Write

IMG_5284I write, sometimes, to figure out what I really think.  Discovery as Don Edwards calls it.  Life is this overwhelming channel full of experience and input and I have to make sense of it.  So I write to read my life.

I write, sometimes, to rant.  Out pour feelings pent up by the necessities of work and expectations.  Life is that ocean full of creatures and strange chemistry that can nurture or threaten existence.  So I write to keep afloat.

I write, sometimes, to play.  Larks and ravens dance and mess about on the wing just for the sheer fun of it.  Life is that lighthouse full of solitude that invites another to join in the amusement.  So I write to enjoy the world.

 

perdre du poids

rue JJ Rousseau Perspective on my latest exercise and diet plan, “It’s not about losing pounds, it’s about losing resentment.” I thought this as I pedaled the exercycle this morning.

In the vanishing horizon of my younger days, I can tick off the times I got a man’s attention by running 3 miles a day and dieting to a size three

and then he left me

so I tried dating which involved a regime of exercise and weight loss until I got a stout fellow flattered to have a petite girl friend

and then he left me

In middle age, reading the online dating profiles

nobody on the planet could possibly settle for anyone is who is less than

athletic and toned.

I wonder how all these less than magazine prototype people who love each other and live together really are getting on, since they are not all athletic and toned? The ones that stroll by my house, chatting, walking the dog, with apparent extra pounds in tow.

 Exercise invasive enough to affect my natural Reubenesque stature

and hypoglycemic light-headedness is tough while teaching.

I’m resenting that I have to do this again, wondering why I couldn’t hang on to my previous loss?

Could I do this for me,not for impressing or attracting a male?

I resent all the effort and energy of my life

I poured on men

who promised to be mine

but never were.

Friends

242905_104439512980508_6339936_o I had two close friends in high school and one of them moved back to the Bay Area recently. The threesome saw each other in New Orleans about ten years ago, but haven’t seriously palled around since high school and college in the late 60’s and early 70’s.

So one joy of the spring break was entertaining Sheryl at my mom’s in SF.  With true friends the connection is just there; no awkward finding out where you stand or figuring out how to be.

From the moment I heard her deep voice in the hallway — that laugh — the party and gab fest was on.  We watched the sunset over the city as we mopped the remnants of cajun shrimp sauce off our plates and poured the rest of the second bottle of champagne.
The next morning, after coffee, we set off to the Marina, Ft. Mason, to find the friends of the library annual book sale. The old Fiesta Hall seemed a quarter of a mile long and half as wide, with perhaps a hundred islands of tables set up, covered with books.

Sheryl got a shopping cart.  As we munched sopa and tacos from the wonderful tent concession, I learned what an avid reader Sheryl is.  Funny that I didn’t notice that in high school.  She told me about being in 5th grade and going to the community library and just starting at one end, checking out the first six books, then the next, since that was the limit.  Reading the library and no one wondered about this 10 year old.

So I realize that now we will have new things to learn about each other and well as share the crazy memories from our late teens.

 

 

Coming down from the city to the shore

beachstairsEvery turn on Hwy 1 revealed beaches and farms with windswept views of the ocean.  As we drove south sun overtook the fog and sheets of shining water lay out to the west beyond dunes covered with silver gray vegetation.

After Mom and I stopped in Davenport for lunch, the somnolent afternoon found us rolling into Capitola in traffic, wanting to be reclining on sand.

With Jess and Rhia we went down to “our beach”  in sunny freshness rhythmic waves.  Finally the blanket was anchored at the corners with sandals and I stretched out.  Horizontal on sand under a huge blue sky, tucked in near the sandy cliffs, at rest.

Now time is measured by the stick Rhia stuck in the sand.  “No, not a sundial!  I don’t want to know what time it is.”

“That’s why this one has no numerals.  It points to you are here now.”

Getting feet wet in the surf with Jess prompted me to try a jog down the beach.  Running has a long stretch of step, but I have not been running for many a year.  So we dog jogged until our breath gave out and turned around and ran back.

Which made digging my belly back into the sand on the blanket even more lovely.

There was no time for awhile, just the freshness of wind and the sound of surf and people’s voices, a few gulls.  Then as the sun dropped and the wind picked up we got cold. Time to go.

 

Twin Peaks, Two Trees

IMG_0017We watch the fog come in and take over what was a sunny, windy day.  We had a short trip downstairs to the garden to let Wampus outside and Mom filled the bird feeder.  I pulled the new prairie grass sprouting around the roses, grass offspring which I had pulled out laboriously at the end of summer to save the asphyxiated rose bushes.

Mom was my sous chef as we created fresh tropical fruit salsa for the marinated mahi-mahi to broil.  She chop chopped and lemon zested the quinoa lemon basil salad.  I got her to sit down as I finished putting the meal together.

So the best thing to do after an elegant but simple meal like that, since the sky was darkening, was pull out the chocolate and dessert wine poured in tiny glasses and the Scrabble letters out of the box to play “Take Five” on the kitchen table.  Laughing, she beat me the second round so we were square.

And then it seemed good to coax Wampus to sit between us on the couch while we read.  I went into a time warp trying to grasp quantum computing and the physicist’s ideas of many worlds in The New Yorker.

It was a good day, from the cup of coffee this morning, through the trip to the grocery store, the garden and a quiet afternoon.

I am here so I can be with my mother, even though the fog is coming in and taking over the sunny day.

 

Watching the Sun Go Down in SF from Twin Peaks

IMG_0002When I arrived, and packed my bags up the front stairs, Mom had homemade chicken soup ready for dinner.  We supped and then moved to the living room windows and swivel chairs, with champagne and dark chocolate, to watch the gold light on the windows over in the east bay and the light play over the tops of the buildings down Market Street.

We told stories and talked and talked and swiveled around to notice it was dark and the light show was going on the Bay Bridge.  More talk and polished off the bottle of Chandon.  And maybe tomorrow we’ll take the F Train down to the Embarcadero so that we can be up close to the light show on the bridge.  Maybe really close at DeLancey Street’s with garlic mashed potatoes.

And I was just thinking, looking over at my Mom, so cute in the chair across from me, how the sun is going down and she doesn’t have much time here.  And maybe i don’t either, who knows?  But it was precious to be together, laughing and talking, sometimes about serious things and sometimes memories or absolute trivia.

When the city was entirely dark and lit by electric lights we both yawned at the same time and the evening gave way to teeth brushing and getting tucked in.

Beyond Accuracy

I’ve spent the evening, after falling asleep on the couch with the cat on my belly watching the sun set through the picture window, reading, not writing.  It is a pleasure and exercise to work through a chapter of Good Prose, The Art of Nonfiction by Tracy Kidder & Richard Todd.  This evening’s workout was the chapter titled, “Beyond Accuracy.”

The chapter concludes with this assertion, or is it a call?  It is my life challenge.

One can only say it is possible that writers live most fully when their work moves beyond performance, beyond entertainment or information, beyond pleasing audience and editor, when it does all that and yet represents their most important beliefs.  [p 104]

I underlined the last six words.  And took a break to cogitate, got side-tracked reading Anne Lamott’s post about being on Match.com for a year.  Funny and true, as she usually is.  That made me think how I’ve wanted to rewrite my profile on SeniorPeopleMeet.com which I did.  More concise, trying to represent myself and hopes without being grandiose.

While I was on the dating site there were was a flurry of chat online and a message from a friend I dated awhile back.  Suddenly, I realized the evening was gone and I hadn’t blogged.

What’s the Latin that Don Murray likes to quote, meaning “Never a day without a line?”  I feel that tug to make sure I don’t slip back to only writing when it is pressed out of me, or when I feel the leisure.  I want to keep building the stamina and the capacity to think on the keyboard.  To notice more.

So, I really think portraying oneself on a dating site is “beyond accuracy.”  Here’s what I wrote, tonight:

A little about me...

You are looking for what? For whom? If you’re reading my profile my guess is that you are out of my “dating age” by ten years. If you are also an alienated war baby like myself, I’m suspicious about why you aren’t out with women 10 years your junior?

Seriously, this online dating game is crazy. I just have a hope that I could meet someone to be happy with, who would like me.

Certainly my work as an interventionist and educator doesn’t put me in contact with eligible men.

About the one I’m looking for…

I think most people know pretty quickly whether they really like someone or not. I mean, your actions, your first impressions, those fateful words on a first date…

Chemistry, a bit of excitement, tension…and not having to Act Interested.

I like people who are authentic, unaffected….and not completely self-centered. I have a cat who fills that role nicely.

With the current defiance of aging, it seems everyone cares madly about physical fitness. I work in my garden, walk and dance salsa. I have a road bike and want somebody to ride with if it is coming out of the garage. Exercise is good, but I don’t want it to be my religion.

I’d just like to add…

Family time matters to me and I also know how to recharge in solitude.
I tend more to the arts and literature, and while I love movies, I don’t have a TV. I can be easily entertained.
I will go to sports events, but mix up the players’ names. Like everyone, love the Giants.

Yo-Yo Ma is my rock star. There a window of Baroque chamber music that sends me…I don’t know why.

Maybe my all time favorite book is Les Miserables in the unabridged 5 novel form. I also read young adult fiction when it is pithy and well-crafted, like The Fault in Our Stars. Now reading Good Prose, the art of nonfiction by Tracy Kidder and Richard Todd. I blog and am interested in writing.

I think a great relationship is the only thing I’d settle for at this point in life. What would make it great would be to be ordinary, kind and share the days’ ups and downs. To keep in touch, even if apart.

I’d like a man who could be on my mind but not drive me crazy.

Please write me a message. Tell me a teensy bit about who you are and maybe the conversation will continue…We can do coffee.

Photo on 2013-01-30 at 19.43 #2And the Good Prose challenge will be waiting for me in the morning…

When You Wake Up Dreaming About Teaching

When you wake up dreaming about teaching, going through the lesson again and again — each time more carefully — when you dream about the feedback you’re asking students to give, you know you’re trying to sleep late.

This morning I dreamed I had taught my lesson on multiple ways to determine the main idea of a passage and was asking my students, shadows hovering in the background of the thinking spotlight of my dream, for feedback on 1) clear instruction tied to the goal, 2) time to practice the skill, 3) opportunity for discussion with partners or team, and 4) time to self rate the effort and reflect on the learning.

Blink.  “I’m dreaming about teaching,” I mumble, pushing myself to awaken by sliding feet to the floor, my lesson feedback shredding to mental pieces as I pull up the cell shades one by one.  It’s Saturday.  The backyard is still under a bit of fog and there’s a hummingbird tasting at the tall, blue spires of the Pride of Maderia.

I am dreaming of improving, perfecting my teaching.  “I must be an addict,” I think to myself as I get the French press ready to make Columbian coffee.  I mean addicted to teaching and learning here, although I could go into my coffee habit.

When you wake up dreaming about teaching, when you dream about teaching to stay asleep you know you’re hooked.  Teaching is an art not easily unravelled.  It is a game of wit and nerve.  And, no matter how great some moments of teaching go, there are always places and ways to improve.

Well there you have it.  Teaching is a whole lot like writing.  Getting ideas, evaluating plans, making sketches to organize.  Trying out things, mixing the old with new.  Doing a long, hard discovery draft, which is like a teaching inquiry.  And revising.  Looking for the central idea.  Revising while you write, revising later when you feel you won’t quit or kill it, revising after you revise.  Stepping back.  Waking up dreaming about it. Once in awhile romantically comparing it to wine tasting.  Sometimes thinking you need therapy.

And finally going live.  Publishing.  “Hi kids.  Come on in, get your materials, and let’s get started….Yesterday I showed you two ways to find the main idea, which is really classifying information.  Today I’m going to show you two more ways to reach the same goal.  Are you ready?”

Sorting

This morning I cleaned out two personal double file cabinets, four desk drawers, six dresser drawers, six baskets in the closet and man oh man, do I feel Organized now.

What I noticed amid the collection of art brushes unused for some time now, office supplies, end runs of stationery, rubber stamps, and obsolete files dating back to a dial up account with AT&T, and the service manual for a refrigerator that died two years ago, was that I have files with writing tucked here and there.

It all began this morning with a search for one particular document, a binder I never found, however it ended with a satisfying sense of Order.  The classifying kind of cleaning makes me feel more mental space, like clearing a room for a dance.

I didn’t interrupt my archeological sort to read any of my old writing, but I will delve into it, now that I’m aware.  I wonder if it will be disappointing or interesting?  Simply layers of sediment or prompt new work, perhaps.  It awaits me.  My past, some bits of it recorded.  Some thoughts and attempts.IMG_0005

Laura & Lorena: Inspiring Teachers to Write