What Just Happened? Well, I'll Tell Ya . . .

"I don't even know what just happened." said Jake as we approached his school this morning, with me in a huff and he in confused defiance.

Hmmm.  Well, let's see.  First of all, we are still getting into the grove of the early school risings.  Secondly, you got pissed at me because you wanted to sleep another 30 seconds.  I needed you to either get up now, get dressed, then have your free time or sleep while I shower, then get up, get dressed and have no free time.  Pretty simple.  Not so simple when you don't like the choices, though.  When you understood that I said to get up now, that you didn't have as much time as you'd like to putter around your new Facebook account or play a game, you verbally attacked me and closed the door in my face, leaving me in your hot and  messy room.    After taking a deep breath, I followed you down the hall, where you then closed and locked the bathroom door. 

As this is a one-bathroom house and I am now behind in my shower schedule, plus this is not respectable or acceptable behavior, I knocked lightly with a closed fist (so as to not get dad involved just yet) and demanded that you open it.  Then we spent another five minutes discussing what time we get up and what time we need to leave.  I gave you the choice to stand there and keep talking about it, or get dressed and have free time.  I told you to set your own alarm clock so you  wouldn't be affected by my pushing the snooze button.  I got it out of the bottom cupboard in the bathroom where I keep it until needed (to be my backup alarm on early mornings after late nights).  I told you to take it into your room and that I would help you set it if you needed it.  You left it.  You also left your clothes on the bathroom floor.

Once I showered (and repeated a calm song on my ipod four times), I went in your room and asked you to pick up your clothes from the bathroom floor.  You did so, sighing. You still left the alarm clock in the bathroom.

By then my feelings were hurt and I was mad.  I hate starting the day in a confrontational manner.  I hate feeling like I did you a favor that backfired.

"Brush your hair." I called out as I noticed your messy mop.  "I'm going to wear my beanie."  Like we haven't had this discussion before.  "Brush it anyway."  I retorted.  "And say goodbye to dad."  I was through making breakfast and getting it all into the car.  "Did you sign my papers?" you asked.  "The ones you didn't get out for me yesterday?" was my response.   "Get them out in the car and I'll sign them." 

While sitting in the car, in our driveway, with 20 minutes to get you to school and me to school, which will get me there, but I'll now have to sit in the car line of parents before parking and I wish to avoid, you get out the papers.  One of them is a survey about next year's summer schedule and coinciding it with the high school.  I explain it to you, to get your opinion.  You don't get it.  I explain it again.  You turn off the quiet radio and ask me to explain it again.  By the fourth time, you have an opinion.  It coincides with mine.  I sign it and give it back. 

"Jake, I want us to remember the rule about you showing me all your papers every afternoon before you have free time."  You're not really listening again.  You hear just enough to argue.  You say I'm yelling.  (Really???  You want to hear an example of me yelling?  Keep it up!!!)  I take off up the street in the car, driving just a little aggressively because I'm pissed.  You comment.  I am silent.  Two blocks from home I realize we forgot to pack your snack and water bottle.  This is something else that needs to be done in the afternoons, starting now.  I offer you the backup protein bar in my middle console.  You decline.  I hope the lack of food and the emotionally bumpy morning doesn't cause the rest of the day to suck for you. 

So, you don't know what just happened?  I feel you have been picking and snarking and arguing with me all morning and it's been less than an hour since I gently woke you up with a calm voice and a backrub. 

"I'm going to draw this."  You say as I drop you off.  (Yes, I said that I loved you, and yes, you said it back.)  "You do that."  I say.  I mean it.  You draw awesomely and I support self-expression, especially of frustration and confusion.  (It's the reason I write!!!)  "You're not going to like it."  you say.  "I didn't like this morning, so if you draw about it, it makes sense that I won't like it."  I say.  We both smile a little.  I watch you start up the steps.  I drive off to wait in car line. 

Love you, Bub.  Sorry if I don't make myself clear.  I'll help you set your alarm and you can get up when you want, within reason, of course. Thank you for your apologies.  I accept them. 

xoxo

Changes on My Path

Something new happened to me this morning, I left Barnes and Noble in tears.  No, it wasn't because I was only fantasy shopping and had left my wallet and membership discount card in the car.  It's because I am changing jobs and the reality of it came to the surface as I automatically noted in my head which books my current library needed, which sequels had come out since I last shopped.  Well, I'm not going to be there anymore.

After 4 1/2 wonderful years working in Oceanside, I landed a job that's 5 minutes away from home, in an Elementary school, grades kindergarten through 6th.

Gone is the 45 minute commute one way.  Gone are the podcasts and audiobooks that kept me looking forward to the drive.  Gone is the gorgeous drive along Sleeping Indian Road where, in the mornings I would sometimes need to slow for peacocks and would roll down the windows in the afternoons to catch sniffs of what was growing locally.  (Side story, one time I had my son roll down his window to smell the amazing strawberries that were ripening in the sun.  Sadly, they had just manured . . .)

Gone are my fantastic friends, staff from many campus's, as I had worked at 3 and met with the library tech's monthly.  Gone are the hilarious and sometimes teary conversations with my middle-schoolers.  Gone is my last library, with about 50 tasks still in the process of completion.  (The new library tech is going to pull some hair when she/he reads my "to do" letter.) 

Okay, enough with feeling maudlin about all this.  Friends are friends, whether you see them daily or just play catch-up online, on FB or by phone.  I had opened myself to what was to be the next move for me and was hired at a fantastic school that I can literally walk to. 

I have come full circle, as the reason I thought I might like to be a librarian was to read to the little'uns.  Well, kindergartners, here I come!!! 

I am 5 minutes from our son, so if the school nurse calls me, it won't take me an hour to get him.  I will start recognizing kids on the street and in the stores.  (No more wearing pj's to Albertson's, I guess.)

As for the young adult lit I love so much?  Well, our local library has an awesome selection and I will read it to my heart's content.  Maybe blog a little about it too.

Do they have The Hunger Games or Twilight  in my new library?  (Do I want them to be there? I brought my posters, just in case, along with my READ posters starring Yoda and Darth Vader.)  I will soon find out.  In the meantime, it's time to brush up on my readin' aloud skills and getting caught up on the great books that have come out since our boy graduated from the kiddy section.  I hope I have a good collection of Amelia Bedelia  and Stephen Kellog books . . . .

All is well. 
Thanks for listening.

Early A.M. Ramble

As I walked the dogs early this morning, I couldn't help but explore a couple of empty houses that are currently for sale.  One used to be vibrant, I could tell, with its now dry and dilapidated rock water fall and its front living space.  As usual, I had to look in all the windows I could, noting the layout and the debris left behind.  In the backyard, I made a full turn around before noticing the amateurly painted mountain scenes on the low stone wall.  There was another dry waterfall next to an intrusive and ugly back porch awning.  There had once been a lot of time and effort spent on this property.  Now it's bank owned and vacant.

A block or so over was a house I have been interested in looking at for a long time.  It's probably a lot older than me, on a corner lot, made of stonework.  A squat house, it has no fencing to keep things in or out.  It's probably not good for a remodel, will most likely be torn down.  What caught my eye were the dried mud handprints left by a few children on the outside wall.  They were deliberate, like one last stand at possession of the place.    

Out front was a dresser.  It seemed like expensive factory made stuff.  One drawer was out and to the side.  The rest of it just sat there, the back a bit mildewy (as was the inside of the house) and I acknowledge my inner urge to take it home, sand it down, fix the drawer and resell it.  I patted that inner voice on the head, reminded her that my workspace is limited,  the piece not unique enough to warrant the effort, them moved on.

I passed by the home of an acquaintance I know, who is a hoarder.  I have gotten better at spotting these homes, by the long-placed, well-intended piles that spill out into the driveway and along the small sides of the walls.  Sometimes the bushes and trees are overgrown, sometimes not.  (If they are renting, there is a good chance there is a gardener on duty.)  Again, I take notice of the inner personae that wants to help, to rummage, to organize their house, their possessions, their life.  I send her a little smile and I walk on.

In front of another house is a stone lion.  I think about how it might awaken when everyone on the street is asleep or not paying attention to what's happening in the dark outside.  How it might prowl the neighborhood, making sure everything is in its rightful place.  I walk another half block around the curve and there are two more lions in front of a driveway and a third ensconced on a pillar.  Busy nights for the lions indeed.  Do they get together to roam or do they avoid each other, respectful of the territory that is innate to a small stone lion in the middle of suburbia.

I notice how many jacaranda trees are blooming.  They are my favorite and have been since I was a child.  I admire how pretty they are when next to the deep pink of a bougainvillea.  These seem to be happy outdoor yardmates, and many of my neighbors have planted them together.  I wonder how many of these pairings were intentional, as bougainvillea has a mind of its own. 


I am a happy wanderer, peering through backyard gates and into yards.  These folks must have had friends over last night, their small outside table is littered with empty beer bottles and a child's tea set. 

Another house has an empty, sad feel to it.  Perhaps a divorced dad lives here and doesn't have his kids over as often as he'd like. The front is austere and utilitarian, devoid of personal items or color.

Across the street is a home with flowers and fruit trees in abundance.  There is a garden flag on display and a cozy setting of lawn furniture.  It makes me feel cozy.

The neighborhoods are full of cul de sacs, jutting up to the Marine base.  Here is a gorgeous house whose whole backside overlooks the overgrown, fenced in wilderness owned by the government.  How their house must shake when the soldiers are practicing war, testing their explosions.  Do they use special adhesive to keep their pictures straight on the walls and their china figurines on the shelves?

A big dog barks at us and comes out of a front door.  There is no fence to keep him back.  He probably doesn't get a lot of visitors on this dead-end street and I don't want trouble, so I make sure my grip on the leashes are tight and send him dominant vibes.  It works.  He turns around and faces his house while we walk  by.  I keep an eye on my back, not wanting to be charged by a bully.  He keeps his distance, even though Buster the Boxer is now whining like mad, wanting to play with this big dog who can surely match his paces.

Each house holds many stories.  I appreciate my imagination as I walk past, able to spend a lot more time thinking about what might be, rather than whizzing by in my car, my mind on my agenda and far away from my neighbors.

I come home, happy that I can put a mental checkmark next to "walk the dogs" and grateful to have started the day by roaming my streets in the early morning fog.  The dogs are sure to be mellow for a few hours and the rest of the day is ahead of me. 

                                                                   Thanks for listening.

(Disclaimer  . . . not all of the pics included in this post were by me or were taken on the day of the posting.)

The Exquisite Pain of Being Alive

There is a legend about a bird which sings just once in its life, more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth.  From the moment it leaves the nest it searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one.  Then, singing among the savage branches, it impales itself upon the longest, sharpest spine.  And, dying, it rises above its own agony to out-carol the lark and the nightingale.  One superlative song, existence the price.  But the whole world stills to listen, and God in His heaven smiles.  For the best is only bought at the cost of great pain . . . Or so says the legend.

I just finished reading The Thorn Birds.  Again.  I think I may have read this book about 7 times since my grandmother first introduced it to me in high school.  Published in 1982 and written by Colleen McCullough, this dynasterial epic spans decades and continents.  It is about love and loss.  Family and lovers.  Death and new life.  Hope and marking time, waiting for the grief to abate. 

My own copy is worn out, pages are loose, the paper rips easily.  It is badly taped together.  I also have my grandmother's hardback edition.  There are very few books I own two copies of.  (Harriet the Spy is the only other, I believe.) 

The real reason I wanted to babble, was, however, on the topic of longing.  That feeling that is hungry and incessant.  Sometimes it hibernates for years, but a few words from a friend can awaken it with a vengeance. 

Recently, in my a.m. ponderings and prayers, I was moved to ask for "light to be cast on my shadow self."  I watched as I greedily awaited what would come.  I admit to having a sick fascination with drama. But I am also more alive than I have been in a long, long time and although I knew that I was inviting change and maybe some difficult times to my world, I know it is for my own highest good.

 Old feelings started coming to the front of my consciousness again, feelings I had not dealt with for a long time.  I have faith that my cornerstone is higher in my mind now, I hope to not be dragged down into old, debilitating spirals.  Being wracked with uncertainties is not my idea of a good time and I am very aware of my satisfaction these days; my hunger for more is of a practical design:  less clutter, less drama, more awareness of God in my life. 

So when I awoke this morning with that old, familiar hunger in my belly, I lay with it awhile, refusing to let it pull me under.  My shadow self has awakened and is to be acknowledged once again.  I don't feel like packing my bags and I'm not dreaming of a different life.  I am content with my beautiful reality, but the time has come again to look deep inside and feel the truth inside myself.  Time to shed my skin one more time.  Perhaps this time I can do it more lovingly and with eyes wide open.  No need to rip and tear this time. 

The bird with the thorn in its breast, it follows an immutable law; it is driven by it knows not what to impale itself, and die singing.  At the very instant the thorn enters there is no awareness in it of the dying to come; it simply sings and sings until there is not the life left to utter another note.  But we, when we put the thorns in our breasts, we know.  We understand.  And still we do it.  Still we do it. 

Thanks for listening . . .

The Night Circus

Once again I close a new cherished story with a sigh and wish it wasn't over.  The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern has enthusiastically made its way onto the "favorites" shelf in my library and when I come across a copy in my shopping excursions, I will buy it to keep.

It's a story about love and magic.  About a fantastical circus that roams the world without a planned agenda and once you have seen it, you are hooked.  The circus opens at night and closes at dawn; there is no color, only black and white (although after a few years, the patrons who are truly obsessed, wear a splash of red along with their b/w outfits to show their love and devotion.)

Two magicians have competed against each other for countless years, raising protoge's who "battle" their magical abilities in a contained venue.  The latest competition is held at the Night Circus, Le Cirque des Reves.

Celia is raised by her father after being orphaned at the age of 5 by a mother who died of a broken heart.  Marco is plucked from an orphanage as a yongster as well.  Both children are raised in a solitary environment, learning how to perfect their magical abilities.  They are told that one day they will compete against another, thought they have to discover their opponant on their own. 

Almost every chapter contains a date.  I didn't follow this as closely as I should have, so I found myself trying to play a bit of catch-up at times, as the story goes back and forth in time a bit.  When I read it again, I may create a little timeline so I can understand this wonderful tale even more. 

Stories can capture our hearts and change who we are as people.  Towards the end of the book, one of the master magician's says this to one of the minor chracters:

 You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone's soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose.  That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what the might do because of it, because of your words.  . . . There are many kinds of magic, after all.

Indeed.  This is the driving force behind my decision to become a Librarian.  I love books and stories and how they can affect a person's life. 

If you want a book that may make you sigh wistfully when it's over, holding it close to your chest for just a moment before reluctantly letting it go, (and you are a romantic at heart), I heartily recommend that you read The Night Circus.  It's beautiful.

Thanks for listening.