her in fourth grade.
Now she is in eighth grade, her locker across from my room. She unfailingly greets me when we pass in the hallways, she has joined my book club. She confides in me about her period and boys, her sister, her grandma, and – once in a while – her dad.
This girl I fought in fourth grade. I think she knows. I pushed her, yes. I ignored her smell, yes. I even fed her. But what I really wanted all this time was to nourish her.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
I Did That Thang
I did that thang
where you get on your bike
and you ride somewhere
anywhere
just cuz you're back
from where you've eaten Mom's cooking
all weekend
and then she packed
homemade cheesecake
for you
and 15 of your closest friends
and somehow it ended up on the front seat
and by the time you get home
you realize that you are fortunate that friendship is not based on your ability to deliver the cheesecake and know that 15 friends will be none the wiser
but you also know that you need to get on that bike
going somewhere
anywhere
cuz it's sunny out today not to mention 23 degrees warmer than yesterday
so you go do that thang
where you get on your bike
and you take the first road that catches your fancy and ride it
up, up, up this one goes
past frogs rrreee-rrreee-rrreee ing
paralleling a crane for half a mile
flying side-by-side
twin stretched necks
hers long and graceful
culminating in a beak
yours stretched and musclely
culminating in aerobar tips
The road T's and you choose into the wind
while she keeps flying straight
and you're on your own
just you and the thoughts of the weekend
the relay run
the family
the strong-willed women who lunched together and laughed at themselves until interrupted by the family men who crashed the party wearing robes
begging for kisses (the loudest was my dad)
And then you think of nothing
just wear that goofy grin
and soak it all in-in
a peaceful spot
a staying spot
a sunny spot without
and in
I did that thang
where I got on my bike
and went somewhere
anywhere
everywhere
where you get on your bike
and you ride somewhere
anywhere
just cuz you're back
from where you've eaten Mom's cooking
all weekend
and then she packed
homemade cheesecake
for you
and 15 of your closest friends
and somehow it ended up on the front seat
and by the time you get home
you realize that you are fortunate that friendship is not based on your ability to deliver the cheesecake and know that 15 friends will be none the wiser
but you also know that you need to get on that bike
going somewhere
anywhere
cuz it's sunny out today not to mention 23 degrees warmer than yesterday
so you go do that thang
where you get on your bike
and you take the first road that catches your fancy and ride it
up, up, up this one goes
past frogs rrreee-rrreee-rrreee ing
paralleling a crane for half a mile
flying side-by-side
twin stretched necks
hers long and graceful
culminating in a beak
yours stretched and musclely
culminating in aerobar tips
The road T's and you choose into the wind
while she keeps flying straight
and you're on your own
just you and the thoughts of the weekend
the relay run
the family
the strong-willed women who lunched together and laughed at themselves until interrupted by the family men who crashed the party wearing robes
begging for kisses (the loudest was my dad)
And then you think of nothing
just wear that goofy grin
and soak it all in-in
a peaceful spot
a staying spot
a sunny spot without
and in
I did that thang
where I got on my bike
and went somewhere
anywhere
everywhere
Thursday, April 17, 2008
A Study in Contrasts
Did you ever notice that you can especially appreciate feeling good after a period of feeling downright crappy? I can finally smile today. I've made headway in so many arenas of my life this week (paper blizzard nearly managed on the job front, moving plan taking shape, spring weather finally starting).
This study in contrasts would be well-illustrated by a pair of rides I did this week. Check it out...
Tuesday night's ride home: 1:54, 13.7 MPH Average.
There was a KILLER headwind that hurt even as a crosswind. Think frontal attack for 20 miles interspersed with 5 miles of lateral attack. I know two languages and exhausted my swear words in both. At one point, I was pedaling downhill and topped out at 14 MPH.
Theeen...
Wednesday's ride to school: 1:20, 19.5 MPH Average.
That killer headwind stuck around to become a killer tailwind. Woot!
I smiled on Wednesday morning for oh, approximately 1 hour, 20 minutes.
This study in contrasts would be well-illustrated by a pair of rides I did this week. Check it out...
Tuesday night's ride home: 1:54, 13.7 MPH Average.
There was a KILLER headwind that hurt even as a crosswind. Think frontal attack for 20 miles interspersed with 5 miles of lateral attack. I know two languages and exhausted my swear words in both. At one point, I was pedaling downhill and topped out at 14 MPH.
Theeen...
Wednesday's ride to school: 1:20, 19.5 MPH Average.
That killer headwind stuck around to become a killer tailwind. Woot!
I smiled on Wednesday morning for oh, approximately 1 hour, 20 minutes.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
The Teacher is Taut
Methodical and patient. That is how I have to be right now.
I calmly focus first on getting that ineffable feel of "tautness" in the water. Like my body is corkscrewing tightly around the axis of my torso. It takes time. The first 200 warm-up is spent achieving that feeling – just the right amount of stretch, reach, and time spent on my side before I begin the slow rotation back to my other side. I put a dipstick in – I count my stroke for a length to see how I'm progressing. Eighteen is good enough, 17 is better, 16 means it's a really good day in the water.
Next I focus on the catch. I follow each arm through the full motion of scraping the rim of the big bowl in front of me. I keep my elbow high. Again, I know I've achieved success by the "feel" of it. My biceps and triceps let me know when I'm pulling all of the water I should be.
This time, the woman in the next lane will serve as my measuring tool. She is fast. I don't know her, but my eyes nearly bugged out of their goggles when she sped by me on my warm-up. She has been interesting to watch. She races to the end of the lane, touches - and while her head is out of the water, makes a giant breathing sound that I've only heard before in the spouts of whales. Then she dives back under for another kickin' 25. I have taken note and have been working up to this part of the workout. The part where I'll match myself with her.
My torso elongates, my arms pull, sweep, grab every drop of water they can. She beats me to the end, but my flip turn pulls me even with her. My flip turns make it possible for me to stay with her for 200 yards.
My flip turns. I taught myself them in a hotel pool when I was first starting triathlon. We were on a family vacation and I ditched everyone for the day to stay in the pool. Over and over I somersaulted, getting water up my nose, getting dizzy, going into the flip too early and having my feet completely miss the wall… until finally, at 4:00 that afternoon, I proudly ran to my family and dragged them poolside to watch me flip.
As I've swum this week, I have reflected on this little swimming empire I've built. It has taken nine years of practice. Of being methodical and patient. The tautness, the confidence in the water has been taught, worked for, hard-won. I didn't learn everything new in one day – or even one week.
I can't meet all of the challenges of my future at the precise moment when I'm strong enough and have enough energy for them. Instead I'm finding that I have to be steady. Patient. Methodical. I have to get water up my nose sometimes and wait interminably (it seems) for that ineffable feeling of tautness. I have to wait for all of my various forms to be returned, for my stinkin' paperwork to be processed, for the schools to call me for interviews. (I have already woken up in the wee hours tingling with the electricity of ideas for what to say in my interviews. I know - really sexy, but hey, that's where I'm at.) And then I'll have to wait for word on whether or not I have the teaching job. That's a lot of waiting.
Deep, whale-like exhalation.
And I remind myself: Rome wasn't built in a day. My swimming empire was not built in a day. My Colorado future will take time too.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Get It While You Can
I took these immortal words of Janis Joplin to heart today and hopped on my bike. This week Wisconsin has been defined by 38 degrees and definite rain. But for a few brief, elusive moments this afternoon, the rain stopped and the temp crept up over 40. The stars really were aligned as I was done with school (but, as you'll see, not done with kids) which meant .... bike time!
I hopped on Serra and headed south, knowing that the wind was out of the southwest. It is ALWAYS best to get the wind out of the way first. Today was no exception. I rode the side streets to get out of town and then had a country road all but to myself. Flooded fields and big wet trees surrounded me. I went out 10 miles and turned around to cruise home with that wind at my back. I felt gooood.The raindrops caught me at the turn-around but fortunately they weren't the driving torrent that we'd been experiencing. Just enough drippies to get my jacket good and wet.
Enter the children. Apparently I'm good for a laugh. Coming back into town, I rode past a gaggle of tween boys who were congregating outside of the cinema. Two of them giggled and waved, yelling "Hi!"
Oh my, did they bust a gut when I gave them an effusive wave and yelled, "Well, helloooooo!" (I get like that on my bike. Smiling at everybody, yelling, loving the world.)
I guess they thought they were laughing at me with my biker outfit of spandex pants, blue jacket, helmet and geeky blue glasses, but guess what - I laughed right along with them.
And yelled "hi" to the next set of teenagers walking down the sidewalk - just for good measure. (FYI: They just stared at me. Quintessential teenagers, these.)
At home, I swapped out bikes to head to the grocery store. (Why the bike swap? Because I didn't have my bike lock and -- well, obviously, my MTB is expendable. Serra? Over my dripping wet, dead, spandex-clad body!) I scooted to the grocery store for some supper fixins and there was taken to kindergarten.
"Oh look! Does she ride her bike in the rain, Mommy?" was squealed loudly as I entered the store. Geez, it wasn't like it was pouring or anything. And, contrary to some of my students' beliefs, I do not melt in the rain. Little Girl with Big Mouth got a smile too.
The numbers for today: Biked 1:09, 20.6 miles, Av 17.8 MPH, Grades encountered = K-12
Plus plenty o' smiles and pride for getting it while I could.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Mile High Memories
L: My first day ever skiing in the mountains. My smile here is all bravado; I am quaking in my boots. I'd just wiped out in a big, bad way - see the snow packed into the zipper of my ski pants. I picked myself up and made it to the bottom of that run though. FYI for the numbers folks: our last run took 16 minutes, 28 seconds. Now that's skiing.
Above R: My recovery meal and compensation for having to sit with frozen corn on my knee the whole next day.
Falcon rests in the open space that adjoins my sister's backyard. These open spaces were built for drainage, I am told, but for the fresh air fiends of Colorado - and their visiting siblings - they are an escape to the wild.
Laced with running trails and arroyos, dotted with prairie dog communities and a favorite haunt for coyotes, the open space drew me out of the house every day. Denver and the mountains serve as
a backdrop.
Chatfield Reservoir as seen from Plymouth Mountain. I hadn't taken my camera on the bike ride I'd inadvertently ended up doing around the reservoir three days prior to this so I was absolutely thrilled to get a view of it on my hike. In the foreground is aptly-named Dinosaur Ridge, another hike that is on my to-do list.
Anytime you can wear shorts in snow, you're in my kind of country. Two runners - they had to be Bubba-like crazies (read ultra-runners) looped by me twice on this hike. They were attired in singlets and running shorts. I felt over-dressed and under-trained.
Two of the best hiking companionsyou ever will come across. They were rocking the car with snores by the time I finished using the restroom at the end of our hike.
A little Colorado color framed by a picnic shelter. I love all the neutral, earth tones used in the architecture in the state. The outdoors is embraced.
I think I'm gonna like it there...
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Good Kid
I've been a good kid since my confession on Tuesday night. I shut down the Pringles factory, limited myself to ONE glass of the sweet red stuff, and have had salads for supper. You guys really do it for me.
I've even been working out. I did a sunlit run with the Weimaraner in my life yesterday evening - 30.32 with 3 hills AND I did a bike/swim brick tonight.
Tonight's numbers:
Biked 25 miles, 1:18 (Or thereabouts; someone forgot to turn on her bike computer at the start!)
Swam 53.32
I biked to my pooltown tonight and jumped right into a master's swim class. I'd been expecting to swim alone, but Coach welcomed me to his new class - pointed to a lane and told me to "speed them up." It was awesome. I know how to swim. It made me reflect on how far I've come. Three years ago, I would have been intimidated by that situation. Tonight I did it without thinking twice. I jumped in, introduced myself, made fast friends, and shared the lead appropriately as we figured out our relative speeds. I'm so calm in the water. It feels natural. Even when I was choking on water on our fast set, I knew to trust myself, to finish out the count and clear my throat on the breath. It sounds impossible when you think about it; it's a do kind of thing, the kind of thing that comes automatically after years of practice. The kind of thing I appreciate at a time like this when I'm more aware and reflective.
On the move: I've been getting the job done on finding my CO job - or at least getting the license. I sent more faxes yesterday than I've sent in the rest of my life cumulatively. And I've started to say some of the sweetest good-byes ever. There have been tears, but they've been shared tears, mutual admiration tears - the kind of tears that mean we're going to keep in touch even though we're 1022 miles apart. I've been collecting letters of recommendation too, and if that doesn't make a guy's head swell, I don't know what will. I haven't told a ton of people - and those I have are sworn to secrecy - but I know. It's changed me. I am more appreciative and more aware of everything as I go through my day. My days here are numbered and I'm going to make each one of them count.
My life is good.
I've even been working out. I did a sunlit run with the Weimaraner in my life yesterday evening - 30.32 with 3 hills AND I did a bike/swim brick tonight.
Tonight's numbers:
Biked 25 miles, 1:18 (Or thereabouts; someone forgot to turn on her bike computer at the start!)
Swam 53.32
I biked to my pooltown tonight and jumped right into a master's swim class. I'd been expecting to swim alone, but Coach welcomed me to his new class - pointed to a lane and told me to "speed them up." It was awesome. I know how to swim. It made me reflect on how far I've come. Three years ago, I would have been intimidated by that situation. Tonight I did it without thinking twice. I jumped in, introduced myself, made fast friends, and shared the lead appropriately as we figured out our relative speeds. I'm so calm in the water. It feels natural. Even when I was choking on water on our fast set, I knew to trust myself, to finish out the count and clear my throat on the breath. It sounds impossible when you think about it; it's a do kind of thing, the kind of thing that comes automatically after years of practice. The kind of thing I appreciate at a time like this when I'm more aware and reflective.
On the move: I've been getting the job done on finding my CO job - or at least getting the license. I sent more faxes yesterday than I've sent in the rest of my life cumulatively. And I've started to say some of the sweetest good-byes ever. There have been tears, but they've been shared tears, mutual admiration tears - the kind of tears that mean we're going to keep in touch even though we're 1022 miles apart. I've been collecting letters of recommendation too, and if that doesn't make a guy's head swell, I don't know what will. I haven't told a ton of people - and those I have are sworn to secrecy - but I know. It's changed me. I am more appreciative and more aware of everything as I go through my day. My days here are numbered and I'm going to make each one of them count.
My life is good.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Killin' It
Someone recently sent me an email hoping I was out there "killin' it". Hoo boy, do I wish! I shoulda posted about 5 days ago when I was EXCITED about this process I'm undertaking. Before I actually started the WORK associated with this process I'm undertaking.
Deep breath. And I'll cut all the subterfuge.
I'm moving.
To Colorado.
Like muchos miles away from po-dunk village, Wisconsin. And man, I am excited. But sheesh, the process of becoming a teacher in Colorado is kicking my ass. There is red tape like you wouldn't believe. They want fingerprints on a specially-coded CBI (yep, that's Colorado Bureau of Investigation) card, administrator-signed statements from every school district in which you've worked, a note from your mother and her 50 last contacts in the medical profession, your college transcripts AND a special form signed by the "Certification Officer" of said college... OK, maybe one of those was an exaggeration, but they seriously want a lot of stuff. No one ever said that being a teacher was easy!
And that's just how I apply for the teaching license. I haven't even begun the job applications yet. I got shut down on those on the second question: "When do you anticipate receiving your Colorado Teaching License?" So I thought I'd better apply for that first.
But. I AM excited. I've made this decision and feel good about it. Some day I'll even post pics of what I'm so excited about. That place is beautiful, folks. I think of Colorado and I think of mountains and sunshine. Mmmm...
I think of Colorado Teaching License and I think of M&Ms, Merlot, and triple-fatty food. I am doing some serious bribing of myself these days.
So. Killin' it? Not so much. Or maybe I'm just not "out there" killin' it - I'm in here, coating some arteries, killin' some serious brain cells, and cutting a lot of red tape with BLACK INK ONLY.
An auspicious beginning, no?
Deep breath. And I'll cut all the subterfuge.
I'm moving.
To Colorado.
Like muchos miles away from po-dunk village, Wisconsin. And man, I am excited. But sheesh, the process of becoming a teacher in Colorado is kicking my ass. There is red tape like you wouldn't believe. They want fingerprints on a specially-coded CBI (yep, that's Colorado Bureau of Investigation) card, administrator-signed statements from every school district in which you've worked, a note from your mother and her 50 last contacts in the medical profession, your college transcripts AND a special form signed by the "Certification Officer" of said college... OK, maybe one of those was an exaggeration, but they seriously want a lot of stuff. No one ever said that being a teacher was easy!
And that's just how I apply for the teaching license. I haven't even begun the job applications yet. I got shut down on those on the second question: "When do you anticipate receiving your Colorado Teaching License?" So I thought I'd better apply for that first.
But. I AM excited. I've made this decision and feel good about it. Some day I'll even post pics of what I'm so excited about. That place is beautiful, folks. I think of Colorado and I think of mountains and sunshine. Mmmm...
I think of Colorado Teaching License and I think of M&Ms, Merlot, and triple-fatty food. I am doing some serious bribing of myself these days.
So. Killin' it? Not so much. Or maybe I'm just not "out there" killin' it - I'm in here, coating some arteries, killin' some serious brain cells, and cutting a lot of red tape with BLACK INK ONLY.
An auspicious beginning, no?
Dedication to F-R-E-E
F ollow a train of thought from engine to caboose
R un in the rain
E nergy to dance, to sing, to play guitar (Na, na, na - hear J. Mellencamp)
E mpathy to reach out to others who might benefit from the hard-won wisdom of experience
I erect this monument to F-R-E-E. I am getting there. From The Moments to actual minutes now. Woot!
R un in the rain
E nergy to dance, to sing, to play guitar (Na, na, na - hear J. Mellencamp)
E mpathy to reach out to others who might benefit from the hard-won wisdom of experience
I erect this monument to F-R-E-E. I am getting there. From The Moments to actual minutes now. Woot!
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Heat Seeker
If I weren't cold, I would do it.
If it weren't another slate gray sky, I'd be on it.
My bike sits in the garage, loaded and ready.
I sit on the couch, snuggled in and sipping coffee.
If the coffee weren't so warm and tasty,
If I didn't have to do laundry and to start a job search,
If I just could read the rest of my book
when I returned,
then I'd be right on that bike.
If the concert hadn't been so good last night,
If the fiddle hadn't pulled my heart out
through the tips of my nipples,
If I hadn't waltzed with the banjo and the guitar,
In concert
swaying
synchronized souls
Then I wouldn't have to savor it
and instead
I'd get out on my bike.
- Beat -
If I could erase the memory of THAT hill
the one that kicks my ass every year
then my heart wouldn't jump
I wouldn't hear my adrenaline say
You have demons to conquer, TT
even today on a cold,
slate gray,
post-concert day.
But -
I do remember
My heart does jump
I do have demons
I do want to engage them...
Cold?
Can't touch this fire -
See you on that hill.
*Edit: I fought the hill and... who won? Well, let's just call it a draw. :-)
Biked 1:48.07, 30.6 miles, Avg. 17 MPH
If it weren't another slate gray sky, I'd be on it.
My bike sits in the garage, loaded and ready.
I sit on the couch, snuggled in and sipping coffee.
If the coffee weren't so warm and tasty,
If I didn't have to do laundry and to start a job search,
If I just could read the rest of my book
when I returned,
then I'd be right on that bike.
If the concert hadn't been so good last night,
If the fiddle hadn't pulled my heart out
through the tips of my nipples,
If I hadn't waltzed with the banjo and the guitar,
In concert
swaying
synchronized souls
Then I wouldn't have to savor it
and instead
I'd get out on my bike.
- Beat -
If I could erase the memory of THAT hillthe one that kicks my ass every year
then my heart wouldn't jump
I wouldn't hear my adrenaline say
You have demons to conquer, TT
even today on a cold,
slate gray,
post-concert day.
But -
I do remember
My heart does jump
I do have demons
I do want to engage them...
Cold?
Can't touch this fire -
See you on that hill.
*Edit: I fought the hill and... who won? Well, let's just call it a draw. :-)
Biked 1:48.07, 30.6 miles, Avg. 17 MPH
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Woman in Wind
It is a windy day
geese cartwheel
across a slate gray sky
like so many bed sheets flapping
slapping
in a line-drying frenzy
This almost-violent playfulness
strikes a answering chord in me
In this
my inaugural run of the 2008 season
my feet pound up the hill
Inspired
I am going too fast
A glance at my heart rate monitor
confirms the call
to bridle my enthusiasm
to rein in this wind
to take my time
I do.
I feel my feet upon this path
hear the dying crunch of this snow's
final days
control my slip across snowmobile-packed ice.
In the woods
I even stop and gaze
at the trees waving their branches
and touch my hand to the warmth
left
by the kiss of the wind
on each of my cheeks
The speed of the wind
the careening of the geese
are now in sharp contrast with me
The centered one
Centered in my shoes and in my knees
This run brings a resurgence of joy
of peace
of exhilaration
of springtime in Wisconsin.
geese cartwheel
across a slate gray sky
like so many bed sheets flapping
slapping
in a line-drying frenzy
This almost-violent playfulness
strikes a answering chord in me
In this
my inaugural run of the 2008 season
my feet pound up the hill
Inspired
I am going too fast
A glance at my heart rate monitor
confirms the call
to bridle my enthusiasm
to rein in this wind
to take my time
I do.
I feel my feet upon this path
hear the dying crunch of this snow's
final days
control my slip across snowmobile-packed ice.
In the woods
I even stop and gaze
at the trees waving their branches
and touch my hand to the warmth
left
by the kiss of the wind
on each of my cheeks
The speed of the wind
the careening of the geese
are now in sharp contrast with me
The centered one
Centered in my shoes and in my knees
This run brings a resurgence of joy
of peace
of exhilaration
of springtime in Wisconsin.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
In Reality, Frozen
I sit the day after skiing with a bag of frozen corn on my knee. I am ticked at myself for falling, ticked at myself for having to challenge myself on my first day of skiing in the mountains. More than anything though, I am utterly disappointed that my actions are resulting in me sitting at home cozied up with frozen corn and One Hundred Years of Solitude. I should be in Boulder hiking with my cousin and then finding out all about the Boulder Cruiser rides he's been raving about in his emails to me. He has intrigued me with teasers such as:
But here I sit
feeling like sh-t
with frozen corn
on a swollen knee
writing crappy poet-ry,
Poor ME.
And then I realize that it will happen. That I will return to Colorado and visit my cousin in Boulder. I realize that I trust my judgment on my knee, that I made the right call today. That sane people just don't push an injury the day after it occurs. That my gut-reading of my body and reason need to prevail over my passion, whim, and curiosity sometimes.
And then I believe. I know to my toes that my knee will heal, that I'll make the right decisions to encourage its healing and that someday... I will ride again. Someday I will be out in this Colorado sun and wind, and it will carry me. I'll wear a costume to make Steve in a Speedo proud, to represent for us Midwesterners, to cruise the bike-friendly streets of Boulder. My spirit will fly...
The chill in my knee pulls my head out of the clouds, the ache in my butt from sitting all day says, "Hey girlie, you're here!" I pop another ibuprofen and...
*SIGH*
Cuz for today, it's corn for me folks.
- How do you feel about drinking and riding?
- Silly attired is encouraged.
- Bring an overnight bag just in case you feel like letting loose a little.
But here I sit
feeling like sh-t
with frozen corn
on a swollen knee
writing crappy poet-ry,
Poor ME.
And then I realize that it will happen. That I will return to Colorado and visit my cousin in Boulder. I realize that I trust my judgment on my knee, that I made the right call today. That sane people just don't push an injury the day after it occurs. That my gut-reading of my body and reason need to prevail over my passion, whim, and curiosity sometimes.
And then I believe. I know to my toes that my knee will heal, that I'll make the right decisions to encourage its healing and that someday... I will ride again. Someday I will be out in this Colorado sun and wind, and it will carry me. I'll wear a costume to make Steve in a Speedo proud, to represent for us Midwesterners, to cruise the bike-friendly streets of Boulder. My spirit will fly...
The chill in my knee pulls my head out of the clouds, the ache in my butt from sitting all day says, "Hey girlie, you're here!" I pop another ibuprofen and...
*SIGH*
Cuz for today, it's corn for me folks.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
The Day the Old Dog Got Wet
It all happened the day that the old dog got wet, the day that we didn't ski, the day that two missions were thwarted. It all happened the day that I smiled at everyone.
Picture two sisters in a van, driving to a ski hill. Hear them talking. See them drive 30 miles past their exit before they notice that they missed their turn. See them go to the nearest mountain, hop on the shuttle and find that the chalet is out of rentals. See them drive all the way back home, postponing the ski trip until the next day - still talking, now laughing at themselves.
See them get home. One heads upstairs to work on web design. The other heads out the door to bike to the Y to swim. One accomplishes her mission. The other overshoots her turn and realizing it, is too intrigued by what might lie ahead on this network of Denver bike paths. She keeps riding, swimsuit under her bike clothes, backpack full of showering gear and bearing Y card strapped to her back. She ends up at Chatfield State Park and immediately sees the Chatfield Reservoir and the trail that seems to lead around its circumference. She immediately sees her new mission. She does not see the "Authorized Vehicles Only" signs. Until an hour later when she has completed the loop, has ridden along the top of the levee and then descended to weave her way around deserted campgrounds and through swampy woods to arrive back at her starting point - only then does she see the signs.
Threading her way back home along the bike paths, she finds that she is smiling. At everyone. She smiles at the grouchy lady pulling her mini-van into her garage, at the middle-aged guy walking his dog who seems to resent having to share the path with her, at the cute kid walking his old blind dog who doesn't seem to have a resentment or a worry in the world. She smiles at the world, and the sunshine feels like it's smiling with her.
She smiles at the sister who greets her when she walks in the door. The sister's brow unfurls and work tensions evaporate in a laugh as she listens to the younger sister complain of a hunger so strong that it seemed as though her stomach had folded over on itself and was eating itself. A slug of Acclerade and a bottle of water later, she hitches up two yellow labs and walks them out into the sunshine, into the open space that is the front range of the Rockies, that bows in the shadow of those monoliths, that seems like a little sister itself - stretching to reach the heights of its elder, carved with muddy arroyos, decorated with yucca and prickly cacti, dotted with the mounds of prairie dogs, and oh-so-sunlit today. The dogs and the sister weave their way through, sometimes on the paved path but more often on the dirt path, finding their way to the newly-gushing creek, where the old, arthritic dog can't contain her joy at the day and jumps in, swims to her heart's content and then comes out to chase the younger dog in tight wet circles. They growl and they spit up gravel, leaving muddy clods in their wake. The younger sister follows them home.
It all happened the day that the old dog got wet, the day that we didn't ski, the day that two missions got thwarted. It all happened today.
Picture two sisters in a van, driving to a ski hill. Hear them talking. See them drive 30 miles past their exit before they notice that they missed their turn. See them go to the nearest mountain, hop on the shuttle and find that the chalet is out of rentals. See them drive all the way back home, postponing the ski trip until the next day - still talking, now laughing at themselves.
See them get home. One heads upstairs to work on web design. The other heads out the door to bike to the Y to swim. One accomplishes her mission. The other overshoots her turn and realizing it, is too intrigued by what might lie ahead on this network of Denver bike paths. She keeps riding, swimsuit under her bike clothes, backpack full of showering gear and bearing Y card strapped to her back. She ends up at Chatfield State Park and immediately sees the Chatfield Reservoir and the trail that seems to lead around its circumference. She immediately sees her new mission. She does not see the "Authorized Vehicles Only" signs. Until an hour later when she has completed the loop, has ridden along the top of the levee and then descended to weave her way around deserted campgrounds and through swampy woods to arrive back at her starting point - only then does she see the signs.
Threading her way back home along the bike paths, she finds that she is smiling. At everyone. She smiles at the grouchy lady pulling her mini-van into her garage, at the middle-aged guy walking his dog who seems to resent having to share the path with her, at the cute kid walking his old blind dog who doesn't seem to have a resentment or a worry in the world. She smiles at the world, and the sunshine feels like it's smiling with her.
She smiles at the sister who greets her when she walks in the door. The sister's brow unfurls and work tensions evaporate in a laugh as she listens to the younger sister complain of a hunger so strong that it seemed as though her stomach had folded over on itself and was eating itself. A slug of Acclerade and a bottle of water later, she hitches up two yellow labs and walks them out into the sunshine, into the open space that is the front range of the Rockies, that bows in the shadow of those monoliths, that seems like a little sister itself - stretching to reach the heights of its elder, carved with muddy arroyos, decorated with yucca and prickly cacti, dotted with the mounds of prairie dogs, and oh-so-sunlit today. The dogs and the sister weave their way through, sometimes on the paved path but more often on the dirt path, finding their way to the newly-gushing creek, where the old, arthritic dog can't contain her joy at the day and jumps in, swims to her heart's content and then comes out to chase the younger dog in tight wet circles. They growl and they spit up gravel, leaving muddy clods in their wake. The younger sister follows them home.
It all happened the day that the old dog got wet, the day that we didn't ski, the day that two missions got thwarted. It all happened today.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Grrr... to Brrr...?
NOT SO QUICK! I did get out and bike yesterday. Let me tell you a little secret.
Middle schoolers are unreliable reporters of the weather.
All afternoon I heard dire reports and complaints of how they'd had to go outside for recess and their science class. A sampling for your pleasure:
The science teacher herself shook her head and told me to bundle up when I said I was riding.
So I listened and bundled up. And walked out into pure sunshine and 40 degrees. No, that is not the promised 43 degrees, but sheesh, we've had teens and 20s. I was sweating within a mile. I had to stop at a friend's house to ditch layers. But then -- I had my first ride. And it was BEAUTIFUL. My bike is awesome. There is nothing, no thing, like a bike that fits you like a glove. My bike fits.
How does it feel? Like the hills aren't as hard. Like immediate response when I push down on my pedals. Like my tires grip the road and go. Like butter.
Speaking of butter, I think of FOOD when I bike. Unlike any other workouts, I obsess about food. It had been so long that I didn't remember - until I smelled homemade chicken pot pie as I was riding last night. There was no pot pie in sight. Nor a chicken for that matter.
Rest assured, I did get to eat. I biked to a birthday party. My calories were replaced. View exhibit A.
Net sum:
Sunlight, Snow, Serra, & Me: 17.5 miles, 1:01. (That wind they complained about was a tailwind. Woot!) I am back in the saddle. View exhibit B.
Middle schoolers are unreliable reporters of the weather.
All afternoon I heard dire reports and complaints of how they'd had to go outside for recess and their science class. A sampling for your pleasure:
- It's sooooo windy and cold outside!
- Why do we have to go out? We're just all going to get sicker!
- Is the school trying to kill us? (Obviously this one possesses insight.)
The science teacher herself shook her head and told me to bundle up when I said I was riding.
So I listened and bundled up. And walked out into pure sunshine and 40 degrees. No, that is not the promised 43 degrees, but sheesh, we've had teens and 20s. I was sweating within a mile. I had to stop at a friend's house to ditch layers. But then -- I had my first ride. And it was BEAUTIFUL. My bike is awesome. There is nothing, no thing, like a bike that fits you like a glove. My bike fits.
How does it feel? Like the hills aren't as hard. Like immediate response when I push down on my pedals. Like my tires grip the road and go. Like butter.
Speaking of butter, I think of FOOD when I bike. Unlike any other workouts, I obsess about food. It had been so long that I didn't remember - until I smelled homemade chicken pot pie as I was riding last night. There was no pot pie in sight. Nor a chicken for that matter.
Rest assured, I did get to eat. I biked to a birthday party. My calories were replaced. View exhibit A.Net sum:
Sunlight, Snow, Serra, & Me: 17.5 miles, 1:01. (That wind they complained about was a tailwind. Woot!) I am back in the saddle. View exhibit B.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
April Fool in March
Grr.
I waxed my bike on Sunday.
(She who has never waxed anything in her life.)
I lubed the chain.
I dug out my biker bottles
and juiced them up with Gatorade.
I stocked my airbox.
I loaded up all my gear: helmet, shoes, clothes
and have been carting it around for two days.
It was supposed to be 43 degrees today.
It's not.
Grr.
I waxed my bike on Sunday.
(She who has never waxed anything in her life.)
I lubed the chain.
I dug out my biker bottles
and juiced them up with Gatorade.
I stocked my airbox.
I loaded up all my gear: helmet, shoes, clothes
and have been carting it around for two days.
It was supposed to be 43 degrees today.
It's not.
Grr.
Sunday, March 09, 2008
This Is Me
I travel lightly. I skip across the waves. I sprint along the foam line of the Pacific. Cold water laps at my ankles, knees, thighs. My numb feet pound the sand, my exhilarated heart pounds at its rib cage, joy permeates my pores.
I travel lightly upon this Earth. I need so little. I need sunshine, I need wind, I need inspiration and humanity...
This is me. I am free. To write, to think, to feel. I give myself permission. To grow wings. To fly.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
7 Things
Rural Girl tagged me. Here are 7 things about me:
#1. My mom is an apple dumpling of a woman. She used to be 5'7" and now has shrunk to shorter than me - around 5'3". She is overweight. She dyes her hair sandy blond and has blue eyes. People say I look like her, that I have her smile. I love hearing that.
#2. My (nearly-ex) husband is gorgeous. He's 5'9" and weighs 210 pounds. His nickname in school was "Arnold." As in Schwarzenegger. He started lifting weights when he was in 2nd grade so that he could protect his mom from his dad. A co-worker of his once stopped me in a store to gush about how lucky I was that my husband was sooooo hot. I wonder what she'd say if I saw her in the grocery store now. Am I unlucky?
#3. My favorite students are fickle, needy, energetic, impressionable middle schoolers. A couple of weeks ago, I let slip that I'm going to Mexico this summer. Luciano, whom I've had as a student in one capacity or another since he came here from Mexico 4 years ago, lit up like a Christmas tree. "Where? We're going to be there this summer too! When are you going?" It took him about 3 seconds to realize that his peers' jaws had dropped. He quickly slumped back down in his seat and muttered something about how he was sure that it was too far a drive for me to come and visit him anyways.
Since then, I've been "slipping in" references to Mexico, propping travel books, history books, and Mexico maps on the white board ledge. He's biting. He lets slip that his family still owns their home there. That his grandma lives nearby. That I will definitely want to take a camera. (Um, Luciano, it was already packed.) That he and his friends play soccer from sunup until noon.
I know that some day, near the end of July in 2008, I will play a game of soccer in Guanajuato, Mexico.
I also know that I won't win.
#4. I love teaching and could write a book about my students. It would be matched in size by the one about my family. And my nearly-ex husband. I've been called driven and intense. Um. Yeah.
#5. I am a traveler, a seeker. I read like a fiend. I've backpacked all over the United States, Canada, Alaska, and western Europe. I studied abroad in Spain for 6 months. Yo hablo español.
#6. Last weekend I cried in a Kwik Trip bathroom. I cried because I realized that my biggest strength is also one of my deepest flaws. I later cried as I was skiing and yet again as I did dishes. I cried for me and for my gorgeous, nearly-ex husband, and for the demise of a love affair. I cried for my mom who took care of my uncle as he died. I cried for his family. For my dad for losing his brother. I cried because snow is white. That's how much I cried.
When I wasn't crying, I was teasing my dad and my brother - and getting teased right back. I was listening to my mom and sisters, perusing photos and telling stories to my nephews and nieces. I participated.
#7. This is me. I am all of these things, all of these people. I am 5'5" tall and weigh 140 pounds. I have brown hair and brown eyes. I am huge.
I think we all are.
____________________________
And now, I tag the following 6 bloggers:
JWM
Anne
Fe-Lady
Ace
RunBubbaRun
XT4
Have at it!
#1. My mom is an apple dumpling of a woman. She used to be 5'7" and now has shrunk to shorter than me - around 5'3". She is overweight. She dyes her hair sandy blond and has blue eyes. People say I look like her, that I have her smile. I love hearing that.
#2. My (nearly-ex) husband is gorgeous. He's 5'9" and weighs 210 pounds. His nickname in school was "Arnold." As in Schwarzenegger. He started lifting weights when he was in 2nd grade so that he could protect his mom from his dad. A co-worker of his once stopped me in a store to gush about how lucky I was that my husband was sooooo hot. I wonder what she'd say if I saw her in the grocery store now. Am I unlucky?
#3. My favorite students are fickle, needy, energetic, impressionable middle schoolers. A couple of weeks ago, I let slip that I'm going to Mexico this summer. Luciano, whom I've had as a student in one capacity or another since he came here from Mexico 4 years ago, lit up like a Christmas tree. "Where? We're going to be there this summer too! When are you going?" It took him about 3 seconds to realize that his peers' jaws had dropped. He quickly slumped back down in his seat and muttered something about how he was sure that it was too far a drive for me to come and visit him anyways.
Since then, I've been "slipping in" references to Mexico, propping travel books, history books, and Mexico maps on the white board ledge. He's biting. He lets slip that his family still owns their home there. That his grandma lives nearby. That I will definitely want to take a camera. (Um, Luciano, it was already packed.) That he and his friends play soccer from sunup until noon.
I know that some day, near the end of July in 2008, I will play a game of soccer in Guanajuato, Mexico.
I also know that I won't win.
#4. I love teaching and could write a book about my students. It would be matched in size by the one about my family. And my nearly-ex husband. I've been called driven and intense. Um. Yeah.
#5. I am a traveler, a seeker. I read like a fiend. I've backpacked all over the United States, Canada, Alaska, and western Europe. I studied abroad in Spain for 6 months. Yo hablo español.
#6. Last weekend I cried in a Kwik Trip bathroom. I cried because I realized that my biggest strength is also one of my deepest flaws. I later cried as I was skiing and yet again as I did dishes. I cried for me and for my gorgeous, nearly-ex husband, and for the demise of a love affair. I cried for my mom who took care of my uncle as he died. I cried for his family. For my dad for losing his brother. I cried because snow is white. That's how much I cried.
When I wasn't crying, I was teasing my dad and my brother - and getting teased right back. I was listening to my mom and sisters, perusing photos and telling stories to my nephews and nieces. I participated.
#7. This is me. I am all of these things, all of these people. I am 5'5" tall and weigh 140 pounds. I have brown hair and brown eyes. I am huge.
I think we all are.
____________________________
And now, I tag the following 6 bloggers:
JWM
Anne
Fe-Lady
Ace
RunBubbaRun
XT4
Have at it!
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Phenomenal Woman
I turn my skis and face directly into the wind. Deliberately. I know this spot. I am strong.
I come from a strong line. My mom blew the lid off of amazing again this week. I can’t find the words to describe her. I’ll use hers…
He didn’t want to give in to using the diapers and so every time he had to go to the bathroom, he’d kick and groan and move his legs to the edge of the bed. We had to put our hands on him and hold him and soothe him. “It’s all right, Darry. Go to the bathroom. We’ll clean you up. We’ll take care of you. We're here.”
She watched him through the nights, through the days, staying at his side while others rotated in and out. She sat with his 14 year old granddaughter and later marveled at how much she learned from her. She lead visitors up to see him, helped them to say good-bye, sang and talked. She administered rectal medications and cleaned up after his body rejected them or bled out cancerous clots. She sat, she absorbed, she gave. She was steady. She is a matriarch, a woman in full. A work of art, of wonder, of beauty.
She sat with him on the last night, watched his breathing grow more labored and his struggles to get out of bed become more futile, weaker. She awakened his wife and phoned his children. She cleaned his body one last time. When the last son arrived, she left the room. On two replaced knees, she traversed the steps down to the living room. She lay on the couch and caught an hour’s sleep as he died.
In the morning there would be laundry and food preparation. In the morning, she would fasten the clasp of her sister-in-law's wedding pearls so that she could wear them to the visitation.
I am wide-eyed as this story pours out of her mouth in a stream of talk. She is utterly exhausted, curled up in the recliner. She tears up at points, looks down at gnarled, arthritic hands, pauses, but goes on. She shares the intimate details of his failing health and his eventual death, and in so doing, she is sharing his life. And hers. I see and I hear the courage of one woman, her wisdom, her steadiness, the gravity she provided this week to a family – not even her blood relatives, but those of my father. They knew that they could orbit her. They consulted her, listened to her, trusted her judgment.
She was never even a nurse. She dropped out of nursing school to marry my dad. To move to a farm and raise hundreds of cows and eight kids.
When I turn my face into the wind and feel that familiar comfort, it is to say: I can't touch my mom, but I have watched her. She lives an example. I see how it is done, I have witnessed her fortitude, her capacity. I stand on the shoulders of giants and persist. And admire a whole damn lot.
*Author's note: I am well aware that my title is taken from Maya Angelou's poem. Our phenomenal women are quite different though.
I come from a strong line. My mom blew the lid off of amazing again this week. I can’t find the words to describe her. I’ll use hers…
He didn’t want to give in to using the diapers and so every time he had to go to the bathroom, he’d kick and groan and move his legs to the edge of the bed. We had to put our hands on him and hold him and soothe him. “It’s all right, Darry. Go to the bathroom. We’ll clean you up. We’ll take care of you. We're here.”
She watched him through the nights, through the days, staying at his side while others rotated in and out. She sat with his 14 year old granddaughter and later marveled at how much she learned from her. She lead visitors up to see him, helped them to say good-bye, sang and talked. She administered rectal medications and cleaned up after his body rejected them or bled out cancerous clots. She sat, she absorbed, she gave. She was steady. She is a matriarch, a woman in full. A work of art, of wonder, of beauty.
She sat with him on the last night, watched his breathing grow more labored and his struggles to get out of bed become more futile, weaker. She awakened his wife and phoned his children. She cleaned his body one last time. When the last son arrived, she left the room. On two replaced knees, she traversed the steps down to the living room. She lay on the couch and caught an hour’s sleep as he died.
In the morning there would be laundry and food preparation. In the morning, she would fasten the clasp of her sister-in-law's wedding pearls so that she could wear them to the visitation.
I am wide-eyed as this story pours out of her mouth in a stream of talk. She is utterly exhausted, curled up in the recliner. She tears up at points, looks down at gnarled, arthritic hands, pauses, but goes on. She shares the intimate details of his failing health and his eventual death, and in so doing, she is sharing his life. And hers. I see and I hear the courage of one woman, her wisdom, her steadiness, the gravity she provided this week to a family – not even her blood relatives, but those of my father. They knew that they could orbit her. They consulted her, listened to her, trusted her judgment.
She was never even a nurse. She dropped out of nursing school to marry my dad. To move to a farm and raise hundreds of cows and eight kids.
When I turn my face into the wind and feel that familiar comfort, it is to say: I can't touch my mom, but I have watched her. She lives an example. I see how it is done, I have witnessed her fortitude, her capacity. I stand on the shoulders of giants and persist. And admire a whole damn lot.
*Author's note: I am well aware that my title is taken from Maya Angelou's poem. Our phenomenal women are quite different though.
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