Today, I am reminded of what keeps me rooted to this small town I call home.
Off and on for years I have railed against living here, railed against the astonishing familiarity so many people have with my life, railed against the proximity of people I wished to escape, and railed--ferociously--against the numbing sameness of a small town.
But today . . .
Today, someone I've known nearly all of my 39 years, someone my parents and aunts and uncles grew up with, took her own life. It had become a tragic life, punctuated by pain and sorrow none should feel--a life so sad, so broken, that she couldn't find her way back out to peace.
She tried. She clung to her church and to her faith. In the end, though, her despair was overwhelming.
In thinking about her life and death, the web of people around her astounds me. There aren't six degrees of separation. There are no degrees; there is no separation. In this community, with its maddening, smothering, ultimately touching closeness, there is no separation.
No, no separation. Instead . . .
There will be another empty spot in my pew at church.
Her neighbor, who will live the rest of his life with today's images burned in his mind, is one of my father's best friends.
The students in our school will have a new cook.
My parents have lost another life-long friend.
Our rescue squad is made up of her neighbors and friends, her children's classmates, and her coworkers.
All of these are personal to me; for every person who knew her or knew someone who knew her, another list exists.
Our lists overlap.
Our hearts break together.
Our tears fall in sorrowful rhythm.
Our prayers reach out to her tonight.
Together.
Yes, I have railed against much of what makes a small town, but tonight there is no rebellion. Tonight, there is only the comfort that comes from all that makes this small town my home. Because tonight, so many of us are searching for comfort in the familiarity, the proximity, and the sameness. Tonight, we are one, and we are wishing peace for Debby.
August 25, 2009
August 2, 2009
I Hear You're Into That "PHOTOGRAPHY" Stuff!
Since I enjoy being in denial about being middle-aged, this cannot be a mid-life crisis. Instead, I like to think of the evolving adventure of photography as a developing hobby and potential source of income.
After all, it can't be a mid-life crisis if I feel like a kid playing grown-up, can it? Really?
A few weeks ago I was approached by a woman I've known for over thirty years--I grew up with her kids. "I hear you're into that photography!?" My soft response--"yes."
"Well How'd you learn?!" "I study, I mean read, a lot. And I take a lot of pictures. I practice."
Then it was my turn to ask who'd told her. She decided it must have been her daughter-in-law. I thought that made sense, because the daughter-in-law is on Facebook and has commented on my photos. I mentioned the connection.
"I hate that Facebook. It's too damn nosy!" was her proclamation, obviously disregarding the nature of her own questions.
A simple conversation, the likes of which I've often had with this woman, makes me nervous. The idea of doing something new makes my head spin a little. Saying "Photographer" when I describe myself makes me throw up in my mouth a little. Maybe a lot. Putting myself out there is terrifying. People won't choose me. There will, inevitably, be rejections. There will be comments made behind my back and maybe to my face about the quality of my work.
Perhaps my work is nothing special, except to the families and friends of the subjects. Perhaps my work is mundane, and there is nothing remarkable in the thorny beauty of a thistle edging up to a rusty barbed wire fence, both softened in the light of a setting sun. Perhaps the babies I love to photograph could be just as well served by their parents' point-and-shoot cameras and far less fuss.
Perhaps. After all, I don't know the answers to these possibilities.
Perhaps. Yes, putting myself "out there" makes me nervous. Nervousness aside, even though I feel like a kid playing grown-up, I also feel that this is a step I'm ready to take. When my camera is in my hand, the confidence chases the butterflies away. When I feel my camera resting in the small of my back, waiting patiently, I am sure, content and perfectly happy. Anything that makes me feel like that must be right.
Perhaps it is.
After all, it can't be a mid-life crisis if I feel like a kid playing grown-up, can it? Really?
A few weeks ago I was approached by a woman I've known for over thirty years--I grew up with her kids. "I hear you're into that photography!?" My soft response--"yes."
"Well How'd you learn?!" "I study, I mean read, a lot. And I take a lot of pictures. I practice."
Then it was my turn to ask who'd told her. She decided it must have been her daughter-in-law. I thought that made sense, because the daughter-in-law is on Facebook and has commented on my photos. I mentioned the connection.
"I hate that Facebook. It's too damn nosy!" was her proclamation, obviously disregarding the nature of her own questions.
A simple conversation, the likes of which I've often had with this woman, makes me nervous. The idea of doing something new makes my head spin a little. Saying "Photographer" when I describe myself makes me throw up in my mouth a little. Maybe a lot. Putting myself out there is terrifying. People won't choose me. There will, inevitably, be rejections. There will be comments made behind my back and maybe to my face about the quality of my work.
Perhaps my work is nothing special, except to the families and friends of the subjects. Perhaps my work is mundane, and there is nothing remarkable in the thorny beauty of a thistle edging up to a rusty barbed wire fence, both softened in the light of a setting sun. Perhaps the babies I love to photograph could be just as well served by their parents' point-and-shoot cameras and far less fuss.
Perhaps. After all, I don't know the answers to these possibilities.
Perhaps. Yes, putting myself "out there" makes me nervous. Nervousness aside, even though I feel like a kid playing grown-up, I also feel that this is a step I'm ready to take. When my camera is in my hand, the confidence chases the butterflies away. When I feel my camera resting in the small of my back, waiting patiently, I am sure, content and perfectly happy. Anything that makes me feel like that must be right.
Perhaps it is.
June 25, 2009
The Porch Light Flickered
On a day when my age was undeniable, I was thrown back in time to the summer nights of my youth. Unwelcome in a conversation that was as vital as any I've had recently, the signal came from inside her parents' house. The porch light flashed on-off-on: time to go inside. Tonight, the porch light flickered, but we were allowed to stay out just a little while longer.
Tonight, we were girls. Jennifer in the porch swing, long legs dangling, idle feet in and out of her father's borrowed shoes; Tonya on the porch ledge, back against the pillar, leg swinging over the edge. A passerby would have seen two grown women tiptoeing around the boundaries of middle age. In a way, the passerby would have been right. Jennifer will turn 37 next month; I turned 39 this month. She has a 7-year-old son and worries that he could be an only child. I have three teenagers and worry about paying for college. These are not the worries of our youth.
However, that same passerby would have heard the soft murmurs of an easy conversation, voices filled with emotion and cushioned with the comfort of years. We talked in the way that only old friends can talk. Months pass without contact, but buried in our busy lives is a friendship that endures. Time and distance are reality. I live in Illinois and she in Indiana. We have families and jobs--we have lives. Somehow, though, this friendship lasts.
Years ago, our stream-of-consciousness conversation was about the tyranny of our parents, the demands of our teachers, and the details of our plans for and exploits in love. The stream-of-consciousness conversation still flows, but now it is about our aging grandparents, our own families, and what love turned out to be. Then and now, the conversation wove in and out of our very hearts. Our words were different from all those years ago, but the tone was the same. The difference is the undiluted honesty of our conversations now. The bravado of youth has been replaced with the courage to act on our convictions and the belief that affection and admiration should be shared.
Would that passerby have thought "middle age," or would that passerby have thought "friends?"
Both are accurate, but only one is forever.
And the porch light flashing on and off? Her son. Full circle.
Tonight, we were girls. Jennifer in the porch swing, long legs dangling, idle feet in and out of her father's borrowed shoes; Tonya on the porch ledge, back against the pillar, leg swinging over the edge. A passerby would have seen two grown women tiptoeing around the boundaries of middle age. In a way, the passerby would have been right. Jennifer will turn 37 next month; I turned 39 this month. She has a 7-year-old son and worries that he could be an only child. I have three teenagers and worry about paying for college. These are not the worries of our youth.
However, that same passerby would have heard the soft murmurs of an easy conversation, voices filled with emotion and cushioned with the comfort of years. We talked in the way that only old friends can talk. Months pass without contact, but buried in our busy lives is a friendship that endures. Time and distance are reality. I live in Illinois and she in Indiana. We have families and jobs--we have lives. Somehow, though, this friendship lasts.
Years ago, our stream-of-consciousness conversation was about the tyranny of our parents, the demands of our teachers, and the details of our plans for and exploits in love. The stream-of-consciousness conversation still flows, but now it is about our aging grandparents, our own families, and what love turned out to be. Then and now, the conversation wove in and out of our very hearts. Our words were different from all those years ago, but the tone was the same. The difference is the undiluted honesty of our conversations now. The bravado of youth has been replaced with the courage to act on our convictions and the belief that affection and admiration should be shared.
Would that passerby have thought "middle age," or would that passerby have thought "friends?"
Both are accurate, but only one is forever.
And the porch light flashing on and off? Her son. Full circle.
June 18, 2009
Six Minutes
I keep thinking I'll get "the" sunset photo, so I took off again tonight, shortly after 8:00. The sky was beautiful, the sun was slipping down the sky, and I was idle.
Under 10 minutes passed between deciding to go and actually taking the pictures. For six minutes, I stood at the side of the road, camera clicking, filters and lenses on and off and on again, through forty pictures. In six minutes, the sun went from a fat, fluid, blinding orange in a pink sky to a wisp of pink in the dusky blue-hour sky, and then it was gone.
Six minutes.
In my non-science brain, sunsets amaze me. The sun goes down, goes away. I watch it happen. In my brain, if the sun is gone, the sky should be dark.
Instead, we are left with the most beautiful light of all.
May 31, 2009
Dear Summer . . .
Here I am, nudging the line of spring into summer's territory. Tomorrow. Tomorrow is report card day. Translation: Summer starts tomorrow. The grades are done, the room is packed, and the requisitions are nearly finished. Yes, I'm eager. My plan is to leave school tomorrow and not go back until August. Not to clean, not to work, and not to visit. Nothing until August.
This year, summer vacation is sacred. I do not exaggerate when I say the next two months are therapeutic--they are restorative and healing. After a school year that only administrators and lunatics would call good, this summer is to be treasured. For two months, I am in charge of my time and who shares it.
I will stay up until I'm tired and sleep until I'm not. I will be part of a love triangle involving my camera and my hammock, splitting my hours between the two. I have photography skills to learn and a newborn to photograph. I have a pile of books and hours to spare. I have an iPod Touch and wireless internet. This year, I deem all these things necessary.
Yes, summer has a project in me. Summer has work to do, because this year has drained me. There are a few requests I have of summer: May my brain recharge enough that I can finish a book in a respectable amount of time and a sentence without searching for words; may my body recharge enough that I stop looking like shit and feeling like yesterday's shit; and may my attitude recharge enough that I rise out of the bitchy range . . .
I'm kidding about that last request; bitchy is fun. Really.
So, Summer, here I am. Heal me. Relax me. Relearn me. Warm me. Massage me. Summer, work your magic.
May 5, 2009
This Is the Time
If only I could take a picture of a fragrance, I could capture today. My yard is blessed with a fragrance so powerful it's nearly tangible. No chemical, no scientist, no candle can capture this scent, and who knows how long the scent will last. If only I could take its picture and save it forever. Spring.After what seemed like a never-ending winter, spring is solidly in our midst, and we in hers. The lawn is lush, the lilacs are in full bloom, the apple blossoms are waning, and the lilies of the valley are sneaking their tiny white blessings into the air. The overwhelming and unadulterated beauty is a welcome assault on the senses. This is perfection beyond the control of man. Spring.
As the flowers grow, so does the peace. Our bodies relieve our minds. Bare feet are just around the corner, pant cuffs are inching their way toward pasty-pale knees, freckles are emerging from hibernation, and hard-earned callouses are fast forming. Spring.
After months of keeping nature out of the house and ourselves in, windows are open. Friends linger a few moments longer at the propped-open-on-a-toe back door; we venture out to the patio and coerce the weather into coming inside. We drag it with us on sheets hung out to dry and bouquets snatched from trees along our path. After months of man vs. nature, we are one. Spring.
This is the time, finally. Woven into a child's hair is the singular scent of a day spent outside. Worn into the soft lines of a mother's hand is the love of her flowers. Young neighborhood shouts are hushed by the newly-green leaves on the trees, and a voice glides down the block, calling children in for delicacies from garden and glen. With every sense God gave us, it is here. Spring.
January 25, 2009
For My Freshmen, My Freedom Writers
Dear Diary,
I had my freshmen do this last week--this diary assignment. They really enjoyed the Freedom Writers movie and were even interested in the actual entries from Freedom Writers Diary. In a move so predictable it must be an English teacher cliché, I had my freshmen mimic the assignment. Surely they could see that coming, right? How could they not.
I'm glad they could see it coming. I might have seen the assignment coming, but I could never have imagined what they would write. I am a freshman teacher. They are my favorite level in high school, and I am my best teacher when I'm with freshmen. Can't explain it and have given up trying. I tell the kids with my words and the world with my actions that I am an advocate for people that age. I have always meant that, but now I mean it more than ever.
Their diary entries astonished me. They broke my heart and earned my respect. Of course there were a few, but really only a few, who couldn't take the assignment seriously and wrote about things that don't matter. Most of the kids, though, not only wrote about thing that made a difference in their own lives, their writing will make a difference for someone else. Their openness, honesty, and trust make me proud. I will never look at them the same. I thought I knew what their lives were like, but those diaries were so raw, so to-the-point, so desperate, that I learned I didn't know anything. I had no idea what these kids had gone through.
Rape is not uncommon. Students wrote of sexual abuse in early elementary school. They wrote of molestation and rape in junior high and high school. Some wrote of both, and wrote with an honesty that cannot be manufactured. Since I started reading these entries Wednesday, I've thought of little else. Now when I look out into my classroom, I don't just see the goofball who can't sit still; I see the young man who has seen violence firsthand. I don't see the girl who always has a boyfriend, I see the girl who trusts no male for very long. I don't see the long sleeved shirt and jacket in a warm room; I see the bruises underneath. I don't see a lazy head down on a desk; I see an overnight babysitter trying to get through school every day.
When I look out into their faces, I don't see my students; I see people who have lived lives. I see my very own Freedom Writers.
January 3, 2009
That Third Question . . .
An artist-friend is working on a new project that deals with inner peace. In preparation for her work, she asked several people to answer the following the questions:
1) What is your occupation?
2) Where do you find inner peace in your life?
3) If you could choose an object that would represent this peace what would that object be?
Well, number one is easy. I herd cats for a living. Adolescent cats posing as students in the wagon that is my classroom. When I say number one is easy, I don't mean the job is easy. Believe me--I earn my money. I dare you to make twenty-five 14- and 15-year-old walking hormones sit down, shut up, and focus on a specific task. Assuming you can do it, you will have earned your money and it won't have been easy unless you have access to some airborne sleeping potion. And if you do have that access, TELL ME!
Yes, the first question was easy. Just like with children, first questions should be easy. Otherwise, there wouldn't be second and third questions.
Again, like children . . . The second question isn't as easy as the first, but I can handle it. Where do I find inner peace? Hmmm . . . Outside. Cliché, I know. Can't help it. Deal with it. Yes, definitely outside. Here's where the cliché ends, though. Outside. Four-wheeler. Camera. Cooler. Me. That's it. I want to be on my grandparents' or uncle's land, or the land between. Inner peace and outer peace are not the same thing. That four-wheeler? It's noisy. Very noisy. My camera? Chock full of new technology. The cooler? Packing aluminum cans full of carbonated beverages. Nothing natural there! And yet . . . That four-wheeler takes me places I can't walk to right now. My camera helps me gather souvenirs of the astonishing beauty I find. And the cooler, well, the cooler just holds Diet Mt. Dew, which tastes wonderful and makes me happy.
I can take off on an adventure with myself and my favorite things and return a calmer, better person. I can feel the wind blow the frustration out of my body. So where do I find inner peace? In the woods on a four-wheeler with a camera case strapped to my person. Reasonable, right?
That third question, though . . . Just like the third child, the third question is work. The third question makes me grateful there isn't a fourth question. Don't tell. An object that represents inner peace? Really? I struggle with this question. In my wonky world, inner peace is thoroughly intangible. I don't know how to crown a tangible, materialistic object queen of my inner peace. I know what brings me inner peace, but does it represent inner peace? I don't think I can buy inner peace. There's the rub. I'll cross the four-wheeler off the list. I love it and love riding it, but it's surely not the key to inner peace. The cooler would just be silly. Yes, I love my dew, but it's not inner peace. It tastes good. It perks me up. That's pretty much the extent of my relationship with the dew. Of the participants in my perfect day, my camera is the closest thing to inner peace that I take along. My camera is the only thing that can distract me from rush-hunting mushrooms in the spring. It can pull me away from my family and take me into my own world where beauty is recordable and my eye is super-human.
But still . . . is my camera inner peace? Surely not.
Maybe inner peace and outer peace are more closely linked than I thought. Yes, I'm ridiculously happy riding that four-wheeler. Its constant noise almost turns into white noise. Not real noise, but a type of silence. It's impossible to worry too much about everyday concerns when I'm holding onto the handlebars and flying down a trail. Looking through the lens of my camera at a bee making love to a flower, I am unable to see ugliness. Even the nettle, that prickly, untouchable plant, shows a beautiful flower. Through the lens I see the flower and the bee; the thorns are thrown out of focus. I have to think, though, that inner peace can't truly be represented with an object. I think inner peace is in me and those objects dust it off and let it out.
What if I don't have to find inner peace? What if it's with me all the time and I just have to let it out? Ride it out, focus on it, feel it. And if that's the case, why the hell don't I summon it up more often?
1) What is your occupation?
2) Where do you find inner peace in your life?
3) If you could choose an object that would represent this peace what would that object be?
Well, number one is easy. I herd cats for a living. Adolescent cats posing as students in the wagon that is my classroom. When I say number one is easy, I don't mean the job is easy. Believe me--I earn my money. I dare you to make twenty-five 14- and 15-year-old walking hormones sit down, shut up, and focus on a specific task. Assuming you can do it, you will have earned your money and it won't have been easy unless you have access to some airborne sleeping potion. And if you do have that access, TELL ME!
Yes, the first question was easy. Just like with children, first questions should be easy. Otherwise, there wouldn't be second and third questions.
Again, like children . . . The second question isn't as easy as the first, but I can handle it. Where do I find inner peace? Hmmm . . . Outside. Cliché, I know. Can't help it. Deal with it. Yes, definitely outside. Here's where the cliché ends, though. Outside. Four-wheeler. Camera. Cooler. Me. That's it. I want to be on my grandparents' or uncle's land, or the land between. Inner peace and outer peace are not the same thing. That four-wheeler? It's noisy. Very noisy. My camera? Chock full of new technology. The cooler? Packing aluminum cans full of carbonated beverages. Nothing natural there! And yet . . . That four-wheeler takes me places I can't walk to right now. My camera helps me gather souvenirs of the astonishing beauty I find. And the cooler, well, the cooler just holds Diet Mt. Dew, which tastes wonderful and makes me happy.
I can take off on an adventure with myself and my favorite things and return a calmer, better person. I can feel the wind blow the frustration out of my body. So where do I find inner peace? In the woods on a four-wheeler with a camera case strapped to my person. Reasonable, right?
That third question, though . . . Just like the third child, the third question is work. The third question makes me grateful there isn't a fourth question. Don't tell. An object that represents inner peace? Really? I struggle with this question. In my wonky world, inner peace is thoroughly intangible. I don't know how to crown a tangible, materialistic object queen of my inner peace. I know what brings me inner peace, but does it represent inner peace? I don't think I can buy inner peace. There's the rub. I'll cross the four-wheeler off the list. I love it and love riding it, but it's surely not the key to inner peace. The cooler would just be silly. Yes, I love my dew, but it's not inner peace. It tastes good. It perks me up. That's pretty much the extent of my relationship with the dew. Of the participants in my perfect day, my camera is the closest thing to inner peace that I take along. My camera is the only thing that can distract me from rush-hunting mushrooms in the spring. It can pull me away from my family and take me into my own world where beauty is recordable and my eye is super-human.
But still . . . is my camera inner peace? Surely not.
Maybe inner peace and outer peace are more closely linked than I thought. Yes, I'm ridiculously happy riding that four-wheeler. Its constant noise almost turns into white noise. Not real noise, but a type of silence. It's impossible to worry too much about everyday concerns when I'm holding onto the handlebars and flying down a trail. Looking through the lens of my camera at a bee making love to a flower, I am unable to see ugliness. Even the nettle, that prickly, untouchable plant, shows a beautiful flower. Through the lens I see the flower and the bee; the thorns are thrown out of focus. I have to think, though, that inner peace can't truly be represented with an object. I think inner peace is in me and those objects dust it off and let it out.
What if I don't have to find inner peace? What if it's with me all the time and I just have to let it out? Ride it out, focus on it, feel it. And if that's the case, why the hell don't I summon it up more often?
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