My freezer beckoned me in the night. Frozen strawberries, blueberries, peaches and mangos had finally, slowly, organized a riot. A chilly protest against the cold. They were trapped, holding summer sun and the sugar of the sunlight, and they were exhausted by the effort. Games over, time to get out. They weren't to hold my frozen memories anymore.
The strawberries longed for heat, to feel the warmth that releases their alluring aroma. The rest of the crew felt a need to be anything but a promise holder, summer slowed and preserved. Out everyone, out. They rallied and I responded.
And so now my apartment smells of sweet, slow strawberry soup. The air hangs with this alliteration, the s's releasing off the strawberries, grabbing an S off the sugar and floating to every available corner. I sniff and sniff and smile. I think chilled strawberry soup is some sort of jam. I'll make it work.
The rest of the crew got cobbled, mixed together and baked with a biscuit-y top. The skeptics are still out with the reviews, as frozen mango does not keep it's sweet summer loving like a tiny-yet-might blueberry.
And so, with snow desperately clinging to my front garden and condensation meeting an icy end on my glass door, summer is vacationing indoors. The fruit beckoned, and I, their humble servant, listened.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Monday, May 20, 2013
Extroverted Hermit
Writing. Lately my life has felt split into two dynamically different halves. Almost like morning and night are oxymoron's .. lining them up and getting one jumbo shrimp. A teacher by day, 25 kids with 25 needs multiplying each minute, with 25 sets of parents, most of whom are skilled with emailing. By day, all talk, all personality, managing behaviors and continually taking the pulse of my room, and adjusting with whatever is made available. A dance party here, a stretch break, a million jokes, voices, you name it. I'm getting pretty good at it... but it's SO different from the rest of my day. Jumbo Shrimp. They file out at 2:30, and it's time to hit the plans, grades, emails, plans, plans, emails, plans, slowing, more plans. I work, mostly independently until hunger and exhaustion drives me home, to make/heat dinner, and either continue to work or watch something mindless on my tiny school-issues laptop. Maybe I'll read a book, strum my guitar, flip through the 100 Times I have gathered, wonder if I"ll ever go to the gym. Either way, it's always independent, and the 25 vocal voices are only in my head. Post 2:30 my sounds are music and birds and again, my gregarious brain.
Lately this chatty brain, who, somehow despite the 6 solid hours of talking, seeks companionship in the afternoon--- this chatty brain has been writing lately. Something I used to do a lot, I went through phases of intense life scripting. My thoughts unraveled and then reraveled into novels, short stories, plays, blogs, articles, editorials... all silently to the outside world. All of which I see and hear in my mind, but goes no where. It's stored in files that seem to keep the filing cabinet open, preventing me from just chilllllling out.
Where can I write? Where can I stick these thoughts that long to be typed. I feel them daily, like the dishes, waiting to be placed where they'll stop nagging me. But where to go? Where to lay all these scattered things? My laptop is gone, my school issues micro computer doesn't have WORD, and I can't stand, I mean, can't stand, my own handwriting. Must type. Must type. Ah yes, perfect-- my blog. My blog-thing I started years ago for this EXACT purpose.
I shall calm the tides of metaphors here, sooth the similes that itch like the poison oak. I will channel them here. Here I can make my comments about the woman with the wolf bag, the coffee baristas who do not know my name although I"m there almost daily, the overwhelming desire to make sweeping landscapes of words about education. Here. Finally. Who needs real friends? Who needs phone friends? I'm mastering the art of hermitism. It'll be a thing. Like the next DIY Pinterest activity.
I'll be a fabulous teacher hermit. Thats the oxymoron I need. No wait, Extroverted Hermit. Perfect.
Lately this chatty brain, who, somehow despite the 6 solid hours of talking, seeks companionship in the afternoon--- this chatty brain has been writing lately. Something I used to do a lot, I went through phases of intense life scripting. My thoughts unraveled and then reraveled into novels, short stories, plays, blogs, articles, editorials... all silently to the outside world. All of which I see and hear in my mind, but goes no where. It's stored in files that seem to keep the filing cabinet open, preventing me from just chilllllling out.
Where can I write? Where can I stick these thoughts that long to be typed. I feel them daily, like the dishes, waiting to be placed where they'll stop nagging me. But where to go? Where to lay all these scattered things? My laptop is gone, my school issues micro computer doesn't have WORD, and I can't stand, I mean, can't stand, my own handwriting. Must type. Must type. Ah yes, perfect-- my blog. My blog-thing I started years ago for this EXACT purpose.
I shall calm the tides of metaphors here, sooth the similes that itch like the poison oak. I will channel them here. Here I can make my comments about the woman with the wolf bag, the coffee baristas who do not know my name although I"m there almost daily, the overwhelming desire to make sweeping landscapes of words about education. Here. Finally. Who needs real friends? Who needs phone friends? I'm mastering the art of hermitism. It'll be a thing. Like the next DIY Pinterest activity.
I'll be a fabulous teacher hermit. Thats the oxymoron I need. No wait, Extroverted Hermit. Perfect.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Simple Concept
It's just that we should be aware of how we impact others, everyone around us. That's all.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
GREat Humor
I wrote this post while studying for the GRE's, which I've taken and passed.
I could picture people grading essays and rolling their eyes.
For the section: Rewording Cliches. The unrevised sentence is: "Be positive is my motto!"
The revised is long and also dumb, but better.
The description underneath reads: "The unrevised sentence is a particularly hackneyed cliche that is irritatingly saccharine as well."
The following funny moments are brought to you by GRE studying sessions from my book on how to write a good essay:
"In this example "plan ahead" is redundant. In what situation would you "plan behind?""
"The author of the wordy example above is just wasting words and time. Get to the point quickly and stay there."
"Using the passive voice is a way to avoid accountability (it's often referred to as the "politician's voice")."
I could picture people grading essays and rolling their eyes.
For the section: Rewording Cliches. The unrevised sentence is: "Be positive is my motto!"
The revised is long and also dumb, but better.
The description underneath reads: "The unrevised sentence is a particularly hackneyed cliche that is irritatingly saccharine as well."
The following funny moments are brought to you by GRE studying sessions from my book on how to write a good essay:
"In this example "plan ahead" is redundant. In what situation would you "plan behind?""
"The author of the wordy example above is just wasting words and time. Get to the point quickly and stay there."
"Using the passive voice is a way to avoid accountability (it's often referred to as the "politician's voice")."
You Can Never Do It All
The reality behind life is that you can never do it all, and you will always want to do more. The nice part of that realization is that you control your wishes and expectations, so, you can ebb that feeling. The reality though is, if you were raised like me, you feel the constant need to keep that feeling strong.
Not good enough. Not working hard enough. Not smart enough. Not enough. Not enough. Where did all that come from? I hear it in the back of my brain, nagging at me at 6pm at night as I sit in school, pouring over a math book, thinking through a lesson on brain cells that yawn and lag behind.
Where'd all that not enough come from? Why are high expectations synonymous with internal pummeling? Why do I have to hold the bar high and then smash myself with it when I can't reach it? (I know, that image is not possible, but you know what I mean).
Where in the world of my public education did that seed get planted? How do I get the tangle of those roots out of my brain and realize that I am capable of so much and at some point I can not do anymore. At 6pm, I need to stop and be okay with that. Oh I can stop, that is not hard, but being comfortable with that is that whole other part. Put my feet up, turn my brain off... how?
My heart is beating, even writing those words. Stop at 6? But what about stickers on paper? And laminating? Organizing? Rereading, planning, preparing? What about the endless feeling that I am not good enough for them?
How, can we encourage others, speak these wise words to others, and fail ourselves? If you were in my shoes, or slippers this moment, I would tell you to leave everything at work at 6. I would tell you that you need to take time for yourself, to work on developing your life outside of work, that it is just as important. That is what I would say. However, it seems I cannot hear it myself.
You really can never do it all, and you have to, somehow, find a way to uproot that invasive plant in your brain, and be okay with trying your best.
Not good enough. Not working hard enough. Not smart enough. Not enough. Not enough. Where did all that come from? I hear it in the back of my brain, nagging at me at 6pm at night as I sit in school, pouring over a math book, thinking through a lesson on brain cells that yawn and lag behind.
Where'd all that not enough come from? Why are high expectations synonymous with internal pummeling? Why do I have to hold the bar high and then smash myself with it when I can't reach it? (I know, that image is not possible, but you know what I mean).
Where in the world of my public education did that seed get planted? How do I get the tangle of those roots out of my brain and realize that I am capable of so much and at some point I can not do anymore. At 6pm, I need to stop and be okay with that. Oh I can stop, that is not hard, but being comfortable with that is that whole other part. Put my feet up, turn my brain off... how?
My heart is beating, even writing those words. Stop at 6? But what about stickers on paper? And laminating? Organizing? Rereading, planning, preparing? What about the endless feeling that I am not good enough for them?
How, can we encourage others, speak these wise words to others, and fail ourselves? If you were in my shoes, or slippers this moment, I would tell you to leave everything at work at 6. I would tell you that you need to take time for yourself, to work on developing your life outside of work, that it is just as important. That is what I would say. However, it seems I cannot hear it myself.
You really can never do it all, and you have to, somehow, find a way to uproot that invasive plant in your brain, and be okay with trying your best.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Back to Poems
The smell of wet leaves
stored in my mind,
stretches back to the first time I realized
that the seasons keep going,
each tripping over the other like rushing kids to the door
who's there? what's going on?
the little things I've stored away in my mind
about falling leaves and the hushing of snow
the strange pictures that float through my mind
of tulips
pushing through it all
squirrels knowing, but not wanting to accept
enjoying packing larders
an image frozen--of gray and erect bodies of
furry hurry
oh these
little wisps
of ideas.
Like steam off the pavement in the summer
that passes so clearly from seen
to nothing.
Gone to dance with clouds and bright sun.
displaced worms and dirty, hot feet
oh, and--the hour the summer melts the world gold.
the blue hour in winter,
when the snow holds everything quiet
and sound, even the loudest melodies
mute for the blueing of the world
seasons are stored in my mind:
inevitable, predictable
harsh and sweet
necessary, lovely
smelling, touching, tasting, wondering.
but often leaving
my mind holding
onto the previous season
slow, lazy, snowflakes
wet, curling leaves
the push of tulips
the steamy pavement.
close your eyes and breathe in the season.
stored in my mind,
stretches back to the first time I realized
that the seasons keep going,
each tripping over the other like rushing kids to the door
who's there? what's going on?
the little things I've stored away in my mind
about falling leaves and the hushing of snow
the strange pictures that float through my mind
of tulips
pushing through it all
squirrels knowing, but not wanting to accept
enjoying packing larders
an image frozen--of gray and erect bodies of
furry hurry
oh these
little wisps
of ideas.
Like steam off the pavement in the summer
that passes so clearly from seen
to nothing.
Gone to dance with clouds and bright sun.
displaced worms and dirty, hot feet
oh, and--the hour the summer melts the world gold.
the blue hour in winter,
when the snow holds everything quiet
and sound, even the loudest melodies
mute for the blueing of the world
seasons are stored in my mind:
inevitable, predictable
harsh and sweet
necessary, lovely
smelling, touching, tasting, wondering.
but often leaving
my mind holding
onto the previous season
slow, lazy, snowflakes
wet, curling leaves
the push of tulips
the steamy pavement.
close your eyes and breathe in the season.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Kom-boo-CHA CHA CHA
I quote Hillary for this simple post. "Most often those DIY projects are easier than you think they're going to be. Especially the ones that you are amazed by before you begin."
Well, kombucha, I thought I was always going to purse my lips and rub my chin and THINK about making you in the way I always put certain things on the bottom of my TD list. Just never going to happen, but I'll put it on the next list as well. Not for you Kombucha! Congrats.
Maine SCOBY, transported in the front seat in a jar down the coast and into a big vat of sugary black coconut posssssssibilities!
Good luck I say to you Kombucha in the cupboard, and good luck to you, Christine, on the next DIY you won't make me DIE project. And thanks to you Hillary, for your continued wisdom.
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