When I'm worried, I think of...

First snowstorms

Flakes fluttering through bitter cold

Fireplaces lighting the dark

Steady hands and a gentle kiss calming my nerves

Teachers inspire me.

A poem given to us at our last department meeting.  

After almost two full hours of debate and complaining and whining and griping (sometimes rightfully) about anything and everything that needs to get accomplished but can't because we are only human and can only be expected to do so much, I am so grateful to have received this piece of writing.  

Its simplicity and poignancy reminded me why I do this.  It's not the CAPT scores or the piles of  college recommendations or papers or duties or web portals or professional objectives or whatever else's.  It's the students sitting in front of us.  It is the faint recognition, the pieces of me I see sitting in front of me.  It is the lessons I struggled so hard to learn.  It is the lessons I learned the wrong way.  It is the passion I had then that was stifled too early.  It is the purity and innocence I see before me.  And before that innocence is lost, I want to do something, say something, or not say something to help that purity become what is possible.  

Even though I am tired everyday, I don't regret a second I spend with my students, for my students, because of my students.  This is a life choice.  This is dedication.  This is for them.  Because I was them, and if it weren't for a very small few, I might not have become the me I am now.  

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{Untitled}

in my first year, when i teach geography to seventh graders,

one little girl's voice faintly

reminds me of one of my college friends and

i almost give her an A just because she's an echo

of someone who formed a vital layer in me.

over the years I have more students who drift into 

reminders of people in my past;

sometimes I recognize the resemblance immediately,

like the profile of the low appalachian ridge outside the window,

and sometimes it hits me mid-year and,

having created the borders of the connection, 

i then chart the inlands,

embellish and illuminate mountains, floodplains, and

valleys with memory.

i wonder if we all listen to our students for echoes--

in the lilt of a laugh, or how one's hair parts in the middle,

like the friend we had in thenth grade

who wore mega-sweaters and leggings.

or in the turn of a phrase,

the cadence of a question,

the way a hand is slowly raised like the long neck of a dinosaur

in those long-ago science hand-outs,

that smelled like sweet cereal and purple ink.

each september it's as if we have a new chance

to fumble through the past, 

to listen for echoes of ourselves that inexorably decay 

as they resonate and ripple

off the earthtone and crumbly layers

of time, of characters in books, of friends and old lovers--

--and sometimes of the dead,

who we unearth for an hour or so each day; 

time enough to quietly say hello,

how you doing?  I'm glad you're still with me

in this young mind sitting across the canyon, across the great divide.

--Simao J. A. Drew  (teaches literature and language at Liberty High School in Eldersburg, Maryland, and is a member of the adjunct faculty at Frederick Community College.  At the Gifted and Talented Summer Centers sponsored by the Maryland State Department of Education, he teaches creative writing.  His poems have appeared in literary magazines including Scarab and Sandstone Review.)

From old notebook covers and college doodles comes Shakespearean wisdom. Oh, how timely and prophetic.

Our wills and fates do so contrary run

That our devices still are overthrown

Our thoughts are ours; their ends

none of our own. 

--Hamlet

This letter preceded a collection of writings through my past (they can be found under The Familia link).  A Christmas gift, I chose pieces from different points in my recent journeys, pieces that I think this person might appreciate more than some.  My intent--to let her in a little more.  I just hope she receives them the way I think she will.

Consider this another (or the first official) letter of my Letter Project!!

Saturday, December 20th, 2008

________,

When I picked your name last year, I was ecstatic. Not just because I thought shopping for you would be easy, but because I figured I could take the opportunity to thank you for everything you’ve done for me and my family since you entered our lives. But as I began thinking about what I could get you to show such profound gratitude, I came up empty.

There really are no physical things to say thank you from the heart. Finding an object to give as a gift, however beautiful or thoughtful, does not truly accomplish the task. The thing is, there really are no words to portray this feeling, either. And it is here that I stumble on a paradox, the paradox, in fact, of my life.

As an artist, a dancer, a writer, a poet, a teacher, a student of life, I am constantly trying to find a way to experience and express the inexpressible. I go through each experience in real time and then in dreamtime. I analyze and cry and think and laugh and feel my way through the stepping-stones of my life. Sometimes I make things more complicated than they need to be. Sometimes I find a way to see each piece of my puzzle, good and bad, in a new and more meaningful way. Sometimes I realize I need this part of me to survive—I need to dive into the ephemeral energy, the enigmatic space, and I need to flit, or trudge, my way out of it.

And I have done this for as long as I can remember.

When you came into our lives, I was doing just that. In fact, I have been doing just that for the past four years. Who am I kidding? I will probably be doing this for as long as I live. But what I want to share with you is a slice of that journey. I have been working my way into adulthood, and I’d like you to see some of it.

Why? Because you have always inspired me. You have never judged me. You have never made me feel like I had to be a perfect person. You have accepted me as I am and have encouraged me to grow into the woman I know I can be. When we spend time together, I am invigorated. When I am down, you know how to help me. You have selflessly thrown yourself into the morass of our family. You have helped me see that I am stronger and more forgiving than I think I am. For all of this and so much more, I will say the words that never seem to say enough: thank you.

Here are a few more: Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Peace Be With You. And most importantly, I love you.

Last night, the moon stole my breath away. I stopped and stared for a mini-eternity before getting into my car. Then, behind the wheel, I had to tear my eyes away to watch the road instead. A New England harvest moon, full to its brim with wonder, chilling, shining, captivating. Slicing through the ice cold air with a cool confidence unlike any I've seen before.

Tattoo design.

The Friday Five: Holiday Season Edition

What's your favorite holiday ...

Song?

Christmas Carol--"What Child Is This?"
Pop nonsense--Mariah Carey's "All I Want For Christmas Is You" or Nsync's "Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays" (I know. I'm a nerd.)


Movie or TV special?

It's a Wonderful Life

Memory?

Any time my family gets together, but most recently, last year's Christmas Eve celebration. We went to my aunt and uncle's house, and even with stress and stupid old school drama, they made me laugh, sing, and love being there. They made my loneliness and anger disappear. I think my heart grew a few sizes that day.


Baked good or desert?

CANOLI

Each year, what's the one moment that lets you know it's officially the holiday season?

When I see friends and family that I don't get to see during the year. Everybody comes home and everybody gets together and we stay true to our traditions...and I couldn't be happier to have them all in my life. Cheese. I know. But I love cheese.

"No wind favors him who has no destined port." --Montaigne

"Clarity is essential: clarity regarding values, observations, intentions, assumptions, request and next actions. We move toward that which we are clearest about." --Dennis Sparks

The Letter Project

Friday Five: Can't Live Without

This week's questions are brought to you courtesy of an anonymous reader, the letter F, and the number 5...

What is the one most important thing by your side right now?

The Connecticut Writing Project's Summer Invitational Institute application.

Why is it so important?

This could be a WONDERFUL program for me to participate in--not only for me as a teacher, but as a writer, too!

Can you live without it?

Probably. I have so far. But I think that would be a silly settlement, to just do what I've always done, the way I've always done it. What excitement or growth is there in that?

What is the one thing you can't live without?

Materialistic thing--my wheels.

Non-materialistic thing--truth, beauty, and love. Ok, so it's three things. But I would argue they are intrinsically linked.

Who is the one person you can't live without?

I'd like to have this ONE person in my life that makes me or breaks me, but to be honest there are far too many people that are irreplaceable to me. I suppose if I were to narrow it down to JUST ONE, it would have to be me. If I lose the reflection of me in that shifty mirror of self, my life goes into flux. I've seen it happen more than once. But I am slowly becoming more and more self-aware, the outlines of my reflection are becoming more solid, and as a result, my life is starting to make sense. So...that girl, that woman, that person...it is SHE that I can't live without.

My first blog profile...

...during my lowercase letter phase. Let it be noted that I still enjoy this concept of the lowercase writer--one who does not assume mastery, who knows well the struggle entwined in the writer's experience.

I consider myself a writer, with a lowercase "w."

I have worlds to explore, worlds to learn, but I am finally ready and willing to put myself out there. For better or worse.
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i laugh. loudly. i giggle. i squeal. i squirm. i scream.

i skip. i spin. i dance. i play. i trip and fall and tumble down hills. i like to be barefoot. i like to swing. i like to drive fast letting all the wind in.

i create. i collaborate. i question, challenge, meditate. i teach and i learn. and i hope and i dream for a place someday free of hatred and greed.

i have incredible friends and family i adore.

and i have this beautiful ideal. of sparks and chills. of truth and thrills. and i hold out for magic i know is real.

...As if through the black and white flicker of his old film projector splashing the past across the walls, showing footage of my father and uncle when they were babies, toddlers, and teenagers, I saw my grandfather's very own life mythology flash before my eyes...

My first blog description...

We are all so much more than the image we see in the mirror, yet so much of our self-concept comes from that illusive reflection. My challenge is to physically manifest the stuff of my mind and soul, whether through movement, words, or teaching. This is my personal goal, and I hope others will join me.

My Letter of Recommendation

Among the high school paraphernalia I dug up, I also found this letter--written by my HS band director (who also happens to be an administrator at the school I am working at currently).

I always find it interesting to see how others see me. Putting that kind of mirror before my eyes is far more useful than doing it myself.
__________________________________________________________

To Whom It May Concern,

It is my pleasure to write this recommendation for TG. I have known Tina for four years as her high school band director and music teacher. I find her to be a very mature young woman, with many admirable qualities.

First, and perhaps most importantly, Tina has a friendly, kind, and loving personality. I have never heard her say or imply anything critical or derisive about any student or teacher. Teenagers typically fall into the habit of being negative so often that it becomes the expected characteristic of the high school years. Tina is truly the exception. For several semesters, Tina was a member of my Instrumental Music class, a class where students work on classical chamber music in duets, trios, and quartets. I have watched her work in this setting with other student musicians who are far less skilled and she is always patient, kind, and encouraging. In band, I have asked her to work in sectional rehearsals with younger flute players, and they have consistently told me of how much they were able to learn from her because of her encouraging and supportive attitude. These are traits of leadership that she draws upon naturally and that will serve her well in the future.

Second, Tina has a sharp intelligence that is evident in all she does. In music, she picks up new concepts very quickly, and is among my most responsive students in working on the difficult areas of musical expression and aesthetic meaning. Her intelligence is clearly evident in her academic success, and certainly has played a role in her many community activities. Tina is one of our school's "doers," a girl who is able to give freely of her time without shortchanging other commitments. She wisely budgets her time, and has learned to set her priorities. Even when she is at her busiest, I have the feeling that she is in control and I am always confident that she will not let anyone down. It is in this area that I feel she is particularly mature for her years.

Tina has made a real impact on our school and our school community. She happens to be a member of a class that has an unusual number of high achievers, but even in this valuable collection, she is a shining star. All of the teachers in our school think highly of Tina--her name evokes smiles and positive nods even from those who have not had her in class. All students from her grade, and many from classes before and after hers, know her and feel her friendship. In addition to her achievements in academics, music, and volunteer organizations, she has been ver active and accomplished in dance. We don't have a dance program in our curriculum, but she has helped bring dance to our students by choreographing in school and community musicals. In this area, she has been able to combing her strengths of leadership and teaching, artistic ability and organizational skills.

I believe TG will be a wonderful asset to any college. She has given much to our school and I will miss her. I look forward to hearing of her future successes and happiness.

___________________________________________________________

Wow. I just hope I can maintain that...

My *bad* College Essay

I found a manila envelope the other day, while going through my old stuff for a tag sale and trying to de-thing my life. In it were relics from my high school days: National Honors Society letters, Student of the Week notices, various awards and youth leadership invitations, and my college application stuff. (Yes, I was a total nerd! But I totally own that nerdiness. In fact, I am proud of it!)

Eight years later, I have gone to college--undergraduate and graduate--and I have begun working full time as a teacher. An English teacher, at that. As an English teacher--a composition teacher, at that--I am disappointed with my College Essay. To say the LEAST. I know I was capable of much much much more!

I think the problem was the lack of instruction we received. I was never taught how to approach this type of writing. In fact, I don't remember ANY of my writing instruction between the 7th grade and my freshman year at UNH. Perhaps I blocked it out for various reasons, or perhaps it just wasn't there. I'm afraid the latter is true.

So here's the plan: I will rewrite my college essay, perhaps in a few different ways, and show my students the comparisons!

This could be quite amusing.
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My First Dance Recital
Written circa 1999

The first time that I stepped out under those bright stage lights and heard the music reverberating throughout the auditorium, I was addicted to dance. The attraction wasn't only to the dancing itself, but to everything surrounding the art. I fell in love with the studio, the dance classes, and the teachers. I was overcome with excitement when getting into costume and dancing for an audience. This all encompassing passion for performance has stayed with me ever since.

Dance and performance have been catalysts to my involvement in many other facets of the fine arts, including instrumental and vocal music, musical theater, and drama. I've also worked as an assistant dance teacher for my studio and student choreographer for school and town musical theater productions. Not only do I enjoy participating in these activities for myself, but I get an incredible sense of accomplishment from helping and teaching others in the areas that I love.

Performance has allowed me to utilize my bright and dramatic personality, as well as my talents for leadership and organization. For me, there is no greater satisfaction than the appreciation received for a performance, whether my own or that of my students. The only thing that comes close, is the unconditional and loving support from my students, mentors, and fellow thespians.

I would be incomplete without dance, theater, music, and performance. The course of my life would have been entirely different if I hadn't taken that first tap class and performed in that first dance recital.

It is worse this week than it was last week. Last week I could throw all of my energy into the details, into helping my grandmother or other members of the family. I felt like my job was to make everyone else ok. I needed to hear the stories and say the right things and fix the flowers so everyone else would feel less stressed. My words, my stories, even my feelings served other peoples' purpose--to make them feel better. Maybe I am more like my grandpa than I knew. Maybe I have been spending too much time focusing on protecting others. Maybe I need to spend more time grieving. To feel the hurt. In order to begin to heal.

BLUES

A sad song, seemingly simple or small on the surface, but teeming with complexities below. Melodies and harmonies and counter melodies intertwining, weaving in and out, soar through our skin and touch us at the core. The sounds pervade any verbal or physical language we might try to use. They speak to us in a way that we've never heard before and will never hear exactly in this way again. Each experience with the blues is unique. I feel the landscape of emotions, of music, of history, deeply and differently each time. And that is beautiful to me.

FORTIFY

My defenses. Make them thick and heavy and strong. Build them up, proactively preventing future illness, attack, or hurt. If I prepare for the worst, I will never again feel the pain I've felt so many times before. The walls will be built up. Nothing will get in. Nothing will tear them down. I will be protected, and safe, sitting up high looking down at the world scurrying around below me. Untouchable. Unbreakable.

But then, I wonder, who will be there with me?

I forgot, in all my brilliant planning, to consider my heart. And in all of this defensive fortification, I've managed to shut out not only the negativity, but everything else too.

I'm fortified. I'm strong. And alone.

BRICK

Brick houses withstand far more than any other kind. But when they crumble, they fall hard. Crashing to the ground, crushing everyone and everything that hid inside. Amidst the dust and rubble, we might uncover pieces from a life turned disaster. Archaeologists, we pluck the memories, the artifacts, the physical manifestations of what came before. We pluck pieces from the wreckage and start to build again, brick by brick, a new life--one that holds the fallen bits close, but is unafraid to push forward. Fearless, the brick house stands stronger than ever. It simply exists, stoic and brave. It experiences each moment and then lets it go. Through tragedy, this brick house finds peace.

The following are a series of free writes...

...sprung from these prompts:

PRIDE

POWER

"Power corrupts; Absolute power corrupts absolutely."

The plight of the Average Joe

Such a slippery slope, this idea of power and corruption. The Average Joe begins his life. He steps out of his door on a perfectly regular sunny day. He breathes in the fresh air and smile smears his lips. He plugs in his iPod and sets out for the day. There is a positive pep to his step. Average Joe realizes that the day is new and the possibilities are endless.

His happiness spreads, infecting those around him. His whole body smiles, his eyes twinkle with the promise of this new day, beginning today. The people passing by would normally ignore the everyday man passing in the street, but today, Joe's energy pervades the typically separate space; the distance that stretches between complete strangers in the street is closed with a single smile and nod.

As time passes, however, and days begin and end and begin and end, Joe's inclination toward good, toward the simple and pure tendencies, start to cloud with desire. The materialistic, shallow, superficial pull of this sick and twisted world we live in begins to poison his purity, his happiness. His kindness disappears. Greed enters. The power-hungry mantra--more more more mine mine mine--echoes in his ears, drowning out the peppy positive tunes of before. And the picture perfect Average Joe descends down the same old tired slippery slope of corruption and power gone wrong.

Everything in moderation...

Pride fuels positivity in life, individually or collectively. But too much pride sews the seeds of evil and corruption. Pride then becomes a suit of steel, an eyeless mask, a thick brick wall separating good intentions from execution. And as the divide widens between what was what was intended--the compassion and understanding and truth that is essential to change, to growth in this world--and what ACTUALLY happens, the world falls into the deep dark recesses of despair.

Too much of anything is a bad thing. Gulping, inhaling, greedily ingesting the chicken mcnuggets of truth, we choke. We suffocate. The body rejects this excessive inhalation of sustenance. The stuff that the body needs to survive becomes the weapon that brings it down. A small piece gets stuck in the back of the throat. It sprints, it speeds recklessly by the gag reflex and throws the mind into panic mode. The lungs scream for air. Tears sting the eyes. The blood rushes to the face, trying to save the day, in vain.

The only hope is from the outside. A helping hand. An everyday hero. A friend. A foe. Another human being who knows what to do, is willing to do it, and who doesn't hesitate. In this case, the speed helps. But it is connected to kindness and care, not selfishness, self-indulgence, gluttony, greed.

Haste in that vein may end well. But haste driven by the needs of self, of the individual only, can only ever end in tragedy.

I am so sick of people thinking they know what is best for everybody else in the world. If I am different from the person next to me, across from me, behind me, across the country and across the world from me, then the same solution or approach is certainly not going to work for each of us. Somehow we have to find our common ground, because I still believe--perhaps stronger now than ever--that among our differences, there are even stronger similarities.

Let's start with being human beings, being living breathing beings who need food and shelter and love and care. We need support and community. We need challenge, intellectually, emotionally, physically, spiritually. All of these things are true for all people, despite the surface level differences. So why can't we look past the different colors, clothes, tastes, languages, customs, and see a greater connection. One that supercedes the one and only, the great and powerful, the holier than thou, the my way or the highway.

As I get older, my anger gets quieter, but it hasn't disintegrated completely. This nausea that I feel in the pit of my stomach tells me that the anger is still here. And sometimes it wants to burst free. It wants to spew forth in a loud and putrid way.

I had to stop being my grandmother so I could go see my grandmother.

My personal mission statement...

In an attempt to focus our goals, to identify the ways that we as individuals in an imperfect system might affect the larger whole, in spite of evils and powers seemingly greater than ourselves, I asked my students to create a personal mission statement for their lives. I asked them to identify the ways they could approach their life so that they could be proud and be agents of change.

It is idealistic in many ways, but is it so wrong to ask teenagers to get in touch with their idealism?

Here is what I came up with...
______________________________________________________

The way I might personally better the larger whole is by working with young adults in a real and truthful way. Through theater and dance, I can teach students skills and encourage their artistry and teamwork. I can help young adults and adults work together toward a common goal. Through teaching, I can encourage students to explore and discuss issues pertinent to them and to the world they live in. I can use literature, past and present, to help students evaluate where we've been, where we are, and where we are going as a society; I can help them begin to define their place in a large and complex history. I can help them communicate effectively, through written and spoken word, and I can help them evaluate information to make them more literate social beings.

If, by the time my students leave high school, they have learned the importance of...

**Listening more, talking less.
**Thinking for themselves.
**Reading more.
**Expressing themselves clearly, uniquely, and truthfully.

...I will have succeeded.

"Good things happen to good people like you and me."

To my Gramps. One of the loves of my life.

This eulogy, from Russell L. Grinold’s funeral services on Saturday, September 27th, 2008, was written and delivered by his granddaughter, Tina M. Grinold.

Good morning.

Or, as my grandfather would say, “Hello, hello, said the man with two heads.” He would then follow either by asking how I was or by cracking a sly joke and then asking how I was. Nodding, listening closely, his eyes would sparkle, beautifully magnified by those big old bifocals he wore. And as I spoke, I could tell how genuinely he cared about what I was saying, how genuinely he wanted to make me laugh. With arms crossed and heart open, he’d say, “I see…said the blind man, as he picked up his hammer and saw.” He would look at me in that impish, mischievous way; his laugh would rumble up from the depths of his being; and at that moment I knew…all was right with the world. No matter where we were, as long as we were together, my grandfather made me feel at home.

My grandfather was a beautiful contradiction. He was a living, breathing paradox. He was a tough guy and a softy. He maintained control out on the streets and relinquished control in the kitchen. He was an enforcer and a supporter. He set rules. He followed rules. And he knew how to break them. He had German Shepherds and Beagles. He was a dog and a cat person. He loved Cadillacs and he loved pansies.

My grandfather embodied the phrase “tough love.” In a way, I see his life’s journey as a progression from the “tough” to the “love.” And in looking at that progression, in looking at who he was, through and through, I am learning more about me and who I want to be.

In my mind, my gramps represents an era that I never knew and could never fully understand. He is a time capsule showing me pieces from my family’s past and my country’s past, showing me pieces of things that I will try to carry through in my life and also some things that I will never condone.

But he is my grandfather; I love him; and I never, ever questioned his love for me.

Since the day I was born, he has been making me laugh, supporting me, and making me feel like a princess. When he called me Cutie, I knew I was beautiful and deserved to feel that way. When he stood by his family through the years, even when it was hard to do, I saw what true love and devotion looked like.

More recently, when he started trying to marry me off to any male nurse or doctor we came across, I realized he only wanted to make sure I’d be ok. He’d say to them, “This is my granddaughter. Isn’t she beautiful?”

I would turn scarlet and tell him not to be fresh.

He would look from me to whichever guy it happened to be and say, “Are you married?”

They would be gracious and charming, and eventually they would leave. As I scolded him, that impish look would come back, and he’d say, “What?! Would it be so bad to have a doctor in the family?”

When he slipped me various bills through the years, I knew it wasn’t about the money. It was about his generosity, his unwavering support. Two days ago, as I was looking through old family pictures, I wandered around my grandparents’ basement and found myself wading through the images, the special moments of their life together.

I came upon a little note I’d left them a long time ago, maybe ten or twelve years ago. I signed my name on a note pad and underneath it I wrote: “This is going to be worth money some day.” Underneath that, in his distinctive print, my grandfather wrote back: “You’re worth more than money now, Cutie.” It has been something like twelve years, and he never tore off the page.

Through the tears welling up in my eyes and the baseball growing in my throat, I looked around. As if through the black and white flicker of his old film projector, splashing the past across the walls, showing footage of my father and uncle when they were babies, toddlers, and teenagers—much to my father’s chagrin—I saw his very own life mythology flash before my eyes.

My grandfather kept a close, careful chronicle of the loves in his life.

I saw a proud and devoted public servant. As a Hartford cop, a state policeman, a national guardsman, and a military man, my grandfather maintained a high moral code and a sincere pledge to serve and protect others. I noticed a framed citation, praising him for his bravery, for his willingness to put himself in harm’s way. Because of him, a murderer, armed and dangerous, was taken into custody. I had never noticed this before. He never bragged about it. He never brought his work home with him. With all of its challenges and hardships, my grandfather never burdened anyone else. He never took any of those hardships out on anyone else. And this is just one of many ways he helped make other people’s lives better.

He also was one of the few officers given the honor to work closely with Gov. Ella Grasso in the 70’s. As her bodyguard and chauffer, he once again took on the role of protector. I understand that Ella was a tough cookie, and gramps respected her for it. While most people would sit in the back seat, she insisted on sitting in the front seat with him. She even asked him to pull over on the highway sometimes to pick wildflowers, knowing full well that this was not technically permitted in the state of CT. It seems the two of them shared a similar understanding of the important things in life. They were able to appreciate the other’s toughness, while also embracing the simple beauties and pleasures surrounding them.

I continued my trip down his memory lane, and my tears started to dry. The baseball began to shrink. I saw a proud and devoted husband, father, uncle, friend, brother, son, colleague…grandfather. I saw a man who could be serious and silly. I saw someone who knew what he liked, someone who cherished the seemingly small moments in life. I saw his sense of humor bounce from wall to wall. I saw a full and happy life. I saw my grandfather in ways that I hadn’t before, and also in the same old ways that I always had. The ways that always made my heart smile. The ways that still do and still will make me remember him with love and admiration.

And I have a feeling I will continue to find relics of his life’s history, of the story of this man that we all loved, for many years to come. And I have a feeling—no, I know—that those findings, those precious memories will be laced together with laughter and love.

Over the past few days, I began that process of uncovering, of remembering who he was. And all of the people I spoke to—many of you are sitting right here in front of me today—told me many of the same things.

He was a great guy. He was fun. He was funny. We had some good times. We have wonderful memories. He was a prankster. He was generous to everyone he met, even when he didn’t have to be. He provided undying and unflagging and unquestioned support—financial and moral. He was willing to make fun of himself, but God forbid anyone poked fun at his loved ones. He bailed people out of trouble. He scolded them for it and never let them forget it, but he never held it against them.

He gave and gave and gave some more, and he still felt like it wasn’t quite enough.

We also shared his stories. We remembered some of our favorites and couldn’t remember some of our favorites. And through the process, we laughed. A lot. I think he would have wanted it that way.

I have two stories, in particular, that I would like to share with you all today.

The first marks an earlier stage in my grandfather’s journey, and it comes in the form of a joke.

There was a man walking along a cliff’s edge, too involved in himself and his own thoughts to realize how treacherously close he had come to this edge. He lost his footing and fell over. Hanging on for dear life, he looked to the heavens and cried out, “Can anyone hear me? Is anyone up there?”

And a great booming voice answered him, “Yes, my son.”

“Oh, thank GOD,” he cried. “Can you help me?”

The voice replied, “Yes, my son. Have faith. Let go.”

The man, still dangling above the precipice, considered this proposition for a moment. Then he asked the booming, faceless voice, “Um, excuse me, is there anyone else up there I could talk to?”

The second story is one he told at his brother’s grave, with his wife and his sister-in-law. I believe this is the story he would have wanted told today.

There was a very special ship being built for a very special purpose. It was to transport people who were loved, respected, and cherished by others from their homeland to a new land. Board by board, this ship was constructed, and day by day, its departure came closer.

When the day finally came, the people boarded the ship, one by one, two by two. They boarded the ship for their very special voyage. They went up to the deck and stood by the rail. Their friends and family, their loves and their lives, stood on the shore waving and smiling and crying and waving. The people on the ship stood on the deck and waved back at them.

As the ship moved out of sight, the people on shore wondered what they would do without the departed. How could they ever replace that hole they left behind? And as those friends and family, the loves and the lives, tried to figure it out, the ship was coming into port on another shore—their newest destination.

And the people on that new shore were waiting there, waving and smiling and crying and waving. And they were ready to welcome the passengers of the ship with open arms. The very special passengers of the very special ship traveled from one shore filled with love, across a very special horizon, to another shore filled with love.

I think my grandfather told that story then for a reason. He wanted to help and to comfort and to protect once again. I believe these are his words coming through me. I believe this is his wish for us—to be at peace, to be comforted, to remember him fondly, and to know that he will be ok.

My grandfather defined himself by his strength and perseverance, and it became more and more difficult for him in the end. He hated having to inconvenience anyone. For years he took care of himself and the people he loved. For years, he did it all himself. He held it together. He fixed it. He built it, even if the “it” he built wasn’t perfect, my grandfather was proud to have done it himself. The thing is, I only see perfection in those imperfections. In fact, that may be one of the most important lessons he taught me.

But through all those years, I’m not sure he ever got over having to let others help him. All those years, those times that I drove my grandparents to and from the doctors appointments and the hospitals and the procedures; the times I went shopping for them or picked up prescriptions; the times I pressed the nurses and doctors for more information; the times I told him that “it shouldn’t happen to someone as nice as him” and that “if I could, I would take the pain away”—the same things he used to tell me when I was a little girl, sniffling over a scraped knee; or, more importantly, the times I just sat and listened and talked and laughed; all those years, my grandfather lamented being a burden on me, on all of us that helped.

He didn’t want to inconvenience anyone, ever, not even when he had no other choice. He still didn’t want to rely on anyone else. His stubborn pride couldn’t let him accept his weakening body. His inner strength and will fought sickness until the end.

What he didn’t seem to understand was my free will. If I were truly inconvenienced, I wouldn’t have stayed. If I didn’t want to be there, I wouldn’t have gone. If I had somewhere to be that was more important than being right there with him, that’s where I would have been. But there was no such place. In fact, this wasn’t just something I wanted to do; this was something necessary for me. I needed to be with him. I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if I missed this part. This was the part when I could give back. After all his years of protection, care, and service, I could finally return the favor. If I made him laugh just once, if I made him feel comfortable when he hurt just once, if I put his mind at ease even just a little bit for a little while, then all of the time he felt I was surrendering was worth it.

What he didn’t understand was how much he was giving me still, every minute, every second I spent with him.

And what I want him to understand now is how he protected us until the end. The strong, the stoic man spent the last years making sure we would all be ok. He gave us the time we needed to say goodbye; he showed us how to finally and gratefully surrender when the time is right.

He went down still telling stories and charming strangers and making all of us laugh. I will never forget the day he brought the house—or rather, the hospital—down telling one of his stories. The one about a parachute and a man with a stutter. Nurses and hospital workers packed into the tiny hospital room and the laughter rang through the hallways.

He showed us all the merits of both “tough” and “love,” and we will never forget it. I know I won’t.

Before I close, I need to turn the attention to my Gram for a moment. Through the years, but especially in the end, we were privileged to witness the tenderness between my grandfather and grandmother. Gramps referred to her in many ways: Polly, Dear, and even Cutie, which I always thought was reserved for me, but then quickly realized the truth. She was the original and only true cutie to him. He would also, quite simply, call her his bride. She never aged for him. Their love never aged. It went through different stages, sure. But for fifty-six years, they were a team. They supported each other, they finished each other’s sentences, they lived with and loved each other.

In the end, they were very careful with their goodbyes. Every single time she had to leave him, he would make sure to kiss her and let her know how much he loved her, how much he appreciated everything she was doing for him, everything she had ever done for him. I watched my grandmother tortured by every moment he was tortured. I watched her try with all her might to help him maintain the control that had always defined him. She lived for him, day in and day out, and he knew it. If it was possible, I think he loved her more than ever in the end.

And, Gram, I believe that his love will never, ever leave you. I believe you can go inside yourself whenever you need to and feel Grandpa’s love. I believe that for you and Grandpa, “till death do us part” is just a formality. It is only about the physicality of your relationship. When you miss him and when you need him, just remember him in your heart and soul. He will never really leave you.

Today, even the heavens are weeping for my grandfather. But somehow, I don’t think they are tears of sorrow or of grief. I believe that these are tears of joy. In many traditions, water cleanses, it purifies. When it rains, we should remember the story of the ship crossing the ocean.

In our limited, worldly view and experience, it looks like Russ is leaving us today. But in reality, he’s just moving on to the next place. He is bringing joy and laughter to the folks on the other side. I imagine him on the deck, as the ship heads for the horizon. He is standing on his own two feet, for the first time in a very long time. His belly is bulging again, just a little bit. He is wearing his baby blue fishing hat that he always wore, a short-sleeved striped polo, and he’s waving to us. He is at peace. He is ok.

And when he gets to the other side, he’ll see all those that went before him. He’ll see his parents, my great-grandma and great-grandfather Conti, his sister, his brother, and all the friends that went before him. He’ll saunter on over, thinking of the first joke or the first story he’ll tell. He’ll give a sturdy handshake or a big hug, and he’ll say, “Well. Here we are.”

I imagine him there right now, sitting around a kitchen table like the one over on Country Lane, surrounded by loved ones, looking down on us sitting here right now remembering him. I imagine him sitting there, saying the same thing we’ve heard him say time and time again: “It’s always nice when the family gets together.”

________________________________________________________

On Tuesday, September 23rd, 2008, in the early hours of the morning, my mother and father, my grandmother, and my Auntie Ann and Uncle Joe went over to Manchester Hospital to see my grandfather’s body before it was transported to the funeral home. They weren’t sure what to expect when they walked into his room. But as they did, they were amazed at what they saw. On my grandfather’s face, where we had seen so much pain and suffering in the past few weeks, was a gentle, peaceful smile. It’s true. My Gramps was smiling in the end.

And as we were heading to the church in the limo this morning, to celebrate his life and to say our final goodbye’s, my grandmother said, “Maybe he was trying to tell us something. Maybe he was trying to let us know he was ok.”

I think my father said it best, “Dad had the last laugh.”

Even in his last moments, my grandfather was protecting us. He was trying, one last time, to make sure we’d be ok.

Little nuggets of encouragement make all the difference.

My boss is an inspiration. She is the kind of leader I want to be, one that loves her work, that has purpose and drive, and that is constantly, lovingly involved with her staff. This person not only makes me want to be a better teacher, she makes want to be a better person.

In a post script to our first department meeting, she wrote:

"I read a poem by Marge Piercy (from Circles on the Water, 1982) this weekend that made me think of all of you."

To be of use

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward.
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in the common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn,
are put in museums but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

The Friday Five: Morbid Questions We All Think About

1. If you were to die today, what would your last words be?

I have been blessed.

2. What would you want your epitaph to say?

She loved, she laughed, she lived, and you can visit her anytime, dancing barefoot in a summer rain shower.

3. What song would you want played at your funeral?

"Imagine" by John Lennon. Or "Here Comes the Sun" by The Beatles. Or "Beautiful" by India Arie.

4. In lieu of flowers, what should loved ones do in your honor?

Go on a trip together. Or donate to the unsticking mentioned in #5.

5. What unfinished business would you wrap up?

Make things that have been stuck in the middle unstuck...right now.

When the end arrives...

...I'm not sure I'll be ready. After seven years of staring inevitability in the face, I'm still not prepared. Last night I sat in his latest hospital room, which is much like all the others, watching drops of blood plop plop plop into his veins. Watching as the latest attempt to flush sickness out plop plop plopped in vain.

His skin sags off of his bones. His head itches and flakes from the last round of chemotherapy he finished not too long ago. Or is it from the last bout of radiation to the head, the round attacking the four tumors in his brain? Purple bruises scatter themselves across his hands, elbows, arms, reckless marks of stabbings and pokings and needlings he's put up with for far too long. One of his legs is so thin you can see all of the bones and joints in detail. The other one bulges violently, angrily, from the thigh.

Metastasized, they said. In the soft tissue, they said. No more procedures, no more tests, they said. Hospice, they said.

Home, he said. I want to go home. I want to sit on my chair, in my living room, with my cat, in front of my big t.v, he said. I want to be able to go outside on a nice day, he said.

I sat at the foot of the bed, unable to take my eyes away from him and the last of the dripping blood. I had a baseball in my throat, and I blinked back tears more than once. I've known this was coming for a long time. I've been back and forth to different hospitals and nursing homes for years. I've driven him to New Haven for special testing, to DeQuatro in Manchester for various treatments and updates. I've heard doctor after specialist after nurse after doctor give reports and updates and diagnoses. I've read pamphlets and seen specials. I've heard the word cancer my whole life and always known what that meant.

But none of that could soften the blow. None of that prepared me to hear those words. None of that prepared me to watch as the last units of healthy blood dripped into my grandfather's ravaged body. I stared, willing time to slow down, unwilling to let go. Then I got up, I kissed his face, said "I love you," and went home to bed.

Tonight he was fast asleep. There were no units of blood dripping. I held onto his hand for dear life. My hand held on tight; his trembled and lurched. He didn't wake up, and I wouldn't let go. Then I got up, I kissed his face, said "I love you," and went home to bed.

We're nearing the end, and I know I should be prepared. But I don't know how.

My life to-do list...

...a work in progress.

...in no particular order.

1. Fall deeply in love.
2. Write a book.
3. Create meaningful theater.
4. Go back to India and Japan.
5. Travel to the following places: Europe (backpack), Cross-country road trip, Italy, Australia, New Zealand, various S. American locations.
6. Travel wherever life takes me, having the wisdom and guts to follow.
7. Have a happy and healthy family of my own.
8. That interacts on a regular basis with my existing family (near and far).
9. Live in a space that is full of life, that provides shelter for travelers, that hosts many gatherings with loved ones (new and old).
10. Learn the guitar.
11. Take voice lessons.
12. Write songs.
13. Write poetry.
14. Write plays.
15. Allow my career to focus on creating community through the arts.
16. Dance on a regular basis.
17. Take care of my back, and the rest of my body.
18. Learn my history (family, country, personal) and allow it to inform my interactions with the present and future.
19. Know enough to take that information and let it go.
20. Practice meditation regularly.

Inspiration.

I am reading for me again, and the most recent was a collection of essays from director Anne Bogart: "A Director Prepares."

The last passages (as well as most of the preceding ones) rang true for me. And in a creative draught of my own making, any bit of inspiration will help. Also, it just might kick my bony ass into gear.
___________________________________________________________

A working artist is in a constant struggle with the brain's attempts to ambush their work through diversion. Do not be seduced by the buzz. In all the work with artifice, while going through the back door, keep your inner eye secretly on paradise. Stay true to a deeper pursuit.

...

Today we live within another kind of totalitarianism. Each of us is a target of the attack machinery of consumerism. A media-drenched culture aims aggressively at our psyches with a constancy that breaks and numbs the spirit. This dangerous environment offers us an opportunity: the challenge to think and to act.

Laziness and impatience are constant internal resistances and they are very personal. We are all lazy. We are all impatient. Neither are evil qualities; rather, they are issues that we learn to handle properly and act on at the right moments. We navigate them in our aim towards expression.

...

Your attitude towards resistance determines the success of your work and your future. Resistance should be cultivated. How you meet these obstacles that present themselves in the light of any endeavour determines the direction of your life and career.

Allow me to propose a few suggestions about how to handle the natural resistances that your circumstances might offer. Do not assume that you have to have some prescribed conditions to do your best work. Do not wait. Do not wait for enough time or money to accomplish what you think you have in mind. Work with what you have right now. Work with the people around you right now. Work with the architecture you see around you right now. Do not wait for what you assume is the appropriate, stress-free environment in which to generate expression. Do not wait for maturity or insight or wisdom. Do not wait till you are sure that you know what you are doing. Do not wait until you have enough technique. What you do now, what you make of your present circmstances will determine the quality and scope of your future endeavours.

And, at the same time, be patient.

I am overwhelmed by all of the things and nothings I want to say.

Maybe it really is just that simple...

...maybe it is time to let go of all the bullshit, of all the history, of all the worrying. Maybe it's time for me to take a chance on someone, to let him into my life. Maybe someone really can look at me and in that moment realize I am something special, something worth waiting for. Fighting for. Moving for.

Maybe all of the complications and analyzations and self-destructions are meant to dissolve.

Into the misty, magical hope of what is to come.

You know you're from Tolland when...

So...I'm moving. And in going through some of my old purses, I found this list. I believe it was compiled at a happy hour, at Friday's last year, with many a Tolland folk. With many a friend and acquaintance. My nostalgia continues. I'm starting to see that I truly will have to wade through some of the muck (good and bad) before really being able to forge forward. Hopefully I'll be able to do so quickly. And painlessly. ...Ish.

More "This I Believe"

Writing prompts suggested for student writers as a pre-writing strategy. I plan to answer each of these questions for myself, working towards the composition of my own “This I Believe” essay. This is as much for myself as it will be for my students, if not more so. And I challenge any other writer out there—take a look at yourself long enough to decide what it is you believe.
___________________________________________________________

1. Most of us have been in a situation where we made a promise that for one reason or another we were unable to keep.

When were you disappointed because someone made you a promise that they failed to keep? Or when did you break a promise that you made to someone else?

2. All of us are works in progress with a long way to go before we reach our full potential.

In what skill or area are you still working to make progress?

3. Our society uses the word hero in many different ways.

How do you define hero, and who is a hero in your life?

4. We all tend to judge people by their appearances, even though looks can be deceiving.

Have you ever prejudged someone incorrectly based on their appearance or has someone ever prejudged you unfairly based on how you look?

5. Everyone has problems or challenges to overcome.

What obstacles are you proud to have faced and conquered?

6. There is a famous adage: “To err is human, to forgive is divine.”

When did you feel divine because you were able to forgive someone for their mistake? When did someone act diving by forgiving you when you were wrong?

Hmmm. I see a new project a-brewin.

The Original Invitation from 'This I Believe'

This invites you to make a very great contribution: nothing less than a statement of your personal beliefs, of the values which rule your thought and action. Your essay should be about three minutes in length when read loud, written in a style as you yourself speak, and total no more than 500 words.

We know this is a tough job. What we want is so intimate that no one can write it for you. You must write it yourself, in the language most natural to you. We ask you to write in your own words and then record in your own voice. You may even find that it takes a request like this for you to reveal some of your own beliefs to yourself. If you set them down they may become of untold meaning to others.

We would like you to tell not only what you believe, but how you reached your beliefs, and if they have grown, what made them grow. This necessarily must be highly personal. That is what we anticipate and want.

It may help you in formulating your credo if we tell you also what we do not want. We do not want a sermon, religious or lay; we do not want editorializing or sectarianism or 'finger-pointing.' We do not even want your views on the American way of life, or democracy or free enterprise. These are important but for another occasion. We want to know what you live by. And we want it in terms of 'I,' not the editorial 'We.'

Although this program is designed to express beliefs, it is not a religious program and is not concerned with any religious form whatever. Most of our guests express belief in a Supreme Being, and set forth the importance to them of that belief. However, that is your decision, since it is your belief which we solicit.

But we do ask you to confine yourself to affirmatives: This means refraining from saying what you do not believe. Your beliefs may well have grown in clarity to you by a process of elimination and rejection, but for our part, we must avoid negative statements lest we become a medium for the criticism of beliefs, which is the very opposite of our purpose.

We are sure the statement we ask from you can have wide and lasting influence. Never has the need for personal philosophies of this kind been so urgent. Your belief, simply and sincerely spoken, is sure to stimulate and help those who hear it. We are confident it will enrich them. May we have your contribution?

Adapted from the invitation sent to essayists featured in the original 'This I Believe' series. Excerpted from 'This I Believe 2,' copyright © 1954 by Help, Inc.

From images to words...

More activities from writing courses. I provided the students a series of black and white photographs, asked them to list observations, and then asked them to freewrite a scene. These are starts that I did with them...
__________________________________________________________

Notes:

hot sticky air
stagnant
until a train blows through
suctions the air
shakes it up for a moment
then it settles back
smothers
fluorescent lights
makes faces glow/look flat simultaneously

Freewrite:

The ground rumbles. Babies cry. Nameless faces crackle under fluorescent light. The air is stale. It is hot, sticky, stagnant. It settles over me like a down comforter in July. I drop my bag to the ground, ignoring the inner voice, probably my grandmother's, "Do you have any idea who or what has been on this floor?"

Doesn't matter, Gram. My arm is falling off.

I watch the people across the tracks. As they rush into the underground station, they screech to a halt at the end of the platform. An inconvenience. A forced halt in their day. They avoid eachother's eyes. So many people, so many stories that few will ever know. They stand there willing the minute hand to stop, to slow down, to give them a moment's reprieve from the ceaseless deathnell of their day.

__________________________________________________________

Notes:

wheels cutting through puddles
water splashing
muffled sounds
misty rain
not quite raindrops
enough to know they're there

Freewrite:

Everything changes when it mists. Not rain, mind you. Mist is different. The raindrops are indistinguishable from each other, but you know they are there. Like a premonition, like one of those lurking bad feelings, the mist makes its presence known.

My footsteps echo on the cobblestone, sounds muffled, street lights glowing. And as a car rolls by, I jump to the side. My ears tell me I should be soaked, but there's not enough water. Instead, everything is thinly veiled by the omnipresent something that let's us know we're alive.

My ghosts...

Something I wrote as a model for my students. The goal was descriptive writing, using sensory detail, metaphor, and simile, all mashed together illustrating one of the steps in an epic hero's journey. Now, some of it may be corny (or undeveloped, at the very least), but it deals with some real things. Things that have not fully happened yet. Things that should happen if I'm ever going to let go and move on...
________________________________________________________

My green Honda civic crawls to a halt and I yank the emergency break a little too hard.

Just breathe, Tina, I have to remind myself.

My eyes are pinched shut and my fists grip the wheel. I fumble through my purse, searching for my Burt’s Bees and for an extra moment before the inevitable. To my right, on the passenger seat where loved ones should sit, is the dried rose—once a deep, pulsing blood red, but now a shriveled leaf brown—the one Mom and Dad saved from the funeral that I couldn’t attend. With a trembling hand, I bring the flower to my nose. It smells like autumn leaves, fallen to the ground, dead, kicked around, forgotten.

I step out of my car and slam the door. The crisp, cool October wind whips into my body, and sends my hair flying. I lift my eyes and, through blurred vision, I see the stones sitting there, an army of them, in rank, at attention, eternally patient—waiting for me. Well, at least one of them is.

It’s been entirely too long, I think, and I feel my feet pulling the rest of me forward, as if they know I can’t do it on my own.

Amidst my indecision, I feel a flurry of wings above my head, as a dove, a perfect dove, leads me to her stone, to the stone. The bird lands and waits. My feet, now like lead, finish the journey for me.

And there it is: In loving memory—Deborah O’Briant.

I drop to my knees. A solitary tear rolls down my cheek and tries to run away from the unfinished hurt in my heart. The fibers there remain unhealed. The scab there threatens to rip away any progress I’ve made trying to forget and forgive this woman, this woman’s husband, this woman’s child, and this woman’s niece—me. And I sit there, fierce in my determination to keep the scab intact, to finally move past this grief. Three years have passed and this is my first visit to her grave. My mouth is bitter with guilt.

Coo, coo…I look up. The dove cocks her head knowingly, as if she knows me.

Coo, coo…she repeats, and I close my eyes. The wind is gentle now; it has lost its bite. It circles me, dries my tears, and calms my racing heart.

My skin tingles, and I feel her here. My aunt, she’s here.  But it’s not just her.  It is her and it is everyone else buried under the ground.  It is the dead and it is the living.  It is everything visible and invisible.  It is the feeling we have around us every day, but we rarely notice.  It is the breath of fresh air as we leave a crowded space.  It is the ever-present knowing, the essence of everything and nothing. 

My skin tingles with the feeling of that something we can always count on, like a mother’s touch or a lover’s kiss.  Like a shiver and a sigh.  Like the longing and the loss.  Like the comfort found cuddling in a down blanket or spooning with your dog. 

My skin tingles, and I wake up.  I start to remember, to realize all of the things I forgot. 

It’s time to stop this, Tina. I don’t just hear these words.  I feel them seeping through the pores of my skin.

Now is the time for forgiveness, the feeling tells me.  Remember that I love you and that I’ll always be with you, but let me go.

Let this go.

The dove swoops down, takes the dried blossom that has fallen from my hand to the brown grass, takes one last look at me, and flies away.

She’s right. It’s time to let this go.

I take a long, deep breath.

This time, though, I don’t have to remind myself to do it.

From an email sent long ago...

March 16th, 2003, to be exact.

As I watch the worn, string-tied bracelet float away in the ship's wake, I think back through the past twenty-one days. Twenty-one days have gone by since the sensory whirlwind of Calcutta tore through my being and, even now, I can barely trace the imprint it has left.

It's March 16th and we're about half way through a supposed monumental, life changing "voyage of discovery." That's what everyone keeps calling this trip.

"Such an opportunity!"
"You'll never be the same."
"Find yourself."
"Take it for all it's worth."

And that's what I want to do: take this experience, this trip, for all that it is and for all it can offer me. I left home in search of something, although I wasn't really sure what that meant or if this program was the answer. Maybe in some sick way I was initially hoping for a picture perfect, cliche-ridden, Real World-esque experience to bring home with me so that I could say, "Look, I did that! I was there!"

At this point in the journey, though, I know for certain this is not what I'm after. That type of thing is not "me," whoever that is. I certainly want something real, however, an Americanized, MTV junk program definitely would not fit that criteria. But what exactly is it that I'm looking for? And will I actually ever find it?

Wanting to separate from the Semester at Sea infestation of Chennai and experience an uncensored, undiluted India, my friend and I ventured to Calcutta with little more than an enticing travel guide description and 24 hours to explore. Before arrival, we were warned that India assaults; during those 24 Calcuttan hours, we'd begin to truly understand the paradoxical truth to that statement.

The day remains a blur of images, but this blurred vision is the most clear I've ever seen.

Muggy. Heat. Sticky. Jasmine. Bindhis. Saris. Beggars. Children. Cripples. Incense. Religion. Faith. Devotion. Hands. Beggars. "Aunty, aunty!" "Rupees!" Cows. Bulls. Dogs. Horses. Baboons. Strays. Dirt. Dust. Garbage. filth. Tears. Laughter. Glares. Bangles. Jingles. Flowers. Colors. Turbans. "Good price!" Playing. Crying. Pleading. Praying. Howling. Growling. Lightness. Darkness. Rich. Poor. Selflessness. Greed. Survival. Limitations. Car horns. Bike bells. Motorcycles. Abandonment. Loneliness. community. Castes. Discrimination.

Beauty mixed with ugliness.
Love mixed with hatred.
Constant contradictions...

Begging. Grabbing. Pulling. Pushing.

Silence.

Hand.

Slap.

Blood. Tears. Confusion. Frustration.

Detachment.

Within the blend of negativity and hope there stands a kind, gentle Brahmin priest. One of our first stops of the day, the Kalighat Temple remains a spark of light shining through the thick conglomeration of stimuli. The temple is alive and bustling. Devotees are urgently trying to pay respect to their gods on this day of celebration.

Guiding us through the crowds of people, our priest shows us each place of worship and blesses us at all of them. He offers us information and explanation of his tradition and faith. He makes us feel welcome, comfortable in a place alien to anything we've ever known.

Before leaving, he guides us out of the temple to an adjacent cleansing area. With two marigolds in our right hands, we are brought one at a time to a statue of Vishnu. When my turn comes, I am told to think of loved ones whom I wish this blessing will reach and then throw the blossoms onto the god's figure. The priest then wraps a bright orange and yellow string around my left wrist. I am to leave it there for either seven or twenty-one days. On the final day, I am to take off the bracelet and dispose of it in a clean, pure place like a stream, river, or ocean. If this is done correctly , the blessings will come true.

In the long, hot hours that followed our visit to the Kali Temple, the yellow dye bled on my wrist, the sweat bled from my skin, the helplessness bled from my heart, the tears bled from my eyes...and the blood bled from my nose.

At the end of the day, though, I was able to get on a plane and fly back to the safety bubble that Semester at Sea provides. It is a form of escapism. Escape from the intensity and the reality I finally found.

Calcutta wouldn't let me forget, though. She sent this string, tied by the hands of a welcoming spirit to stay with me. This bracelet, that bled along with me, has served as a constant reminder of those images, those paradoxes, and it has literally tied me to a day that is and will be with me everyday.

Now that this connection is afloat somewhere between Japan and Korea, I am left only with an emotional, intellectual bruise that may never fully heal. In fact, I hope it doesn't.

From a trip long ago...

Spring '03, to be exact.

Version one...

The air is thick. It has substance. As we walk through it, we have to push, putting forth considerable effort to get through. My long, baggy pants--"Made in India" but "Bought at Buckland Hills Mall, Manchester, CT, USA"--cling to my legs. Jasmine suffocates the city--insense that I would later buy at that same store in the mall and try to recreate at home. Rickshaws whip past us. Bare feet, cracked, dirty, and needy bustle around the crowded streets...and our leather sneakers.

Children with deep wells of experience in their eyes, much more than I had at their age, watch and inquire silently. What are they thinking? Hoping? Dreaming?

With hands outstretched, palms up, they demand rupees. I wonder if their screaming bellies let them think of anything else.
________________________________________________________
Version two...

"Aunty, aunty," she mumbles, almost inaudibly. Her eyes, deep wells of experience that I never had at her age, or ever.

"Rupees, ruppees." Her feet bare, cracked, worn. Her skin coated in dust, sticking to her with air that acts as adhesive, that chokes if inhaled too deep. Her frail body wrapped in a crimson sari, the threats fighting to stay together, clinging to her for support.

Around her Calcutta swirls, blurs into a cyclone of senses. Daring you, taunting you to make sense of her. Begging for you to give her just one moment of relief, one reason to believe that this is not all that she is. That this is not all she can be.

Doing hard time...

...in the cells of my brain.

Suffering the treaty of a broken promise.

More from the archives of my heart...

...I'm trying to clear the cobwebs, the dust, the clutter...
_______________________________________________________
I'm that girl.
The one I never wanted to be,
But I keep being.
And only you can turn it around.
Because I don't know if I can cut you loose.

I'm that other girl.
The one you wonder your what-ifs about,
A traiter in the life you're choosing.
Wanting to be more.
Wanting to be everything.
Because I'm sick of living in this melancholy,
This sick.sad.love.song of you.
_______________________________________________________

"MINIMUM," you say, "We'll be great friends forever."
MINIMUMminimumMiNiMuM.
I'm glad you are placing quantifiers on us. Glad you can measure out, inch by inch, look by look, how much we can mean to eachother. You can have a few drinks and keep stringing me on, keeping that hope hanging in a false reality.

I am not a MINIMUM.

Everyone is telling me I don't want "that guy" that has an emotionally unfaithful relationship with the non-girfriend.

Our bodies have not had an affair. Our minds, our imaginations have.

And I keep defending you.
And telling you not to worry about me.
And I'm rolling over.
Docilly surrendering to the girl you love.
The one who has rarely made you happy in the time I've known you.
Although I wouldn't really know.
You don't tell me.

Your glaring omissions infest the silence between us.
________________________________________________________

i am the anomaly:
slipping in and out of people's sight
giving a glimpse
a peep show
of my soul
rarely believing in
their capacity for true sight

i am the anomaly:
trying not to give
trying not to receive
labels
titles
constraints
boxes
words
to barricade
my essence of emotion

i am the anomaly:
tripping about
clumsily sabotaging
my happiness

i am too much the peace maker:
unwilling to fight
unwilling to defend herself

some independent woman i am:
accepting less than
my. deserved. minimum.
_______________________________________________________

This whole year has been a mirage,
a shimmering masterpiece fading on a Saharan horizon.
Reality is taking me away from you.
As I ride away in her open jeep,
with my hair whipping me, stinging me,
I look bad at the shifty mirage of us.
In a mile or two, I won't be able to see it at all.
It will be gone.
And with it, my hope for the most real thing is this world.

The ingredients that made us possible have dissolved,
taking "us" right along with them.
Nothing was permanent.
Nothing was legitimate.

"It" was only real in our minds,
in our dreamworld, our fantasy,
a place having no hold in the world existing around us.

My imagination painted a convincing masterpiece of you,
a fixture I've longed for,
a mirage I was duped into believing might come true.

A rant...from a not-so-long long time ago...

I’m writing in Poor Richard font. Poor me. Wah wah wah. I’ve been making bad decisions. I’ve endangered my life and others’. I’m a hypocrite. I preach being strong and unique, but all I can do is get hammered, let my emotions get the best of me, and use my impaired, damaged brain cells to make some of the worst decisions I could ever make. Ones that seem to perpetuate exactly what my parents are thinking about me. That Alcoholic Beast that takes over and makes all the goodness and purity in the world go away. Vanish. Disappear. I’ve become that Beast to them. I am an embodiment of everything they didn’t want for me.

Me: their angel, their too perfect angel who looked down from the clouds and picked this life.

I PICKED these parents? I picked this existence where I’m expected to be nothing short of a saint? "A charmed child," they call me. Born into the path. "The Path," they call it. As if it is the only possible path to salvation out there. A path followed by the 60’s and 70’s groovey, hippie, flower children – children who are now enlightened and want to give that gift to their children. This is a path I was placed on before I’d even left the womb, and one that I’m not sure I want anymore. And the real question is, did I EVER really want it?

Let’s look at this belief that souls look down from somewhere and choose the vehicle for their next earthly existence. Because, yes, amidst it all I still believe a lot of this doctrine – the dogma that claims to be flexible and all-inclusive but still seems to exclude many. Every day it feels more like I’m a little Catholic girl rebelling against the unmoving, established rules. Like the ones founded on a church, on rites and rituals. Like everything I've rejected along the way.

So I CHOSE this? Why? I feel like I’ve lost the prophet. I’ve lost the light. Do I resent being seen as one of the lucky ones who don’t have to go through the struggles to find this Path? You’re goddamned right I do. If being born to this life with these parents and these beliefs means I’m not allowed to fuck up, to make mistakes, then I want nothing of it. I am STILL HUMAN. And I feel lost.

I’m not sure I can live up to this portrait of perfection I’ve been painted in. Who could? I mean. Just because I was born onto a certain path doesn’t mean I can’t deviate, detour, and find a different way. A way that is truly MINE.

Of course that doesn’t mean I want to be reckless, endangering lives. That’s the last thing I want.

But for some reason I’ve done just that twice in a little over a month. And for some reason I’ve been spared. Someone, somewhere is trying to tell me something, I think. The obvious would be to stop drinking. But I think part of my problem has been trying to make everything a black and white issue. I need to deal in the shades of gray.

FIRST-I’ve been STUPID and WEAK, but that doesn’t mean that I’m a STUPID or WEAK person.

SECOND-I see that I’ve been terrified to let my parents see that I drink. This concept of drinking is, and has always been, an indicator of imperfection to them. They don’t condone it, in fact they despise it. Or maybe they're terrified. And they’ve done their very best to try to sew that seed of fear in me. But somehow that fear has transformed into utter contempt for myself.

How can I be so predictable? My family has been defined by fateful nights with swirling red and blue lights in the rearview, and the sick, bitter taste of alcohol, of instant, Absolut regret on its breath. Simply put, this is not ok. It’s just not. And I know that. But how can I fix it?

Is just STOPPING drinking all together a realistic goal at this point?
It might be.
I guess.
Perhaps it even SHOULD be.
I don’t know.

THIRD- I need to consider why I am doing this. I need to decide which friends need to be around me and which don't. I need to stop the bitching and make the change. I've known it needs to happen for far too long now, and I have no one to blame but me.

Instead of helping and healing myself, I've been speeding down sabotage central. And I need an exit fast.

Why was I so paralyzed? Why couldn't I speak my mind, ask my questions, set my parameters? For someone who claims to be so strong, I've been really fucking weak. Maybe I just tried to believe I was a rock, when in reality I was crumbling, slowly and haphazardly flying away from myself. This personal disintegration happened at a snails pace, imperceptible within the day to day. Piece by piece, speck by speck, the dust of my former self simply set sail on the passing breeze, with nothing but a whispered farewell. And where has this left me?

She stood there as her world swirled around in a mishmash of colors and sounds. Nondescript. Unsteady. Nauseating. She was shrinking to the ground, to the size of an ant, and she wondered if she would ever regain the strength to carry weight exponentially heavier than her own. She used to be tireless and brave. But now all she felt was defeated. Utterly and hopelessly defeated. She wondered what happened to her high definition, technicolor life, the humble yet satisfying existence wrought with magesty. Though not the regal, Who Wants to be a Millionaire kind of magesty, but the goofy, Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire kind. The kind with laughter, crazy families, excitement, and the Carlton dance. And she stood there wanting nothing more than the spontaneous desire to bust out like Carlton. But all she could do was stand there...and cry.

Dancing in all its forms cannot be excluded from the curriculum of all noble education; dancing with the feet, with ideas, with words, and, need I add that one must also be able to dance with the pen? ~Friedrich Nietzsche

the skeletons of winter are starting to fill in with life

"How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving, and tolerant of the weak and the strong. Because someday in life you will have been all of these."

"To laugh often and much, to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others, to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived...this is to have succeeded"

Realizations...

1. I've come to realize that my boobs:
Are not the problem.

2. I've come to realize that when I talk:
I need to believe what I say.

3. I've come to realize that when I love someone:
It should not feel wrong.

4. I've come to realize that I need:
To let down my guard.

5. I've come to realize that I've lost:
Some of my innocence.

6. I've come to realize that I hate it when:
I hang on to a lost cause.

7. I've come to realize that if I'm drunk:
I'm not a bad person.

8. I've come to realize that money:
Will not hinder my dreams.

9. I've come to realize that people:
Can always surprise you.

10. I've come to realize that I'll always be:
A child at heart.

11. I've come to realize that I have a crush on:
Functional relationships.

12. I've come to realize that the last time I cried was:
At happy hour with my colleagues. Typical.

13. I've come to realize that my cell phone:
Shouldn't be such a necessity.

14. I've come to realize that when I woke up this morning:
I was happy to be alive.

15. I've come to realize that before I go to sleep at night:
I need to be thankful for all of my blessings.

16. I've come to realize that I am thinking about:
Rekindling my creative spirit.

17. I've come to realize that babies:
Can be our greatest teachers, if we let them.

18. I've come to realize that when I get on Myspace:
I'm not attached to as many people as I once was.

19. I've come to realize that today I will:
Attack my BEST portfolio.

20. I've come to realize that tonight I will:
Continue the battle.

21. I've come to realize that tomorrow I will:
See 19 and 20.

22. I've come to realize that I really want:
To be loved.

Still learning to live in my skin...

It seems to be a constant struggle, a constant process. The good news is that it is progressing. Every day I make strides, whether small or large, towards that version of me that I will be proud of. Every day I begin understanding that this journey will probably never be truly over. And that is ok. And I am ok with that.

Keys to my success--as I see it--

**Listening - truly - to self, to body, to spirit, to mind - also to OTHERS

**Loving all of me - weaknesses and strengths

**Letting my WALL come down - allowing love and true relationships in

**Creating - whether in writing, theater, dance, or other forms

**Embracing change.

**Respecting the past (and forgiving it), embracing the present (and loving it), looking optimistically toward the future (and planning for it).

..I think that is a noble start.