Oblivious Driving--I Think Not!

Recently a friend of mine described my driving as oblivious, carefree and sweet--all in the same breath.  I must admit, when someone is in my car and we are having a conversation, driving becomes automatic.  Oblivious--not so much.  At least I don't think so.  Carefree and sweet--well possibly.

Today's driving conditions didn't allow for anything but careful attention.  Winter driving can be very unpredictable in upstate New York.  And today's commute changed throughout the drive.   I have chosen to work in a school that is about 75 minutes from my home.  I am a good long-distance driver, contrary to my friend's oblivious comments.  The commute gives me time to listen to music or news and have think time.  (I have been known to put on make-up and do other things that didn't happen at home because of a late alarm.  That's not oblivious, is it?)  Today's hour and 15 minute commute took an extra hour.  And for much of the commute, there was no space for anything but rapt attention.   (Plus taking a few pictures along the way...careful turned to carefree?) The drive started out with a light snow, which turned into a heavy snow, which turned into a white out, which turned into hail, which turned into ice, which by the time I arrived in my school parking lot, turned into sunshine.

Sometimes, if I am observant and reflective about the events in my life, the shift in my attitude about the very same event can change as dramatically as the weather conditions of my morning commute.   A  typical school day can mirror these conditions.  Take today, for instance.  I walk into school, stressed from the long commute.  My attitude is one of light snow.  I am focused but I notice my stress.  I open my computer and see that I have a pressing deadline and a full schedule.  The snow turns heavy.  A teacher comes into my office needing something immediately.  My school day, only forty-five minutes into it, becomes a full-blown blizzard.  Hmmmm.  Do I go on into oblivion?  Or do I stop and refocus?

I shut my door, I take five deep breaths and stop.  This action, by itself, stops the blizzard.  Hail and ice dissipate as I separate the urgent from the important and think about how best to tackle a given problem.  Choosing an urgent task over an important one, because of a deadline, allows me to focus.  Completing the task allows success.  My day turns sky blue.  An assembly with children singing, reading and dancing creates spring like conditions, as I roll down the windows of my day and breathe in the fresh air.

In life, like when driving, the conditions change and we have a choice to be ready to respond to the conditions with which we are presented.   We can choose oblivion and the conditions only build up.  A little bit of reflection creates a focus for which the important is tended to and the urgent can be addressed without stress.  All of which allows for carefree joy when engaging in the conversations of our life.  How sweet is that?

Thank you to the Two Writing Teachers community, for your promotion of this March Writers' Challenge.  Thank you for giving writers and educators a forum for writing and responding to other writers.

Connecting with Rae

My daughter and I keep missing each other.  Sometimes we meet, though, but not exactly as it was planned.  What to do with the unplanned makes all of the difference.  Last week I was returning from a beach vacation and we had a window of a day to meet before the beach vacation she was taking with her husband.  We both wanted time, yet time was short.   We decided to meet for dinner.  She finished work at five o’clock and I needed to touch base with a colleague at either five o’clock or eight o’clock.  She decided to meet me at 5:15.  And I made my appointment for eight. 

She worked till five that night and told me that she would text me as she left so that we could meet for dinner.  At five I began to wait for her text.  At 5:30 I was still waiting for her text.  5:45--still waiting.  6:00--still waiting.  And a bit irritated that she was not responding to my text.  6:15 rolls around.  And I get a call, “Mom, I am so sorry.  I just am finishing up with work.  Two people walked in and I couldn’t leave.  I can meet you in thirty minutes.  Let’s meet at Aladdin’s.”

Aladdin’s is a lovely restaurant on the canal near our home.  The problem with that restaurant is that it is busy and there always is a wait.  “Rae, I don’t think that will work.  I have to leave by 7:30 to get to the 8:00 appointment.” (To myself I added, “that I could have gone to at 5.)  Yes, irritation was there.

“Ok, mom.  Let’s go to Chipotles then.  So that we have as much time as we can have.”  I have to admit, I was fighting the irritation.  Yet I missed her and was looking forward to the visit, albeit a shorter one than planned.

She arrived at the restaurant when I was in line and came to me giving me a tight hug.  “I am SO glad to see you, mom.  And I am sorry I am late.”

“That’s ok.  But I do only have a half-hour because of my appointment.  It is good to see you.”  My response was genuine and rose above the irritation.

The woman in front of us in line overheard our conversation.  “Would you like to go in front of me in line since you only have a half hour?”  We thanked her and budged ahead when she added, “It is so nice to see you both not arguing about something that so easily could have gone in that direction.”

We ate.  We visited.  We connected.   I made a decision to pay attention to the connection rather than the irritation.  It made all of the difference.

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This morning I got a text from Rachel during her vacation in Jamaica.  “Mom, we are having a wonderful time.  And I miss you so much!  I can’t wait to see you.  Let’s meet for dinner this weekend.”

“Ok,” I replied, “I can’t wait to lay my eyeballs on you!  Oh, and have you burned?”

“Not at all.  Perfect vacation!”

I had a choice, when confronted with her lateness.  I knew that it was lateness that was unavoidable.  I knew that she typically doesn’t keep people waiting.  And I knew that I needed to be somewhere at 8:00.  I knew that it could have gone differently if she told me to make my appointment earlier.  But she didn’t and I didn’t.  I could have made a choice to show my irritation.  I could have made a choice to not keep my eight o’clock commitment.  There were lots of ways to respond to the circumstances of that evening.  I chose to keep a commitment and to connect.  

I am so glad I did.  Connection brings joy.   Connection makes a difference. 

Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for dedicating space and time for teachers and teachers of literacy to come together to share ideas, practice and life experience.

Coming Out of Hibernation

I want to be honest here.  I haven’t moved in almost a year.  Last June I had an operation and prior to my surgery I swam or walked almost daily.  Then the surgery and a myriad of other circumstances.  My response was to eat mindlessly and to not move.  I did not literally sit for a year, but I didn’t include movement in my lifestyle.  I didn’t walk.  I didn’t swim.  I didn’t do the movement that gets my temperature up and my endorphins going.  I get why I chose to do what I did.  And I am not guilting myself because of the choice.  It is what I chose.  Today I am at a point where I am beginning to choose differently.  I am waking up from a long year’s sleep. 

Of all of the domains for living (emotional, physical, mental and spiritual), I am the least familiar and comfortable in the physical domain.  I connect to others and to my feelings.  I use my mind to create and to think through complicated scenarios.   I consider myself spiritual (although not particularly religious) and find comfort and inspiration in connecting with nature and a God who is greater than I.  Movement, exercise, feeling grounded in my body—well, all are areas that are less than comfortable.  That part of me is the part that always is the first to go to sleep and the last to wake up.

Yet, there is this gnawing.  Is it a stretch and yawning out of sleep?  A beginning movement from rem sleep to awake?   I have felt it occasionally in this last year’s sleep, a distant pressing, almost like a hunger pang, hungering for a deeper touch with my body.  I mostly ignore it and sometimes it catches me by surprise, asking me to pay attention.  This body connection happens for me with movement.  I know it.  And it is so easy to ignore.

This gnawing pressed stronger as I read a recent Facebook post of Anne Lamott’s.   She was turning 61 in two days when she posted her writing.  (I am currently 61, too.)  She wrote, in list form (14 things) that are the total of all she knows.   Number 13 hit me hard:

13. Exercise: If you want to have a good life after you have grown a little less young, you must walk almost every day. There is no way around this. If you are in a wheelchair, you must do chair exercises. Every single doctor on earth will tell you this, so don't go by what I say.

The gnawing is calling me yawning, stretching out of hibernation.  I want to live a good life.  And I have but one life.  My body houses all of the domains of which I find most fulfillment.  It houses the center where I make emotional connections.  It houses my mind and my creativity.  It houses my spirit.  I let it go to sleep and want it to wake up.   I want to move my body and honor it with the care it deserves.  I want it to join the rest of me—fully alive and awake.

I live in Rochester, NY.  It is a cold country (another excuse for hibernation, I might add).  We are in late April and daffodils are just beginning to bloom.  Today’s high is 54.  And on April 1 my pool opened.  There are the hearty among us who relish swimming in the cold.  I have been yawning and thinking about #13—not one among the hearty.  

Until today.  To begin the waking up, I donned my suit today and began my swimming regime.  The water warm and the air cool enveloped me as I waded into the wet, my body woken by a light breeze and chlorinated water.   I began slowly.  Length after length of breaststroke, pulling the water to push me forward…again and again and again.   The blue of sky and water buoyed me, cheering me as I touched the pool perimeter to turn around and begin my next length.

Energy begets energy,  so they say.  I have to say, only 10 lengths later, I feel energized.  I also feel a bit sore.  The effect of no movement interacting with movement.  I am so happy that today I chose to move.  I want to build up and get better at this.  And I want to be more in my physical domain.  I am excited.  I am stretching my way out of hibernation.

Is the gnawing turning into a yearning?  I am not sure.  But today, I made a movement toward movement.   Followed, yet again, by choice for movement tomorrow.  One stroke at a time.   I don’t want to go back to sleep.  Today I came out of hibernation and I want to stay awake.

True North Is My Hope—Is My Home

I.

I left Rochester on my way to Cincinnati the day before Easter in a snowstorm.  What a harsh and unrelenting season we have had!  As I pulled out of my driveway, to begin my journey, a symbol of hope showed her face.

Within the remnants

of winter’s last crusty snow

caked with mud and ice,

winter’s fin,al fallen flakes mix

with snowdrops first bloom.

II.

My April travels—ten hours southbound always welcomes me with daffodils and trees just beginning to bud.  This visit has not disappointed in that regard.  And with the trip home, these Cincinnati sites are soon to follow. 

A burst of spring marks my path south, in my travels from-to.

Splashes of buttery daffodils dancing, willow’s yellow-green branches sway.

Please, I plead—follow me back to north to the home where I now live.

III

My visit has been one of anticipated visits with loved ones and friends.  Yet, the trip has been a time of noticed contrasts.  My deepest roots are here.  And as I visit, I notice they have lived without me.  There is no sadness marked here.  Just observation.  We have grown.  Apart.  And somehow our bonds are still together.  This place holds my longest memories.  And beyond the memories, life has continued.  Somehow, this makes me feel older.

At my home of birth—

A place of dichotomy

in my winter years.

IV

Today I travelled home.  Leaving my mom, aging, slowing and oh-so-loved.  Saying goodbye to my sisters and brother.  Hugging my oldest friends.  This is a place I love.  I am travelling true north to a place that has called me home.  To a place I also love.

A sunrise greets me as I travel again—north-easterly to my now home.

The sky billows, laced with clouds, color far-reaching to the western sky.

Merging what was past with what is now—each part of my story of home.

I will always call you home, and now true-north calls me home.

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This month, as a way for me to celebrate National Poetry Month, I have been visiting The Miss Rumphius Effect to read about poetry forms.  Each day the blog is sharing various poetry forms, giving history and helpful tips to poets, young and old alike, who might want to try these forms out.  I have explored various forms today in my writing.  In part I you will find a tanka.  Part II experiments with sijo.  Part III attempts haiku and part IV returns to sijo with an extra line added just because.   To find out about these forms and other fun things happening during National Poetry Month, visit this site.

Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for dedicating space and time for teachers and teachers of literacy to come together to share ideas, practice and life experience.