I am hungry, again, to read, partly seeing the onset of summer, and partly just because I miss it.  I’m in The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco and finding the layers of comment on the religious life fascinating.  Having been somewhat cloistered myself in a fundamentalist community I am connecting with the monastic life and characters in Umberto’s book.  And vocabulary beyond a struggling second grader’s is refreshing.

Also on my night stand is The Paris Wife by Paula McLain which is my downtown women’s book club selection for June.  I’m hosting and will get to do a cuisine connection to the book.  Besides I think the salon era of Paris in the ’20’s is fascinating.

Another read I’m wading into, much less literary but daunting, is the K-5 Performance Assessments from Lucy Calkins new Common Core Units of Study.  Besides reading it, my writing task will be to take it down to a level my small school district can adopt.

It will be good to finish Good Prose: The art of nonfiction before the summer intensive institute begins.  The other night Kidder or Todd wrapped up a chapter with such a gem I wanted to pause and sleep in it and think about it during my days. It’s the end of the chapter titled “Art and Commerce and they’re quoting David Foster Wallace via his NY memorial.

“The novelist Zadie Smith quoted him as having said,”…the big distinction between good art and so-so art lies somewhere in the art’s heart’s purpose:  the agenda of the consciousness behind the text.  It’s got something to do with love.  With having th disciline to talk out of the part of yourself that can love, instead of the part that just wants to be loved.”

Any my co-director friend put a book in my hand when I left the planning meeting at her house.  I have loved every book Nancy has ever recommended.  This is Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl.  

Quite a feast, especially for me not being a speed reader and one who is savoring the time spent with well crafted words, ideas, characters to follow into meaning and places to connect with myself having nothing to do with my day gig.


Blue WallOn the construction wall by SJSU M.A. students, The Dirty Brushes Club, painted reproductions of artist’s self-portraits,  collectively titled, “Better Than Blue.” Each painting, about 4′ X 4′ portrays not only the unique persona of an artist, but also expresses an essence of the artist’s style.

I believe this image is after Modigliani with the characteristic tilt of the head and elongated, elegantly sad expression.

The late afternoon sun on plywood offers a weave that makes our Modigliani look more Asian, and the play of shafts of light over the face highlight the down pull that makes me think of sorrow, of prison camps, of missing a home country.

Someone well bred and cultured has held onto a quiet dignity during a time of humiliation.  The sun and boards talk of time and aging but there’s a youthfulness to the flesh on the man’s face, almost Geisha-like.  A refinement that contrasts with roughness.

I like to think that Mr. Modigliani would like this photo of the M.A. student’s portrait of his self-portrait.  He might enjoy the thrice remove of it all, with something true about his personality holding through every transition.

I wonder how much the painting club learned from imitating the many modern artists they reproduced on the wall, Better Than Blue.



I keep stepping up a bit more trying on my big girl shoes, taking on more challenging tasks.  And wanting to grow to trust my judgment, rather than be so servile to my people pleasing nature.

Setbacks are sure to come, and a few arrived today. I was humbled back to my you-sure-blew-it child self by a new set of projection SmartBoard systems — and cowed into abjection by an iMovie project I left initializing on its own losing clips and creating some kind of loop for the replay.  Having the sound come on loud and clear after the session was over made frisse’ out of my nerves.

I looked at and rehearsed aloud the things that went well today — trying to stave off the sense that I was a flop…no worse, that I was in Deep Trouble, but the glitches and puzzlements seemed to outweigh the good stuff. I wanted everything to go perfectly because I felt like my colleague and I had been entrusted with our director’s “baby.”  Like when the parents come home and find that the babysitter hasn’t managed everything the way it was on the list.  Not good.  I felt like I wasn’t equal to what should have been a straightforward task – and to an orientation that has previously run rather smoothly.  Well, it wasn’t on purpose the things that happened but I’m responsible.  A person not on the final list showed up and insisted she had been accepted into the institute.  To err on the side of gracious we had to take her word but it was weird.  And another did not show and couldn’t be reached by phone and I worried.  And how I wish I’d had an hour or two to rehearse in that new high tech room and not run off to school the other morning letting iMovie initialize my project without supervision.

The detail of the day will be forgotten and the people things will get sorted out.  Communication and clarity.  Meanwhile, I am perturbed that I give myself such a hard time when things don’t go to my expectations.  Why does it take so long to have the disappointment wear off?  Am I waiting for absolution?

Maybe I should remember that when little girls put on mama’s heels sometimes they fall on their face.

What I Want

IMG_5597The winter before last I wrote myself out of a funk with the prompt, “What I really want…”

While I composed the letter to myself, my middle ached and I became weepy.  When ever did I even ask this question for myself?  My six decades had been about what others wanted.

Writing long and hard about what hurt gave me clarity:  I pursued the new job as an interventionist, planned a trip to France, spent more time with my grown daughters, tried again to date available men, and bought a convertible.  I shifted my erroneous question, “What do I have to look forward to?” over to the heart search, “What do I really want?”

Driving to work one morning I also realized that I had viewed my foreshortened future through a distorted lens.  I was striving for what I could accomplish that would be worthy to make up for the many shortcomings of my life.  When I looked at my thoughts, I had to ask, “Who’s keeping score?”

Now, again, I feel that settling of the brain, and the mind weariness of the end of a school term.  I’ve been placed as an interventionist again.  I’m grounded from travel to finish a major electrical/insulation project on my bungalow.  Tonight I just helped my daughter buy a low-miles Camry so she has wheels that work.

The purple sands at Pffiefer.  Those strands that show in the ebbing tide.  Those thoughts I think in between the humdrum and the full tilt teaching schedule…always feeling the pull of creative impulse, but no set discipline.  Wanting to write but lacking purpose.  The inevitable creative turnover that happens in my teaching life; wanting to capture the best and reinvent myself for next season.

What do I want?  I want my family and friends to know I love them.  I want my colleagues to respect me.  I want to make new friends.  I want a loving relationship with a man who is over his childhood issues.  I want to finish my bungalow so it is comfy especially when my mom wants to live here.  I want to know when I can afford to retire.  I want to go back to France.  I want to take risks…and follow my intuition.

Poem to Jessica

on champagne waves

the unspoken snap of knowing

an event is at hand

in the snowsoft they came

one then the other

tentative in the rose light

the deer whispered down the dune

blending in sundown lace pines

their unseen presence came into my laughter

effervescent waves and waning sun

were outshadowed by the miracle of tenderness

a deep silent surprise crackled in me



ice light on the ocean

serenely unrelenting in constant motion

but more

she’s the perfect limb

the poised senses of the wary

she’s the ecstatic soundless step into the open

the mottled fawn brushing past

my gentle one

my sunset hush

I’m filled with splashing surf in loving you

go gently perfect peace

i love you


Laura Romaine 4/81



Ode to Mickey, mi gato


we met,IMG_0004

the cow kitty and I,

when my realtor

showed his house —

he checked me out


the hood is his

several blocks of it

the story of how

the cat came back

from Reno

to be mine is

part of his charm.


street smart

with a squeaky falsetto meow.


whines about hot weather

loves tuna water tea

Mickey gives me

dead rats

occasional birds

in my closet


he gives me


reasons to open cans

warmth on the blankets

in the chilly dawn


he emerges from

under the honeysuckle

and meows

when my car drives up

Mickey rolls in the dirt



in cat love

at me.


he drinks

from the kitchen sink


in the catnip

he loves

water and chases

the stream

from the hose


when dancers

come over

he walks among us

and parks in the kitchen

when the party starts


when I sit on the front porch

for cool air

he takes the other rail

when I work in the garden

he sleeps there


when I take a road trip

he comes back over the fence



telling me not

to go away again.



black and white

cow kitty

with attitude.


I Wish I Knew What Is on My Mind

No images

Not a line.  I’d rather look at the flowers in the yard

Or prop my feet on the couch in the sun going down

Than write.

My brain was all abuzz with details of the day

That have numbed me.

My muscles are tired from a long walk

And my cat disconcerted that we are out of tuna water tea.

Maybe this is normal.

What folks mean when they say they’re tired.






End of week wind down…

IMG_0029Like the pacing tiger

walking off screen

I have sought, talked



and retaught…

I gave to my mother, my sisters and remembered my brother


I wrote with strangers this week

and I communed with the stars and my garden.

Tonight I danced, and made two 7-letter words in Scrabble

tossed down a champagne


Now I’m ready for the final day of the work week.

And sleep.

Blessed sleep.


Laura & Lorena: Inspiring Teachers to Write