When blogging takes precedence over playing Words with Friends on FaceBook during my morning cup of coffee, I know something’s up. Maybe this writing thing I’ve been trying to nurture is taking hold?
The sunlight slanting across the neighbor’s roof, the dew soaked plants, and piles of redwood debris from this week’s windstorm all beckon me to get out of doors with gloves, tools, and the wheelbarrow.
Yet I dally over this mug of cafe creme because I noticed the Slicers link is up. And wanting to write is good, but actually doing it is better. Like wanting to get more exercise and then getting out for that brisk walk daily.
Enough moralizing. Just saying, I am enjoying this blogging thing. It is a joy to work with image and words and for my thoughts to be instantly framed in a lovely format. That’s compelling.
Writing for a non-specific, general audience is also good for me, rather than ranting or poeticizing to myself. That does sound weird, but you may agree with professional writers who claim adamantly that a writer writes for himself/herself. I agree with them, but the next step is to include someone else as audience.
Good morning, bloggers everywhere. Especially to those who blogged at a kitchen table with a tall mug of coffee before anything else got your attention.
I had a cat from Hurricane Katrina named Carlos. He was the best part of coming home to my studio with piles of work.
Cats, and Carlos in particular, was a master at unwinding, chilling and enjoying life. His eyes said he loved that I was home.
Now I have a big black and white “cow kitty” who just greeted me and went out to enjoy the return of sunshine after a rainy day.
It’s Friday. The presentation is done. It went well. Other things happened, but mainly the heat is off and I’m going out for Indian food tonight with a girl friend.
Does anyone have any idea how sucked dry and zapped teachers can feel at the end of an especially challenging week? I see even the 20 and 30 something year old’s dragging. Numbing, bone-tiredness. And then, we spring back.
Like my amazing cats, Carlos and Mickey, I will decompress. Chill by looking at the daffodils blooming in my circular garden, having a glass of zin port, and simply not doing anything. Not for a little while.
Tonight, while I ate my Trader Joe’s Guilt Free Chicken Breast in Pablano Sauce, I watched a YouTube from a FB friend’s share: Senator Elizabeth Warren speaking at the Senate Banking Committee Hearing on Bank Money Laundering.
Senator Warren asked clearly, “I’d like your opinion….” and the banking committee dodged and skirted her question and she’d return them to the question: “I’d like your opinion. What does it take to even consider closing down a bank that is laundering money? How many billions of dollars of drug cartel money laundering would you say it takes to consider shutting down a financial institution?” (approximate quote).
I saw that what we want, what I want, as an educator, is to send people into the world who are as clear and concise in their argument as Senator Warren. Writing for real world purposes has got to be the reason we do the Common Core.
It’s the eve of my long-awaited presentation on opinion writing for primary teachers and students. I can see the purpose in taking the time to teach kindergarteners to state their opinion, for first graders to rate something as the best in the group and for second graders to review the books they read with opinions. Our primary students can give an opinion when asked. Senator Warren said, “I’d like your opinion….” and the Senate banking committee could not state theirs.
I’m going to put the finishing touches on my presentation, enjoy a glass of port and my big black and white cat come in out of the rain.
Creating presentations for teachers takes a creative aesthetic like composing a great salad.
The one I’m writing now needs something twisty like the orange muscat champagne vinegar that makes this simple green salad sing. Hmmm, what will that be?
I never fear my audience when i cook for them. However, these are K-2 educators, professional arm-crossers and well acquainted with the details of their trade. I am a newcomer to primary as an intervention teacher even though I am a veteran teacher. Why do I not feel I’m their equal?
What mix of student samples, visuals, information and activities will engage them? How will I scoot off center stage and set them by grades to a meaningful task at a meeting they did not invite themselves to?
The salad course is CCSS Anchor Standard 1: Writing opinions. Perhaps I should plow on with my prepping and not trying to field all the imaginary opinions? Maybe they’re not going to throw cabbages at me, after all?
Even so, a presentation should be crisp and multi-flavored, like a great salad.
My first morning in Paris, I was briskly shooed out of our shared apartment with a moral charge to get café creme, write in my journal and watch French people.
Karen is going to have tea and oatmeal. I loathe oatmeal and taking orders. And more so, demands to know my Plans-for-the-Day before I’ve had coffee.
I was the only patron at the Boulangerie de la Butte aux Cailles, because the French don’t hurl themselves out of their apartments like Californians from South Carolina, ahem. I have crumbs from an excellent mini-crossant, pain au chocolat, sticking to my lips and an excellent mug of coffee beside my journal.
I wonder if the French get tired of this school girl naivete that presumes to study them from cafe tables? (Will a few French customers please step in so I can notice you?)
I will never tire of cafés. In our Parisian neighborhood, several to a block. I felt loss returning cars and freeway structure in California. Friends assured me there are cafés in San Jose. But you have to drive to get to them.
What a café speaks to me is this wonderful value people find in talking to each other…and sitting and thinking, or having a drink or two. Socializing, at once casual and sophisticated.
A café is like a writing attitude.
Invite your ideas to sit down with you. Do a bit of idle noticing….maybe have another cup of coffee and scribble a bit. There’s no hurry. And perhaps you can tell a friend when the words are there. Or not.
In my peripheral vision is James. Mr. K., as his adoring students call him. My second husband and lost love.
James. Not the alpha male, but content in his own skin. And very fine, brown skin down his long back and well-formed arms indeed! The curl of dark hair touching his tanned neck I still recall. James, the sensual man, the nature lover. Tall, lean frame astride a BMW or the bike de jour, leaning into a turn rides my memory as an archetype. The peaceful warrior, the knight in black leather.
James, we lived through so much B.S. with that mission church turning to a cult. I tried so hard to be the perfect wife that it really wasn’t your fault I lost touch with you. Being a guilty bystander to so much strangeness incapacitated intimacy. So-called “prayer” drove me to isolation. And, how could you know the black hook in my heart, the cult leader being the reincarnation of my violent/schizo alcoholic father? You married a girl tied to the fear trip of surviving her daddy. But was my bit of neurosis really reason to abandon me?
With very frightening people I walk very carefully, not wanting to make waves. You left, afraid, at least able to articulate your fear. I was numb. Or the remnant brethren ran you off. But the point was, you left without me. You said you needed space.
James had the wide territory of my heart. Yet, his Leave-It-To-Beaver Willow Glen heritage made him hide in “keeping it positive.” Mr. K, I could not tell you my problems. I was becoming something monstrous while you watched from your superior perch. I bore it alone, like your alcoholic Mom.
So I broke our legal bond, with the most deliberate sadness ever. It was March 4th when I had the papers served. A march forth, a long time ago. I fiercely wanted not to love someone who would walk by me weeping piteously on his recliner while he collected his Fiesta ware and homemade jam. Your apologetic air wasn’t enough to save me. When you wrote love letters from the “outside” I burned them on the patio grill because your words didn’t match your actions.
Years later, I would finally stop looking back in regret, stop longing for the simple comfort we took in each other. The ache of seeing another put his arm around his girl, or two being silly in a grocery store. The pain of spring blossoms screaming I’m alone without you.
Once we walked, you as Abe Lincoln in a 4th of July parade, and I, of course, worked well as the short wife, eccentric and supposedly mentally ill. I remember that now, since Speilberg’s film is out. Yes, I seemed crazy trying to loathe someone I loved.
And that’s not the real tragedy. Not the great loss. The lie of a sealed system of “correct” belief that was paraded as salvation was tragic. The unabated emotional cruelty of cult leadership was obscene. However, the saddest piece may be that I married you when I believed you’d never stay with me.
Whimsical Parisian graffiti reminds and recalls my time and-thing-stricken mind to pause… to regain the creative stance.
Gaze. The up tilted head is composing position.
And the sky is all the possibility of discovering what I think. The chance of synthesizing some new meaning from the traffic of present experiences, the Metro of events streaming through my busy professional life.
The sky. I sense my big picture thoughts and optimistic core when I look up. I get the mood and tone of my mind. Perhaps a memory or two will make emotional weather and precipitate some writing.
However, for now, I enjoy the quiet and stillness of simply looking up. Regarde le ciel…
Watching the storm come up the hill from the sea, we’re on the deck, after Scrabble and walking in the wildflower twilight. Sometimes an idea invades like that.
Sipping Vermouth rouge with a lemon twist, we see the thin curtains of rainfall at the coast. A few sprinkles pass over, and we keep talking until thunder and sideways lightning starts. Normal life goes on, but something imperative takes over. Surrender.
The blue gray clouds advance, real raindrops pitter on bushes, so we move the furniture inside. There is a mood not to be ignored, and I break my journal. The rain sweeps up and the coastal hills and rocks turn into slate silhouettes.
The pine branches that arc over the patio and the rock below brush the landscape Japanese. That is how prose poetry happens.
At OChateaux, the first wine translates, “far from the eye” — grapes grown in the shade. Its fragrance is lemony like magnolias, its taste tangy. I liken this delicacy to the phrases and lines that arise from recent memories, from the writer’s private, poetic joy in nature, flowers and solitude.
The Chablis is clean, a clear accent over goat cheese, very smooth, no bite. The taste of directly rendered, simple experience without qualifying, without impressing an audience. My moments are valuable, some more so than others, and what I have to say is worth the while of writing.
The Clos Hermitage smells like fresh spring rain in the morning, complex. It pairs nicely with sheep cheese. Some writing times are filled with creativity, unbidden, to be enjoyed momentarily. Some rich overlap of ideas and experience get into words on a page and revised with craft and care. Because these lovely tastes are not daily fare does not mean I should not write.
Le Prieuré 2009 smells smoky offering a rich woodsy flavor of raspberry. It has a filmic quality like Florence; pairs with brie with truffles. A mysterious ferment to write, some appellation that I cannot remember, brings me back to blog, to send notes to loved ones, but mainly to meet myself. One way that I taste life is by swirling it in a glass, noting its color and composing.