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?

For Once, For Coop

When I was a kid I thought I'd like to be an Indian scout. Yes, there's probably a more PC term than Indian scout, but that term is grandfathered in. I thought that would be an awesome job to have. Adventure, discovery, risks, quiet, and all outside. Yup, Indian scout.

Indian scout or not, sometimes I need to take off by myself. I need to go down a path, not knowing for sure where it will end, but knowing I will find my way. I have been in desperate need of a break. My paths of late have been crowded with noisy, stressed-out people, family dinners, last minute shopping, and my life. I had the best Christmas in recent history, but it was definitely time for a break.

Finally I had the chance for a break. It was beautiful, clear day that would let me get a picture I've been trying to find for weeks. My ultimate break involves a four-wheeler, a cooler, my camera, and me. That's it. Sadly, it's not really four-wheeler weather here right now. I can always find something to take pictures of, though, and I do need to perfect my picture-taking skills with my new toy. I took off, not on a four-wheeler but in a minivan, in time to practice some camera tricks I've read about but not mastered, planning to end up on Gin Ridge as the sun was setting. Son #2 asked if he could go along in hopes of spotting herds of deer, but I said no, I really liked to go alone.

Not to be outsmarted by stupid me, fate intervened on the first leg of my journey; I got a rock in my tire. I had to go back home. Son # 2 was still there, and I asked him if he wanted to go with me to the Ridge. Yes, for once I recognized and fixed my mistake before it was too late. My teenage son had asked if he could do something with me, and I had said no. I got it right the second time around. I asked if he wanted to go, and he jumped at the chance.

I drove. He rode. We didn't talk much. Son #2 understands that conversation isn't always necessary. Of all the people I live with, he's the only one who understands that dynamic. He was content to ride and look, and to change my camera lens when I asked. We saw herds of deer, beautiful land, and a stunning sunset. We stopped in the road to look. We decided to go right, left, or straight without knowing what was down some paths. We found our way, we found ourselves, and we found our peace.

I needed a break, and I got it. Son #2 saw the deer he'd gone to see, I found the pictures I'd been looking for, and I also discovered something else. That Indian scout business? It's hereditary.

In No Particular Order

I have some questions. I know--I always have some questions. Deal with it.

Does WalMart have a Freak Signal? Think "Bat Signal" for weirdness. Sadly, I am in WalMart more frequently than I care to admit. You may make your own inferences about the aforementioned Freak Signal right now if you must, but trust me when I say I am NOT the freak this time. WalMart has gotten my money twice in just over 24 hours, so I have a pretty good sampling of what's going on there. Last night, I was sitting in my van making my list (okay, making my list and eating an Arby's roast beef). I wasn't there very long, but in the amount of time I was there, I saw The Village People walk into the store (Halloween), a freakishly tall and frumpy man wage and lose a war with what must have been a killer wedgie, and a 22-year-old man swing his grandmother's hand over a pillar. Sweet more than freaky, but odd, nonetheless.

Last night, Halloween. Today, Hitchcock and Hedren do WalMart. The first time I saw a bird, I thought the progressive lenses were messing with me. It happens. The second time I saw a bird, I thought perhaps the drugs were to blame. The third time I saw a bird, someone was right beside me and he saw it too. I watched that bird scoot its little bird self under the shelf and muttered to my new ornithologist friend that the little bastard better not fly out from under the shelf at me. The fourth time I saw a bird, the little bastard flew out from under the shelf at me, because I'm stupid like Tippi Hedren and set myself up for that. On the fourth sighting, I yelped "God," turned my cart around, and got out of there. If I'd have kept going, those birds would surely have messed up my hair and turned me catatonic. I've seen the movie.

Something else I would like to know, if some science-type could dumb it down for me, is why Prednisone makes me want to eat my house. Not necessarily MY house. Anything, really. I know "increased appetite" is a listed side-effect of Prednisone. I don't want or need an increased appetite and was pretty intent on ignoring that side-effect. Mind over matter, right? HAH! Why is that? I don't really expect an answer to this one, I'm just wondering. Mostly I'm hoping the hunger passes and I'll quit caring about the "why."

And what about that corn husk riding the wind? It struck me as beautiful. Winsome. I don't find corn fields beautiful, and there are thousands of husks in one spot. Why, then, did one husk capture my attention? Did it have to be alone and airborne, unique in that moment, at the mercy of the wind, to make me notice? This question will probably get my full attention shortly. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. This question has been trying to find its answer for a couple of weeks. What a silly thing to wonder about, much less write about, but the question won't go away.

Now a work-related question: When certain parents come in for parent-teacher conferences, do they realize that their mere presence answers every question I had about the student? Truly every question. For instance, the parent of the student who knows better than I how to do my job spent the entire conference offering suggestions about how I might do my job better. Not vague suggestions, either, but things like which spelling words I should do and what skills students that age should master. I'm grateful, too, for her input. Frankly, it would never have occurred to me to consider a class's weaknesses or study the benchmarks for grade levels. Good thing she came along. And then there is the parent of lights-are-on-but-nobody-is-home. I was trying to conference, but when I looked her in the eye I realized that nobody is home because she can't remember her address.

I better let it go for now. I think I'll look some stuff up. Maybe find some answers. If I can ever get all of my questions answered, you'll know, because the countless light bulbs powering up at once will make a glowing spot in the sky. And here we are, back where we started--the Freak Signal. Why is that?

Breaking Through

For a few minutes today, I was the calm, level-headed woman in the English department. I've been in this department for over three years, and I am NOT the calm, level-headed woman. Diana is the calm, level-headed woman. That is how we've always done it.

Today was a different story. In fact this week has been a different story. She's clearly losing it. She can't make a sentence--a dangerous affliction for an English teacher. She can't complete a thought. She can't remember to bring things in from her car. She is spontaneously leaking happy sounds. She's glowing, giddy, and giggly. That's right; Diana is in love.

His name is Owen. I've never seen him, and she's only seen pictures, but Diana is smitten. I assume he's cute, and his gene pool leads me to believe he has an excellent personality and a wit that will keep his friends on their toes. Yes, Diana has fallen hard.

She has never met Owen, yet she loves him more than he can ever imagine and has loved him since before she knew he existed. Owen is the past and the future at once, to the extent that she is in love with his very name. Owen Benjamin. Benjamin Owen. Owen Benjamin.

For a while now there has been a level of Diana waiting to break through. Inside the calm, level-headed, well-spoken director is another Diana. Inside this woman is a grandma who will make her entrance, meet her love, and welcome Owen Benjamin into his personal version of happily ever after.

It's All Relative

Until a few years ago, I thought my family was normal. My family is on my Facebook and Myspace pages. They are the speed dial numbers in my cell phone and the most frequent recipients of my email. They are my neighbors, my friends, and my confidantes. A good friend's family is the same way, so it seemed normal to me. After all, this was all I'd known.

At some point, however, I began paying more attention to other families. Maybe it was when I started teaching and reading what teenagers wrote about their own families. The sabotage, mistrust, abandonment, distance, and damage amazed me. Maybe it was another of those "getting older" features that seem to have joined forces in my life. It doesn't matter what made me realize; the point is that I do realize. My family is not normal. Not normal at all.

Nope. If we were normal, we wouldn't have spent all of a Sunday working in a field of trees. Normal people wouldn't care that soft maple trees have overtaken the field and filled in what should be a 10-foot space between trees. A normal family would have gone to church then maybe have had a dinner, but would certainly not have dragged out every cutting tool they could find, rounded up chainsaws and bodies, tied back the hair, and started cutting. A normal family certainly wouldn't have enjoyed work that left some of us sick and all of us exhausted.

Of course, normal is relative, even with relatives. Our family has its tomboys and girly-girls, sweat-soaked guys and well-dressed men. Somehow, we all fit, just as the crazy cuts of a jigsaw puzzle eventually fit together to make a picture. In our family, it is perfectly normal to have many people laughing to the point of gasping, crying, and clutching their sides. It is also normal, a short few minutes later, to see those same people crying, but not of laughter.

We may not fit in the normal puzzle of family, but our puzzle is far more interesting, challenging, and beautiful. Most of my life I've avoided being like everyone else. That drive to be different is partially conscious and partially subconscious. Even now, as in love with my family as I am, I am not like everyone else. And just as with my quirky wardrobe and funky hair styles, I wouldn't change a thing. Normal is overrated.

Spending the Night

I am packing my bag for a sleepover; I'm headed to Granny and Grandpa's house to spend the night. Thinking back, it's been at least 20 years since I spent the night there. Thirty years ago, spending the night with my grandparents was a treat. Twenty years ago, spending the night with my grandparents was a hassle. Ten years ago spending the night with my grandparents was unheard of. Tonight, spending the night with my grandparents is an honor.

I am the designated driver in the morning. Granny and Grandpa don't need or necessarily want me to spend the night, but the family consensus is that someone should. Granny has told people she and Grandpa can do this on their own and she's right. Grandpa is more relaxed about the sleepover and calls me moral support. Secretly, this is selfish--I am stealing time, time that is frighteningly short. Grandpa has minor surgery tomorrow morning. However, a minor surgery isn't minor at 84. Although I don't expect anything to go wrong in the morning, life offers no guarantees.

Over the weekend a 17-year-old student lost her father. His death was sudden, unexpected, and tragic. This student told me yesterday she wishes she'd taken more pictures--her most recent picture with her father was at Christmas. She talked through her tears about memories. Not extravagant gifts or overseas trips. Not that perfect shirt her father bought her. Her memories were of knowing her father, knowing that he loved her horse and dog, and that he was quietly proud of her talents. What she is unlikely to ever forget is that every time she got in his car, a CD she had recorded was playing. Her voice, his ears, their love. She will send that CD with him tomorrow when she tells him goodbye, but she won't forget what it meant.

Just as she can't go back and fill her memory card with pictures, I can't go back twenty years and enjoy the time I spent with my grandparents. I was a teenager and thought I had better things to do. For a chunk of my life, the family I now hold so dear was not a point of focus. There were years in my life I devoted entirely to myself, unwilling to share my time with others and unaware that my time was all too short.

It is a well-established fact that I screw up frequently and sometimes seriously. I am not a good example of much and am too impulsive for my own or anyone else's good. I have a big mouth and say what I feel. The upside of saying what I feel is that my important people--my family and my few close friends--know how precious they are to me. I can't go back. I can't undo the hurts I caused. I can do my best to get it right from here on out, though, and part of getting it right is treasuring this time.

I'm spending the night doing things I wouldn't choose. I'm packing for a sleepover that elicits feelings that I, with my solid vocabulary, have no words to describe. I don't know if I'll sleep tonight, and I don't suppose I care. I'm going to the visitation for my student's father, and from there I'm heading to Granny and Grandpa's. I won't be taking pictures tonight, but I'm certain I'll remember nonetheless.

Not So Big and Bad

I went to Schuy-Rush Park yesterday to pick up some things I couldn't fit in my van Sunday night. Although I knew it would happen yesterday and shouldn't have been surprised, my first glimpse of the stage when I came over the hill was painful. The set was gone. The beautiful backdrop, colorful chairs, and bedazzled judge's desk were gone. The laughter and lawn chairs were gone. The result of our hard work was gone.

What isn't gone, though, and what I hope never leaves, is this new album of memories.I hope I never forget Kristina's crazy expressions and uncanny ability to turn something funny into something hilarious with her perfect timing. I hope I never forget that Sarah channeled Marisa Tomei and turned the Evil Stepmother into a Jewish Princess. I hope I never forget that Ashley is good with a wand and full of ways to make her character her own. I hope I never forget how many young people came out of their shells this summer and enjoyed themselves in the process. I hope I never forget.

I spent much of my summer reaping the benefits of years of work by two good friends--two women who have an unbeatable combination of talent and experience. I ventured out under the guise of being on my own but had my invisible posse with me all along. I had six weeks of laughter and dreams, stress and sweat, trial and triumph. And now it's done. The park shows no signs of the time spent there and we are all moving on. I'm counting the days until I leave for vacation, but I'm still laughing and smiling at the big bad show.

Freckles On My Everything

I have bug bites on my ass. I'm not sure how to put a positive spin on this one. They aren't even little bug bites. They're the big suckers that demand to be scratched. Fairly evenly distributed on my ass, too. What I'm thinking is that the bastard bug got in there and tried to chew his way out. I don't know how else to explain it. It seems that he visited the north side of the big girl buffet, too, because the bites aren't limited to my lower half. I hope these bites miraculously heal overnight, because scratching certain areas in public is unseemly.

And I have a sunburn. Only on the areas that yesterday's white trash tank top covered but today's left uncovered. It doesn't really hurt right now, but then again, I'm wearing pajamas. We'll see what tomorrow's bra straps do to today's exposed skin.

On top of the sunburn, or perhaps beneath it, I have a surplus crop of freckles. When I was a child I hated my freckles, but I'm over it. They are just a part of me. Maybe they are the part of me that says I really can be the parent of two red heads. My only complaint with the freckles is their growth pattern on my upper lip. I don't know if it's my upper lip or not. It's the space between my mouth and my nose. Right now, that space is particularly easy to spot because of the moustache formation my summer freckles take. I know if that were hair I could bleach it, but didn't Jan Brady try bleaching her freckles? I don't think it worked out. I think she had to wear glasses and dye her hair, all because she tried to bleach her freckles.

Just a side note, while I'm discussing sun damage. I understand the freckles, although I refuse to overthink the sun-stache. What I completely fail to understand is how age spots can develop on areas that don't see the sun. I may wear tank tops in the summer, but I ALWAYS wear a shirt outside. I just don't understand how those spots got there.

Anyway . . . I love summer. I always have. This summer is different from any I've had because this year I'm directing a children's musical. If you know me at all, and you must know me to be reading this blog, you know that I love this summer. My favorite things are together. The sun. The warmth. The show. The friends. The wonderful tiredness that comes from hard work. The occasional beer. If I could figure out a way to direct this show from my hammock, life would be nearly perfect. So I have bug bites on my ass and age spots on my boobs. I also have freckles on my everything and a smile on my face.

Dirty Feet Are IN!!

I am somewhat chagrined with my daughter. She scheduled a hair appointment for herself for tomorrow morning at 9:00. In Macomb! That doesn't really work into my summer schedule. Here's how my summer schedule works:

6:30 or whenever I wake up a little I move from the bedroom to the couch out of courtesy to Jeff, who goes to bed a little after 7:00 and needs to sleep uninterrupted for several hours.

6:45 I go back to sleep for however long I want.

9:00, 9:30, 10:00, 10:30 Basically I get up whenever I want to get up.

11-ish lunch, which might just be a can of pork and beans. It's summer vacation.

11:30-ish work outside

3:00 shower and go to rehearsal.

9:00 home from rehearsal. Do some laundry. Read. Watch TV. Take the laptop to the hammock. Go see Damaris. Go get groceries. Whatever.

1:30 or 2:00 go to sleep.

This is my perfect schedule. I don't mind getting 8 hours of sleep, but it doesn't usually happen. If it does happen, I prefer the 8 hours between 2 and 10 a.m. Sadly, those hours conflict with my real job from August through May. June and July, though. . . man, those are my months. Those are the hours my body would pick, but the grown-ups in charge did not consult my personal clock when scheduling school.

It's not just the leisurely sleep patterns and decidedly white trash lunch menu. There's so much more than that. It's the sunshine and freckles and bare, dirty feet. It's the bare arms, open windows, and light nights. It's remembering that some rocks are more painful to walk on than others, but grass always feels nice. It's the astonishment over the size of my elm tree as I observe it from my hammock. It's the perfect-for-hanging-swings arrangement of branches in that elm tree. It's the welcoming, wrapping comfort of my hammock when I let it support me after I exhaust myself in the yard.

And there are the sounds of our 11. Laughter carries on summer air, and my niece and nephew laugh frequently. I can hear them, from their yard to mine. Summer is the sound of my mom, announcing her arrival to my yard with her customary "WOOHOO!" It's the sound of the disc swing clattering against the tree after Madeline jumps off and the slap of a ball into a glove as Nolan perfects his game. It's the sound of a voice from high above the yard, testing out the treehouse. And from across the street and across the yards, it is the scream of my dad's planer, a major part of his profitable and therapeutic puttering.

It is the conversations and jokes with Coop, the only one of my three who voluntarily helps in the yard. Even if he is, say, covered in the blisters from wild parsnip, he'll sit where I work and keep me company. It's his opinion and interest that aren't always so apparent. It's the camaraderie that has developed between us this past year. The barbs and jokes, the ridicule and requisite swearing that is ours alone. It's getting to know my son in the quiet shade of an oak and an elm.

It's the backyard battle wounds of a summer well spent. Right now I have a raw place below my right ankle bone, a blister on the inside of my ankle, and several cuts on that same foot. The cuts are the result of stupidity--running the weed eater and wearing shorts at the same time. Finally, today, I got my right foot almost completely clean. I've been working on it since Saturday when I ran the tiller in Crocs. The effect on my right foot was the opposite of a power washer. More of a power soiler, really. Since Saturday I've added to the ground-in grime with daily work. Of course I scrub my feet daily and try to get them clean. It just wasn't working out. Scrolling up the disaster that is me, I have scrapes on my arms from branches falling on me right after I cut them down. I should have a companion scrape on my face, but that branch didn't leave a mark. On both upper arms I have small round bruises. If I were a toddler you'd call DCFS. The only thing that abused me was a surly pair of lopping shears. I'm sore, but not in a bad way. Only in an "It's-summer-and-I-earned-it-way."

Naturally I have other marks of my time spent. The freckle count is up. The hair is lightening to blond instead of grey for a summertime reprieve. I have a collection of vanilla-scented items near my hammock to scare off the bugs, designated hammock pillows, and a stack of books I will read soon. The stress that ended my school year is soaking out of me as this season soaks in. My nose is red and my arms are turning brown. Summer is rubbing up against my life, and I hope it doesn't stop anytime soon.

On the Horizon

I turned 38 yesterday. For reasons past understanding or at least explaining, this birthday bothered me more than any other birthday. I can honestly say that, because no other birthday has bothered me at all.

People who know me would probably say I'm fairly optimistic, although that optimism is somewhat tarnished at this point. Those who know me the best would say that sometimes I'm optimistic, I almost always GET to optimistic eventually, and that I have lately become a complete bitch on the path to optimistic. I preface this entry with the optimistic bullshit so that you don't believe that I always think the way I've thought this week.

Yesterday, the predominate feeling was that I'm halfway to dead and have so many things left undone. So many things I haven't even broached, much less finished. In an effort to slap myself out of my pity party, I thought of all the things I HAVE done. I have terrific kids and have been blessed with a family I would trade for no other. I've chiseled a few true friends from the boulder of people I know. I have a job I like and hobbies I enjoy and get better at all the time. I have a hammock and someone on my block has wireless internet. Seriously, what do I want? A rewind button would be nice.

My sister once told me she never thought I was unsure of myself--I seemed to her to always know what to do. Hah! I spend much of my life bluffing, although I am more confident every day. That probably comes with age, dammit. The confidence and backbone may be the only positives. Well, not giving a shit is fun, but the mouth that comes with not giving a shit is going to get me in trouble sometime soon.

I've lost some time, and I've wasted more time than I've lived. Beyond that, I seem to be coming undone. I am physically sore this week. I've been working in my yard and am wretchedly out of shape, so I could say that's the reason for my pain and let it go. Maybe I slept wrong. If I'm going to be honest with myself and with you, though, I need to face the fact that the reason my right shoulder, hip, leg, ribs, and knee hurt is because I fell down walking around the left-field fence at my niece's softball game Sunday. I didn't trip and there was no hole. This tumble can only be blamed on gravity. Some of you may have had tumbles like this. There I was, walking along, trying to decide which hot pink shirt was Madeline when suddenly the horizon cartwheeled past my eyes, teased me with a fence I thought I could catch, battered my right side, and spit in my face as I landed. That freakin' horizon attacked me in such a way that I was dirty on all sides. Probably even the inside, but I didn't check. Mostly, I tried to regain my vertical status so that the concerned witnesses would all know I was fine. Fine? I have ball field in my cleavage! Wanna see? It looks like the Grand Canyon from outer space. Fine? Hah!

Maybe it wasn't gravity. It may have been the eyesight. My eyes seem, for some unfathomable reason, to be pissed off pranksters. I know I used to be able to focus. I remember focusing. I can't do it anymore, at least not on a regular basis, but I know I could not so long ago. So maybe my eyes made me fall. They've made me do some other shit lately, that's for sure. They make me take off my glasses and do owl moves with my head to read stuff on the backs of boxes. Crap. I'm not to the "my arms aren't long enough" stage, but that stage is on the horizon. Probably the same horizon that assaulted me at the ball game.

As for the physical appearance, I seem to have taken on a slightly sunkissed but mostly rode hard and put away wet look. It's nothing like a youthful glow--don't let the word wet trick you. I think being put away wet leads to some sort of fungal growth. Also, those years of sunkissed have added up to a sick connect the dots with wrinkles and what are either large freckles or age spots. I'd like to say freckles, but I'm starting to notice a trend.

I'm sorry--I have to go. I just sneezed hard. When I sneezed, I peed my pants and my left boob shot out the arm hole of my tank top. And yes, I am wearing a bra, dammit.