Fog
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Last night, our house was enveloped in fog. Roger bribed our cat Doublestuff with treats to pose for this picture to send to Jess.
Thursday, January 09, 2014
Poetry and Pose
Fog
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Last night, our house was enveloped in fog. Roger bribed our cat Doublestuff with treats to pose for this picture to send to Jess.
Wednesday, January 08, 2014
A Milestone
Last night's post was my 1,000th post on this blog!
I googled "1,000" to see if there was anything clever to say about it and discovered that Wikipedia actually says this: "1000 or 1,000 (one thousand) is the natural number following 999 and preceding 1001."
As if that would help clarify things for someone who isn't exactly sure what 1,000 is.
I googled "1,000" to see if there was anything clever to say about it and discovered that Wikipedia actually says this: "1000 or 1,000 (one thousand) is the natural number following 999 and preceding 1001."
As if that would help clarify things for someone who isn't exactly sure what 1,000 is.
Tuesday, January 07, 2014
Good Omens
After spending the past two days scrambling to deal with some unexpected and aggravating logistical problems with my classes and schedule at UVU, I jumped in the car and drove to The King's English Bookshop in Salt Lake City for a nice change of pace.
My cousin Tracey and her husband Josh are literary agents (Adams Literary), and Josh had decided at the last minute to fly west to help Sara B. Larson, one of their authors, celebrate the release of her first YA novel, Defy. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to see Josh and meet Sara.
On the way, I realized that while I'd brought my purse, I'd forgotten my wallet, which was still in my school bag at home. Then I remembered that earlier, I'd noticed a $20 bill had fallen out of my wallet into my purse. It was still there! Which meant that I could buy a copy of Sara's book. With tax, the total came to $19 and some change. Serious serendipity.
I'll tell you, though, it was a bit hellish hanging out in that fabulous bookshop without being able to buy anything else. What is it with me and books? Where did that visceral need come from?
Anyhow, Sara gave a lovely and funny presentation in the art gallery a few doors down. I asked her later if she had intentionally color coordinated her outfit with the cover of the book. She did.
And thanks for the fun, unexpected treat tonight! I'm looking forward to reading Sara's new book, bought with a $20 bill I was darn lucky to have with me. Good omens all around.
My cousin Tracey and her husband Josh are literary agents (Adams Literary), and Josh had decided at the last minute to fly west to help Sara B. Larson, one of their authors, celebrate the release of her first YA novel, Defy. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to see Josh and meet Sara.
On the way, I realized that while I'd brought my purse, I'd forgotten my wallet, which was still in my school bag at home. Then I remembered that earlier, I'd noticed a $20 bill had fallen out of my wallet into my purse. It was still there! Which meant that I could buy a copy of Sara's book. With tax, the total came to $19 and some change. Serious serendipity.
I'll tell you, though, it was a bit hellish hanging out in that fabulous bookshop without being able to buy anything else. What is it with me and books? Where did that visceral need come from?
Anyhow, Sara gave a lovely and funny presentation in the art gallery a few doors down. I asked her later if she had intentionally color coordinated her outfit with the cover of the book. She did.
During her presentation she talked about how the genesis of her book was rooted in the illness and death of her cousin's husband. I thought to myself, "I am sitting next to my cousin's husband." But he looks pretty good, no? I choose to take it as a good omen. Here's to a long, healthy life, Josh!
And thanks for the fun, unexpected treat tonight! I'm looking forward to reading Sara's new book, bought with a $20 bill I was darn lucky to have with me. Good omens all around.
Monday, January 06, 2014
Shifting the Lens
When we talk in my university writing classes about coming up with interesting ways to approach a topic that can be more useful than rehashing oversimplified arguments, I use this idea from the text: play a thesis against its antithesis to reveal new angles. Here's an example.
Thesis: We should ban guns.
Antithesis: We should not ban guns.
I ask my students what the underlying motivations are for each position. Someone suggests safety as a primary concern for people in both camps. People who want guns banned want to minimize the chances that firearms will be handled irresponsibly. People who want to own weapons for protection have a vested interest in maximizing responsible handling of firearms.
What could help minimize irresponsible gun ownership and maximize responsible gun ownership? Gun safety education, my students say. And, boom, there's a new angle on the topic.
We dig a little deeper. Why would anyone object to gun safety education? It could be too much of an infringement on the rights of gun owners if it's required. If it's offered in schools, it could entice kids into wanting to handle weapons.
Hmm, I think. Those sound a lot like the objections people have when it comes to sex education and counseling women who are dealing with unwanted pregnancies. Except the camps are typically reversed.
A thesis juxtaposing gun safety education and sex education, shifting the lens through which we view entrenched positions just enough to shed new light? Now that could make an essay worth reading.
Thesis: We should ban guns.
Antithesis: We should not ban guns.
I ask my students what the underlying motivations are for each position. Someone suggests safety as a primary concern for people in both camps. People who want guns banned want to minimize the chances that firearms will be handled irresponsibly. People who want to own weapons for protection have a vested interest in maximizing responsible handling of firearms.
What could help minimize irresponsible gun ownership and maximize responsible gun ownership? Gun safety education, my students say. And, boom, there's a new angle on the topic.
We dig a little deeper. Why would anyone object to gun safety education? It could be too much of an infringement on the rights of gun owners if it's required. If it's offered in schools, it could entice kids into wanting to handle weapons.
Hmm, I think. Those sound a lot like the objections people have when it comes to sex education and counseling women who are dealing with unwanted pregnancies. Except the camps are typically reversed.
A thesis juxtaposing gun safety education and sex education, shifting the lens through which we view entrenched positions just enough to shed new light? Now that could make an essay worth reading.
Sunday, January 05, 2014
Three Bags Full
Extremely pleased that Jack not only finished his Christmas vacation project of "spring" cleaning his room, but that it resulted in getting rid of three garbage bags full of stuff. This was no small feat for a sentimental boy who has a hard time parting with anything.
Saturday, January 04, 2014
Percolating
A mind that is stretched by a new experience can never go back to its old dimensions - Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.
Once in a while I think about pursuing my dream of becoming an architect that began when I took a mechanical drawing class in junior high. I love thinking about how we interact with the spaces we're in, and how valuable good design is whether we're aware of it or not. I even fall asleep at night designing or redesigning spaces. Then I remember that I haven't taken a math class since high school.
I also remember that I'd need to figure out how to compensate for a critical weakness.
When I was in college, I took a drawing class. Sometimes we went on field trips to the agriculture department, where we'd sketch sheep. I had an extremely hard time making my sheep look like they were in proper proportion with their feet firmly planted on the ground. Seeing something in three dimensions and rendering it in two was challenging.
I also took an anatomy class, and every week we'd have a lab period with cadavers. We'd study two dimensional illustrations in our text book, then be quizzed on the body parts the lab instructor had stuck pins into. It was really tough for me to relate the two dimensional drawings I'd memorized with the three dimensional cadavers (though dissected they were actually more like 2 1/2 dimensions).
Architects have to move easily between dimensions in their heads. Of course, nowadays we have computers to help. But I'd still have to catch up on an awful lot of math.
It's pretty doubtful at this point that I will ever go back to school to become an architect. But don't be surprised if I end up scratching that itch somehow. If there is anything I've learned walking the crooked path of my life, it's just a matter of the right dream percolating to the surface at the right time.
Once in a while I think about pursuing my dream of becoming an architect that began when I took a mechanical drawing class in junior high. I love thinking about how we interact with the spaces we're in, and how valuable good design is whether we're aware of it or not. I even fall asleep at night designing or redesigning spaces. Then I remember that I haven't taken a math class since high school.
I also remember that I'd need to figure out how to compensate for a critical weakness.
When I was in college, I took a drawing class. Sometimes we went on field trips to the agriculture department, where we'd sketch sheep. I had an extremely hard time making my sheep look like they were in proper proportion with their feet firmly planted on the ground. Seeing something in three dimensions and rendering it in two was challenging.
I also took an anatomy class, and every week we'd have a lab period with cadavers. We'd study two dimensional illustrations in our text book, then be quizzed on the body parts the lab instructor had stuck pins into. It was really tough for me to relate the two dimensional drawings I'd memorized with the three dimensional cadavers (though dissected they were actually more like 2 1/2 dimensions).
Architects have to move easily between dimensions in their heads. Of course, nowadays we have computers to help. But I'd still have to catch up on an awful lot of math.
It's pretty doubtful at this point that I will ever go back to school to become an architect. But don't be surprised if I end up scratching that itch somehow. If there is anything I've learned walking the crooked path of my life, it's just a matter of the right dream percolating to the surface at the right time.
Friday, January 03, 2014
Known and Unknown
The other day, I wrote a post about ten books that I read before I was twelve that have stuck with me. I cannot even believe that I forgot to include Harriet the Spy. Seriously. How could I have forgotten about the girl who wrote all of her honest observations in a notebook and then experienced her life imploding when her classmates discovered it? Oh, it was painful. And she only barely started putting it back together at the end of the story.
When I was a teenager I discovered Danielle Steele romance novels. According to her formula, the protagonists are always beautiful, demure women whose lives are tragically imploding when we meet them in the opening pages. And they always wear cashmere sweaters and woolen trousers and strings of pearls. Demurely. And beautifully. After their lives implode, they build walls to keep people out. But there are handsome, good-hearted men who are drawn to them despite their walls. Eventually, patiently and gently, they break through and give the women the hope and joy and love they'd lost.
I couldn't imagine being a Danielle Steele protagonist. I couldn't imagine that if I built a wall, someone would even see me behind it, never mind tear it down to get me. So instead I was an open book. But I had also learned an important lesson from Harriet. You can't write down everything you think on the pages.
When I was a teenager I discovered Danielle Steele romance novels. According to her formula, the protagonists are always beautiful, demure women whose lives are tragically imploding when we meet them in the opening pages. And they always wear cashmere sweaters and woolen trousers and strings of pearls. Demurely. And beautifully. After their lives implode, they build walls to keep people out. But there are handsome, good-hearted men who are drawn to them despite their walls. Eventually, patiently and gently, they break through and give the women the hope and joy and love they'd lost.
I couldn't imagine being a Danielle Steele protagonist. I couldn't imagine that if I built a wall, someone would even see me behind it, never mind tear it down to get me. So instead I was an open book. But I had also learned an important lesson from Harriet. You can't write down everything you think on the pages.
Thursday, January 02, 2014
(Don't) Give Me a Hand, Please
This morning Roger hid it in the sleeve of Jack's coat. Tonight Roger found it peeking out from between his pillows.
I can't believe it still makes me jump. And laugh.
Wednesday, January 01, 2014
Resolute
Last year, I thought if I eased up on blogging, I would make more progress on a major writing project. It didn't work. My focus dwindled to making a few notes from time to time.
Last year, I thought if I worked mainly on blogging my Fifty Physical Feats project, I would be more fit and have a bunch of very cool adventures. It mostly didn't work. Yeah, I've had some health set backs that I am still struggling with a bit, but to be honest, I just lacked discipline.
This year, I'm going back to posting something here every day. And hopefully future posts will be more imaginative than this one. Gonna get my groove back.
Last year, I thought if I worked mainly on blogging my Fifty Physical Feats project, I would be more fit and have a bunch of very cool adventures. It mostly didn't work. Yeah, I've had some health set backs that I am still struggling with a bit, but to be honest, I just lacked discipline.
This year, I'm going back to posting something here every day. And hopefully future posts will be more imaginative than this one. Gonna get my groove back.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
Ten Titles That Have Stuck With Me
Ten Titles That Have Stuck With Me (narrowed down to books read when I was under 12). And, of course, annotated because I am avoiding grading papers. This is much more fun to think about!
1. Dr. Seuss' Sleep Book (The drawings were packed full of imagination. We always laughed at the creature with a tail so long that he could bite the end of it at night and the pain wouldn't reach his brain to wake him up until morning. My absolute favorites were the creatures who brushed their teeth under a giant waterfall.)
2. Phantom Tollbooth by Norman Juster (I listened to this being read out loud on public radio after school for several afternoons, then read it to myself more than once. It was such a crazy, nonsensical story that totally made sense. When Jack and I read this together a few years ago, we laughed out loud many times and I caught all sorts of great word play and meaning I'm sure I missed as a kid.)
3. Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle (Meg was so courageous! This was another book I got even more out of--especially on a spiritual level--when I read it as an adult with Jack.)
4. Ginny and the New Girl by Catherine Woolley (I so completely related with Ginny, who lacked confidence and had to figure out how to deal with her best friend Geneva cozying up to the new girl and leaving her behind. I read more than one book in the Ginny series, but this is the one that stuck with me most. I'm not sure I applied the lessons Ginny learned very well in my own life.)
5. Hugo and Josephine by Maria Gripe (A wonderful friendship story and a surprisingly sophisticated exploration of what it means to be outside the norm but to be okay. Hugo was poor and quirky and oblivious to what anyone thought about him; Josephine was poor and desperately wanted to fit in. And, Sweden!)
6. The Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder (I reveled in how resourceful her family was, I loved the way she knew her own mind, and I envied the way they kept moving on to new beginnings. I often wonder why we are still living in the same house we've lived in for twenty years.)
7. Dr. Doolittle by Hugh Lofting (The talking-to-animals part was okay, but what I really got into were all the far-flung adventures!)
8. The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton (I read this in the sixth grade and it made a huge impression on me, but I didn't remember specifically why until I re-read it this past year with a group of inmates at the jail. I don't know if I loved the book because it reflected my belief that we need to see others as complex rather than as preconceived stereotypes or if it shaped my belief. Maybe it was a little of both.)
9. Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O'Dell (Again, I loved the main character's courage and resourcefulness. I read this book with Jack as well, and was so struck that the tragedy that left her alone on the island might have been avoided altogether if her people had shared an unexpected bounty rather than keeping it all for themselves. I don't remember understanding that when I was a kid, but it may have helped shaped my belief that if we are generous with whatever we have, it will come back to us multiplied, but if we are selfish, we risk losing more than we imagine. Btw, that belief becomes stronger every time I learn it again the hard way.)
10. And last, but not least, Little Women by Louisa May Alcott (Louisa May Alcott, aka Jo, was so real to me as I grew up in her neck of the woods. The house we lived was built before she was born. I used to imagine that maybe she'd known the people who lived in our house, and that maybe she'd even visited them there. I utterly adored her independent spirit!
Okay, I can't help but add a bonus title. Pippi Longstocking by Astrid Lindgren (Because Pippi.)
1. Dr. Seuss' Sleep Book (The drawings were packed full of imagination. We always laughed at the creature with a tail so long that he could bite the end of it at night and the pain wouldn't reach his brain to wake him up until morning. My absolute favorites were the creatures who brushed their teeth under a giant waterfall.)
2. Phantom Tollbooth by Norman Juster (I listened to this being read out loud on public radio after school for several afternoons, then read it to myself more than once. It was such a crazy, nonsensical story that totally made sense. When Jack and I read this together a few years ago, we laughed out loud many times and I caught all sorts of great word play and meaning I'm sure I missed as a kid.)
3. Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle (Meg was so courageous! This was another book I got even more out of--especially on a spiritual level--when I read it as an adult with Jack.)
4. Ginny and the New Girl by Catherine Woolley (I so completely related with Ginny, who lacked confidence and had to figure out how to deal with her best friend Geneva cozying up to the new girl and leaving her behind. I read more than one book in the Ginny series, but this is the one that stuck with me most. I'm not sure I applied the lessons Ginny learned very well in my own life.)
5. Hugo and Josephine by Maria Gripe (A wonderful friendship story and a surprisingly sophisticated exploration of what it means to be outside the norm but to be okay. Hugo was poor and quirky and oblivious to what anyone thought about him; Josephine was poor and desperately wanted to fit in. And, Sweden!)6. The Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder (I reveled in how resourceful her family was, I loved the way she knew her own mind, and I envied the way they kept moving on to new beginnings. I often wonder why we are still living in the same house we've lived in for twenty years.)
7. Dr. Doolittle by Hugh Lofting (The talking-to-animals part was okay, but what I really got into were all the far-flung adventures!)
8. The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton (I read this in the sixth grade and it made a huge impression on me, but I didn't remember specifically why until I re-read it this past year with a group of inmates at the jail. I don't know if I loved the book because it reflected my belief that we need to see others as complex rather than as preconceived stereotypes or if it shaped my belief. Maybe it was a little of both.)
9. Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O'Dell (Again, I loved the main character's courage and resourcefulness. I read this book with Jack as well, and was so struck that the tragedy that left her alone on the island might have been avoided altogether if her people had shared an unexpected bounty rather than keeping it all for themselves. I don't remember understanding that when I was a kid, but it may have helped shaped my belief that if we are generous with whatever we have, it will come back to us multiplied, but if we are selfish, we risk losing more than we imagine. Btw, that belief becomes stronger every time I learn it again the hard way.)10. And last, but not least, Little Women by Louisa May Alcott (Louisa May Alcott, aka Jo, was so real to me as I grew up in her neck of the woods. The house we lived was built before she was born. I used to imagine that maybe she'd known the people who lived in our house, and that maybe she'd even visited them there. I utterly adored her independent spirit!
Okay, I can't help but add a bonus title. Pippi Longstocking by Astrid Lindgren (Because Pippi.)
Thursday, October 17, 2013
Feat #14: Over the River and Through the Woods
And up and up and up the side of a snowy mountain.
On this most stunning October day, with a bright blue sky and sun shining, Dad and I headed up trail #007 on the back side of Maple Mountain. Eight miles round trip. We didn't make it all the way to the peak due to snow conditions, but we got high enough to see some amazing views.
At the trail head:
Still happy after the first couple of miles.
Then we hit snow. Which wasn't too bad, but it did make the going harder. It helped that the temperature reached into the 50s by afternoon, which was downright balmy for a hike.
Through the towering pines!
Sadly, our pictures at our highest point were all washed out, probably because of all the glaring white snow. Trust me, it was spectacular.
And I wish we'd been able to get a picture of one moment during our descent when we were walking through an aspen grove and the wind picked up. All of a sudden we were showered with a magical frenzy of gold and green as hundreds of leaves fluttered to the ground.
Hiking with my 76-year-old father gives me much hope that there will be life in me after 50, though I confess, I had a bit of trouble keeping up with him. I think that means I need to get out there more.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Feat (Lucky) #13: Y?
Nana and Gramps are in town for a visit. Just the excuse I needed to hike to the Y painted on the side of the mountain above BYU. I haven't made the climb since finals week at the end of my freshman year.
It's not a long hike (only 1.75 miles round trip), but it's pretty steep. An 1,100 foot elevation climb. Nana made a good go of it all the way to the third switchback. Gramps, Jack, and I continued up the trail. Eleven switchbacks in all.
The fall colors were spectacular!
It sprinkled on us part of the way, but the sun was still shining. We did see one faint rainbow, but it wasn't strong enough to get a good picture.
The view out over the valley on the way up as the sun began to set was exactly what we'd hoped it would be.
We made it to the giant Y just after the sun set.
The twilight views on the way back down made the whole adventure just about perfect.
Friday, October 11, 2013
A Sacred Moment
I've debated telling this story for a long time because it is hardly my story. But I feel moved to tell it, especially today. I hope the man in this story, who I will call Tom, won't mind that I have. If he ever finds it here and recognizes himself, I hope that he remembers me well enough to know my intentions come from a deep place within my heart.
Over the past few years I've run into Tom a number of times. The first time I met him was in a job readiness seminar at the Adult Probation & Parole office. He struck me as serious minded, focused on putting his life together. The next time I saw him, he was wearing a jumpsuit, sitting in the class I teach at the jail. Every few months I met with him. He left, then came back again for a time.
One day Tom told me his background.
He grew up in the LDS church, knowing there was something different about him and believing it wasn't okay. He stuffed down his feelings. He went to BYU, got married, had children. Began stuffing down his feelings with food. Gained a dangerous amount of weight. Had surgery. Could no longer stuff down his feelings with food, so he turned to alcohol. Eventually his marriage ended. He was nearly 40 when he allowed himself to accept that he was gay. He'd only barely started coming out to people the year before I met him. He felt his family members were, at best, unsupportive.
Everything fell apart, and then fell apart some more.
We sat in the interview room. His anguish was palpable. He had told me his story in hopes that I could find information about programs or organizations that help people in his particular situation to make a fresh start. We looked some things up, then I asked him if I could show him a short video.
We watched this.
By the end, Tom had tears streaming down his face. He could not believe it was possible. Not that BYU students could make a video like that without repercussions. I assured him it was. And though we didn't talk about it, I imagined he had also not believed it was possible that he could love himself or that the God he believed in could love him.
I have no idea where Tom is now or what he is doing, but I am not exaggerating when I say that meeting with him that day was one of the most meaningful experiences I've ever had. And it breaks my heart that he's not the only one who has lived or will live in that hell.
As my friend Christian says, "Closets are no place for children of God."
Update: In re-reading this, I realize that I inadvertently painted Tom as someone who is always serious or unhappy. The part of the story that is missing from this post is that most of my exchanges with Tom were positive and forward-thinking. He often had a smile on his face, and one of his dreams was to own a small neighborhood bakery. As you can imagine, I'm a big fan of small neighborhood businesses. We had some happy conversations about how he could achieve that.
Over the past few years I've run into Tom a number of times. The first time I met him was in a job readiness seminar at the Adult Probation & Parole office. He struck me as serious minded, focused on putting his life together. The next time I saw him, he was wearing a jumpsuit, sitting in the class I teach at the jail. Every few months I met with him. He left, then came back again for a time.
One day Tom told me his background.
He grew up in the LDS church, knowing there was something different about him and believing it wasn't okay. He stuffed down his feelings. He went to BYU, got married, had children. Began stuffing down his feelings with food. Gained a dangerous amount of weight. Had surgery. Could no longer stuff down his feelings with food, so he turned to alcohol. Eventually his marriage ended. He was nearly 40 when he allowed himself to accept that he was gay. He'd only barely started coming out to people the year before I met him. He felt his family members were, at best, unsupportive.
Everything fell apart, and then fell apart some more.
We sat in the interview room. His anguish was palpable. He had told me his story in hopes that I could find information about programs or organizations that help people in his particular situation to make a fresh start. We looked some things up, then I asked him if I could show him a short video.
We watched this.
By the end, Tom had tears streaming down his face. He could not believe it was possible. Not that BYU students could make a video like that without repercussions. I assured him it was. And though we didn't talk about it, I imagined he had also not believed it was possible that he could love himself or that the God he believed in could love him.
I have no idea where Tom is now or what he is doing, but I am not exaggerating when I say that meeting with him that day was one of the most meaningful experiences I've ever had. And it breaks my heart that he's not the only one who has lived or will live in that hell.
As my friend Christian says, "Closets are no place for children of God."
Update: In re-reading this, I realize that I inadvertently painted Tom as someone who is always serious or unhappy. The part of the story that is missing from this post is that most of my exchanges with Tom were positive and forward-thinking. He often had a smile on his face, and one of his dreams was to own a small neighborhood bakery. As you can imagine, I'm a big fan of small neighborhood businesses. We had some happy conversations about how he could achieve that.
Please, Let Us In
And I've even met Brandon Mull as I've worked at various events, including a writing conference for kids at our high school and a presentation he gave at our library. Extraordinarily nice person.
When we started reading the book, I remembered an incident that happened when he came to the library. Over the past few years, I've thought about it from time to time, trying to untangle it.
Somehow I ended up standing guard at the front door of the library after we closed that Saturday afternoon. Quite a few people were still inside, standing in line to get their books signed. As a volunteer, I was instructed to turn away anyone who tried to come in. Before I was left alone at my post, a number people showed up to meet Brandon and the library director wouldn't let them in. The line was drawn.
A few minutes later, a mom and her kids showed up. She said they'd been at the event earlier and had to run home to tend to a sick child. I saw her son's pleading face. But we'd already turned people away. It wouldn't be fair to them to make an exception. I also knew first hand what is was like to be at the managing end of an event like this, trying not to impose too heavily on a well known author's time. Brandon Mull was already being gracious by staying much later than planned for us.
So I didn't let them in. (I still hate the feeling I had at that moment.)
Another few minutes passed, and the mother and children showed up with a senior library employee. He let them in, and apologized for overriding my decision. She looked directly at me. I'd like to think she wasn't glaring. I wonder if she knew that I wasn't offended at all. I was just really happy her son would meet Brandon and have his book signed.
As someone without authority, I was following orders. It took someone with authority to make a different call.
I will continue thinking about this incident from time to time, trying to untangle it.
Wednesday, October 09, 2013
What I Do (When I Remember To)
An average Wednesday of remembering and doing and thinking and forgetting.
Just before Jack and I left for school this morning, Roger calls. Trouble with the Jeep. He's turning around to bring it home. Can I drop him off at work on my way to class? Sure!
Arrive on campus. Park in far-flung student parking. No room at the inn in the employee parking lots. Run into one of my students and immediately feel sheepish carrying the bag from McDonald's that held my breakfast. It was not horribly sinful--an Egg McMuffin sans bacon--but we had recently discussed Super Size Me in class and she had been most vocal about avoiding fast food.
Hang out in the faculty room in the library. Consider using my time wisely. Make a hopeful start by printing an article I need to re-read and annotate for class later (which I wouldn't have had to do if I had remembered the copy I left on the printer at home). Then get distracted by googling a high school English teacher that had been the subject of a freaky coincidence this week. Find his email address, so of course I write to him to thank him for influencing me for good. Have to proofread the email multiple times before clicking send because, well, high school English teacher. Hang out online until it's time for class.
First class. Finish up the second half of a two-day presentation full of song and dance about grammar, punctuation and exciting things like easily confused words (such as affect and effect) and active vs. passive voice. Got extra credit points from my students for showing the Jimmy Fallon/Justin Timblerlake hashtag bit (#evolvingusage).
Back to the faculty room to read the article we are going to discuss in my next class. I have to be done by noon because I've got a committee meeting for an upcoming conference on writing for social change. The article is mostly about the history of and issues with Skinner's behavior modification theory and partly about the development of apps to help people lose weight. While I make physical notes for class, I also make mental notes about how to move forward with the possible development of an app to help people who have been caught up in the criminal justice system.
Finish up by noon, but I forget about the meeting and head straight to my classroom. I walk in and none of my students are there. Another instructor is at the front of the room. I am all disoriented. I look at the clock. Oh, right, noon. Meeting.
Head to the meeting room. No one is there. Check my email. Meeting cancelled. Found time! I get a few things done. Check email for my other job. Discover a meeting at the county commission office is re-scheduled for Tuesday afternoon. I definitely don't want to miss it. Not sure what that means for the plans I have with my parents, who will be in town then. Hang out online until it's time for class.
Finally, class. Good discussion from the few who participate. Hopefully the rest listen, because they've got to write a paper, synthesizing the ideas presented in the documentaries we watched and the article we read. We talk about the balance between our environment and our own free will. We talk about the role individuals, parents, business, and government play in shaping environments. Stories emerge that help us illuminate the issues. School lunch changes at Spanish Fork High. Fast food restaurants surrounding Provo High. Selling alcohol at the Walmart in Cedar Hills. Owning backyard chickens in Springville.
Hike to another part of campus to meet someone in the placement office to invite him to a meeting I'm attending tomorrow about organizing a job fair to help people with a criminal record find work. I've been meaning to do this for at least three weeks. Decide to walk up four industrial-size flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator because I don't think I'll have time to exercise later. He's nice. He will come to the meeting and share his expertise.
Hike the long distance back to my car. Good. Another bit of exercise. In fact a little more than I expected because I can't find the car straightaway. Call Roger while I'm searching to keep myself entertained. He tells me he's made an appointment to get the Jeep fixed on Monday.
Drive to the bank to deposit checks that have been sitting on my desk since July. True story. Our bank just isn't convenient. Our account pre-dates our move to the town we live in and we don't have a local branch there. But we like our bank.
Stop by the Volkswagon dealer to have our coolant topped off. The dashboard panel has been sending warnings the last few days. The service department is extremely nice. No charge. Use the time to make notes for an essay I am writing about chickens. Well, not chickens exactly. But chickens will illustrate the point I really want to make.
Decide that since I had already missed being home when Jack got home from school like I usually am, I'd run a few more errands. Call Jack. He's fine.
Stop by the Stouffer's outlet to stock up on cheap, easy frozen food. Sadly, no French bread pizza for Jack. But, mmm, Asiago Cheese Tortellini? Yes, please.
Stop by to see an elderly neighbor. I was supposed to go last night to help her take off her pressure socks, which she's not supposed to sleep in. I completely forgot. Wanted to apologize in person. She just laughs. Luckily someone else helped her out. I promise her I will not forget next Tuesday. She laughs again.
Finally get home. Jack's hanging out with friends. I tell them they need to empty the trash if it's so full the lid doesn't close. (I do say hi first.) I take care of the sink full of dishes while my cheap, easy frozen dinner is in the microwave and my organic frozen whole green beans that I buy in a giant bag at Costco are steaming in a pot.
Check stuff online while I eat dinner. Decompress. Engage in Facebook conversations about stock market investments and about the impact of e-books on the publishing world and about chickens. Create an event page for next week's "So You Want To Read" lecture at the Springville Library that I will host. Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Can't wait to hear what our presenter says about the book.
Talk to Roger in passing when he gets home from work. Head to a shift at the jail. I always think I can make it there by 6:00, but never do. Check inmate messages. Meet with inmates about planning for their release. We talk about everything from applying for student aid to finding 12-step meetings to finding food to eat.
Get home pretty late. Enjoy the fact that I don't have to set an alarm tomorrow because it is Fall Break. Chat with Roger. Eat an apple. Read to Jack. We love the book we're reading together right now. Think about writing a blog post about it. Maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow I will likely procrastinate grading papers just like I do today.
Stay up far too late writing this. Roger should be asleep. He had to set his alarm. No Fall Break for him.
Just before Jack and I left for school this morning, Roger calls. Trouble with the Jeep. He's turning around to bring it home. Can I drop him off at work on my way to class? Sure!
Arrive on campus. Park in far-flung student parking. No room at the inn in the employee parking lots. Run into one of my students and immediately feel sheepish carrying the bag from McDonald's that held my breakfast. It was not horribly sinful--an Egg McMuffin sans bacon--but we had recently discussed Super Size Me in class and she had been most vocal about avoiding fast food.
Hang out in the faculty room in the library. Consider using my time wisely. Make a hopeful start by printing an article I need to re-read and annotate for class later (which I wouldn't have had to do if I had remembered the copy I left on the printer at home). Then get distracted by googling a high school English teacher that had been the subject of a freaky coincidence this week. Find his email address, so of course I write to him to thank him for influencing me for good. Have to proofread the email multiple times before clicking send because, well, high school English teacher. Hang out online until it's time for class.
First class. Finish up the second half of a two-day presentation full of song and dance about grammar, punctuation and exciting things like easily confused words (such as affect and effect) and active vs. passive voice. Got extra credit points from my students for showing the Jimmy Fallon/Justin Timblerlake hashtag bit (#evolvingusage).
Back to the faculty room to read the article we are going to discuss in my next class. I have to be done by noon because I've got a committee meeting for an upcoming conference on writing for social change. The article is mostly about the history of and issues with Skinner's behavior modification theory and partly about the development of apps to help people lose weight. While I make physical notes for class, I also make mental notes about how to move forward with the possible development of an app to help people who have been caught up in the criminal justice system.
Finish up by noon, but I forget about the meeting and head straight to my classroom. I walk in and none of my students are there. Another instructor is at the front of the room. I am all disoriented. I look at the clock. Oh, right, noon. Meeting.
Head to the meeting room. No one is there. Check my email. Meeting cancelled. Found time! I get a few things done. Check email for my other job. Discover a meeting at the county commission office is re-scheduled for Tuesday afternoon. I definitely don't want to miss it. Not sure what that means for the plans I have with my parents, who will be in town then. Hang out online until it's time for class.
Finally, class. Good discussion from the few who participate. Hopefully the rest listen, because they've got to write a paper, synthesizing the ideas presented in the documentaries we watched and the article we read. We talk about the balance between our environment and our own free will. We talk about the role individuals, parents, business, and government play in shaping environments. Stories emerge that help us illuminate the issues. School lunch changes at Spanish Fork High. Fast food restaurants surrounding Provo High. Selling alcohol at the Walmart in Cedar Hills. Owning backyard chickens in Springville.
Hike to another part of campus to meet someone in the placement office to invite him to a meeting I'm attending tomorrow about organizing a job fair to help people with a criminal record find work. I've been meaning to do this for at least three weeks. Decide to walk up four industrial-size flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator because I don't think I'll have time to exercise later. He's nice. He will come to the meeting and share his expertise.
Hike the long distance back to my car. Good. Another bit of exercise. In fact a little more than I expected because I can't find the car straightaway. Call Roger while I'm searching to keep myself entertained. He tells me he's made an appointment to get the Jeep fixed on Monday.
Drive to the bank to deposit checks that have been sitting on my desk since July. True story. Our bank just isn't convenient. Our account pre-dates our move to the town we live in and we don't have a local branch there. But we like our bank.
Stop by the Volkswagon dealer to have our coolant topped off. The dashboard panel has been sending warnings the last few days. The service department is extremely nice. No charge. Use the time to make notes for an essay I am writing about chickens. Well, not chickens exactly. But chickens will illustrate the point I really want to make.
Decide that since I had already missed being home when Jack got home from school like I usually am, I'd run a few more errands. Call Jack. He's fine.
Stop by the Stouffer's outlet to stock up on cheap, easy frozen food. Sadly, no French bread pizza for Jack. But, mmm, Asiago Cheese Tortellini? Yes, please.
Stop by to see an elderly neighbor. I was supposed to go last night to help her take off her pressure socks, which she's not supposed to sleep in. I completely forgot. Wanted to apologize in person. She just laughs. Luckily someone else helped her out. I promise her I will not forget next Tuesday. She laughs again.
Finally get home. Jack's hanging out with friends. I tell them they need to empty the trash if it's so full the lid doesn't close. (I do say hi first.) I take care of the sink full of dishes while my cheap, easy frozen dinner is in the microwave and my organic frozen whole green beans that I buy in a giant bag at Costco are steaming in a pot.
Check stuff online while I eat dinner. Decompress. Engage in Facebook conversations about stock market investments and about the impact of e-books on the publishing world and about chickens. Create an event page for next week's "So You Want To Read" lecture at the Springville Library that I will host. Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Can't wait to hear what our presenter says about the book.
Talk to Roger in passing when he gets home from work. Head to a shift at the jail. I always think I can make it there by 6:00, but never do. Check inmate messages. Meet with inmates about planning for their release. We talk about everything from applying for student aid to finding 12-step meetings to finding food to eat.
Get home pretty late. Enjoy the fact that I don't have to set an alarm tomorrow because it is Fall Break. Chat with Roger. Eat an apple. Read to Jack. We love the book we're reading together right now. Think about writing a blog post about it. Maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow I will likely procrastinate grading papers just like I do today.
Stay up far too late writing this. Roger should be asleep. He had to set his alarm. No Fall Break for him.
Tuesday, October 01, 2013
A Lesson
My bike ride on the west side of Utah Lake the other day turned out to be more than just a bike ride.
I was planning to spend the time thinking about a lesson I was preparing to teach the following day for the teenage girls at church. The lesson was about becoming more like Jesus--to learn about who he was, how he moved through this world, how he engaged with people, and to emulate that.
Nearly 30 miles of road stretched before me. Plenty of time to think, I thought.
Instead, I was distracted by a few steep hills, trying to pace myself and breathe evenly, negotiating curves, a strong headwind, passing traffic, sun in my eyes. I also didn't want to miss the spectacular views of the lake and the mountains beyond.
Then, about 20 miles in, as I reached the southern end of the lake, the road straightened and flattened. The best views were behind me. I found myself inside my head. "This ride," I realized with sudden epiphany, "Is a metaphor for so many of the things I want to talk with the girls about tomorrow."
The road I was following in the hope that I'd have the wherewithal to finish was the path Jesus modeled for us. The hills and curves he dealt with in his own life revealed his capacity for empathy and compassion, for understanding the challenges of others. The strong headwind was the opposition he faced, the willful misunderstanding, and the weak faith of even his most faithful disciples, all requiring patience and diligence. The cars and trucks I had to share the road with were the throngs of people who wanted to hear him and be blessed by him--people his disciples often tried to protect him from, but of whom he always charitably said "let them come" or "let them stay."
Whenever I could, I looked out across the lake. Sometimes I was rewarded with the perfect reflection of snowy peaks on the glassy surface of the water. Glimpses of heaven.
Once, when the road turned and I was heading directly into the sun for a few miles, I had to concentrate hard to follow the white line along the shoulder. The blinding sun became the anger and hurt that keeps us from truly seeing ourselves and others in a way that enables us to forgive, to love with the pure love of Christ. Finally, another bend and I could see clearly again.
The last 10 miles, when the road became straight and flat, was my time in the wilderness. My mind was stilled, and I gained spiritual clarity. But I was also getting tired and hungry.
"And he was there in the wilderness forty days, tempted of Satan; and was with the wild beasts; and the angels ministered unto him" (Mark 1:13).
Just over six miles to go, and I saw Roger and Jack parked by the side of the road waiting for me. "Oh, please," I hoped. "Maybe they will ask me if I want to stop and get a ride." The idea was sorely tempting. Instead, Jack pulled his bike out of the back of the truck and joined me. My ministering angel.
But becoming more like Jesus isn't just about following a road, peddling so many miles, or climbing so many hills. It's about transformation. About being different. About seeing more.
Later that evening as I drove to work, the sun was setting. Brilliantly orange clouds stretched over the mountains to the west, the length of the lake. In my eyes, none of it was the same as it had always been and it would never be again.
I was planning to spend the time thinking about a lesson I was preparing to teach the following day for the teenage girls at church. The lesson was about becoming more like Jesus--to learn about who he was, how he moved through this world, how he engaged with people, and to emulate that.
Nearly 30 miles of road stretched before me. Plenty of time to think, I thought.
Instead, I was distracted by a few steep hills, trying to pace myself and breathe evenly, negotiating curves, a strong headwind, passing traffic, sun in my eyes. I also didn't want to miss the spectacular views of the lake and the mountains beyond.
Then, about 20 miles in, as I reached the southern end of the lake, the road straightened and flattened. The best views were behind me. I found myself inside my head. "This ride," I realized with sudden epiphany, "Is a metaphor for so many of the things I want to talk with the girls about tomorrow."
The road I was following in the hope that I'd have the wherewithal to finish was the path Jesus modeled for us. The hills and curves he dealt with in his own life revealed his capacity for empathy and compassion, for understanding the challenges of others. The strong headwind was the opposition he faced, the willful misunderstanding, and the weak faith of even his most faithful disciples, all requiring patience and diligence. The cars and trucks I had to share the road with were the throngs of people who wanted to hear him and be blessed by him--people his disciples often tried to protect him from, but of whom he always charitably said "let them come" or "let them stay."
Whenever I could, I looked out across the lake. Sometimes I was rewarded with the perfect reflection of snowy peaks on the glassy surface of the water. Glimpses of heaven.
Once, when the road turned and I was heading directly into the sun for a few miles, I had to concentrate hard to follow the white line along the shoulder. The blinding sun became the anger and hurt that keeps us from truly seeing ourselves and others in a way that enables us to forgive, to love with the pure love of Christ. Finally, another bend and I could see clearly again.
The last 10 miles, when the road became straight and flat, was my time in the wilderness. My mind was stilled, and I gained spiritual clarity. But I was also getting tired and hungry.
"And he was there in the wilderness forty days, tempted of Satan; and was with the wild beasts; and the angels ministered unto him" (Mark 1:13).
Just over six miles to go, and I saw Roger and Jack parked by the side of the road waiting for me. "Oh, please," I hoped. "Maybe they will ask me if I want to stop and get a ride." The idea was sorely tempting. Instead, Jack pulled his bike out of the back of the truck and joined me. My ministering angel.
But becoming more like Jesus isn't just about following a road, peddling so many miles, or climbing so many hills. It's about transformation. About being different. About seeing more.
Later that evening as I drove to work, the sun was setting. Brilliantly orange clouds stretched over the mountains to the west, the length of the lake. In my eyes, none of it was the same as it had always been and it would never be again.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Feat #12: The West Side
When we were car shopping last spring, we met a guy with a Lamborghini. We chatted a bit, and I asked him what his favorite road to drive was. He said, "The road on the west side of Utah Lake." The seed was planted. I started to formulate a plan. Finally today, all of the pieces fell into place and, with Roger and Jack as my trusty support team, I biked that road--nearly 30 miles from Saratoga Springs south to Elberta.
This. This is why I wanted to do this ride. Spectacular!
After tackling a few hills, I settled in to a steady pace (not anywhere near as fast, of course, as I would have gone in a Lamborghini).
This. This is why I wanted to do this ride. Spectacular!
About 6 miles outside of Elberta, Jack pulled his bike out of the back of the truck and joined me. The last stretch was tough. Was it ever going to end? Jack's company made all the difference.
I kept going until I finally reached a stop sign. I stopped.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
[Insert Cliche about Keys and Hearts]
My brother Robbie would have been 53 today.
This flip flop keychain was a gift from the Waswa family--his family, really--when my sister and I visited Nairobi last summer. It means a lot to me. Not just because it was a gift from people my brother really cared about and who have become a part of my life, but because it was so thoughtful.
The first member of the family we met was sister Rose. We connected at a coffee shop in a mall, which I think was on the outskirts of town. (Since someone else was always driving, I never got my bearings in that city!). We talked for hours about all sorts of things. My brother, her family, our family, Kenya, her environmental work, my sister's writing, school, my work, travel. On and on we talked.
The next day we met up with the rest of the family at sister Esther's apartment, mostly to pass on my brother's ashes to sister Miriam, his love. But also to come to know one another, to share a meal, and to share memories of Robbie. Toward the end of the afternoon, we exchanged gifts, including gifts to take home to our parents and to Roger and Jack.
After the day was over and my sister and I were on our own again, talking about everything that had happened, and exclaiming that the gifts they had chosen for us suited us so well (okay, maybe the fertility statue for Roger was a bit of a mystery, lol!), we realized that Rose must have been carefully taking mental notes during our conversation the night before. Sandals, beach, how nice it would have been to have gotten to the coast on that trip.
Smart woman, that Rose. Thank you, and Miriam, and Esther, and the rest of your family for loving my brother and for taking us into your hearts as well. I think of all of you and him every day as I carry my keys.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
The Dream
I watched MLK's I Have a Dream speech twice today with my students, and the part about people being judged by the content of their character, not the color of their skin struck me a little differently.
Usually, I interpret it as people being seen for who they are--especially in terms of positive attributes--rather than being dragged down by negative racial stereotypes.
But it cuts another way, too.
When someone who is white commits a heinous act, I--as a white person--feel the pain the way humanity feels the pain, but I am not expected to feel the guilt or the shame or to bear any responsibility because I share the perpetrator's skin color. In fact, I do not have to worry that his or her actions will reflect on me in any way.
That is my privilege.
This is my dream: That one day all people who commit heinous acts will be judged by the content of their character and not be used to judge others who share the color of their skin.
Usually, I interpret it as people being seen for who they are--especially in terms of positive attributes--rather than being dragged down by negative racial stereotypes.
But it cuts another way, too.
When someone who is white commits a heinous act, I--as a white person--feel the pain the way humanity feels the pain, but I am not expected to feel the guilt or the shame or to bear any responsibility because I share the perpetrator's skin color. In fact, I do not have to worry that his or her actions will reflect on me in any way.
That is my privilege.
This is my dream: That one day all people who commit heinous acts will be judged by the content of their character and not be used to judge others who share the color of their skin.
Monday, August 05, 2013
Stranger Than Fiction
Not long ago, I read in a novel about the murder of Leon Trotsky, which happened in the study of his own home. He met his end after a hatchet was lodged his skull. Soon after, my sister--who was spending a couple of months in Mexico City--posted a picture of the very study in which Trotsky was killed. She had just visited the house. We figured out there was a decent chance I had read the account of his death at about the same time she was at the scene.
This is a pretty dramatic example of a phenomena that happens to me all the time. I read something and soon after I experience something that reminds me of it in real life. Or I experience something in real life and soon after I find myself reading something that reminds me of it.
Another example, not as dramatic. A couple of days after the Trotsky incident we discovered a huge beetle on the bathroom windowsill, thankfully on the outside of the screen. Not even an hour later, I settled into bed and started reading. And, no kidding, this is the second--the second!!--sentence I came to: "Here is a strange beetle, trapped inside the window near the desk."
Today it happened again.
I'm in the middle of a memoir of a woman who is currently recounting some of her experiences during the civil rights movement in 1960's Georgia. After we finished our dentist appointments this morning, Jack talked me into taking him to the store so he could spend some of the money we owed him for allowance and mowing the lawn. I didn't have enough in small bills to pay him, so I sent him in to break a $100 bill I had leftover from our vacation. We joked about whether the cashier would be suspicious.
I stayed in the car to read.
Jack probably hadn't even made it into the store before I came to this line: "I learned that Charles had gone to the junkyard to buy a part for one of the old cars we used, and he'd tried to pay with a hundred-dollar bill. The junkyard dealer had called the police, and they'd taken him to jail."
All. The. Time.
This is a pretty dramatic example of a phenomena that happens to me all the time. I read something and soon after I experience something that reminds me of it in real life. Or I experience something in real life and soon after I find myself reading something that reminds me of it.
Another example, not as dramatic. A couple of days after the Trotsky incident we discovered a huge beetle on the bathroom windowsill, thankfully on the outside of the screen. Not even an hour later, I settled into bed and started reading. And, no kidding, this is the second--the second!!--sentence I came to: "Here is a strange beetle, trapped inside the window near the desk."
Today it happened again.
I'm in the middle of a memoir of a woman who is currently recounting some of her experiences during the civil rights movement in 1960's Georgia. After we finished our dentist appointments this morning, Jack talked me into taking him to the store so he could spend some of the money we owed him for allowance and mowing the lawn. I didn't have enough in small bills to pay him, so I sent him in to break a $100 bill I had leftover from our vacation. We joked about whether the cashier would be suspicious.
I stayed in the car to read.
Jack probably hadn't even made it into the store before I came to this line: "I learned that Charles had gone to the junkyard to buy a part for one of the old cars we used, and he'd tried to pay with a hundred-dollar bill. The junkyard dealer had called the police, and they'd taken him to jail."
All. The. Time.
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