Pride

I really don’t know what it is about the Elementary school’s “Pride” song that gets me so worked up, but I get teary every time. The chorus goes like this:

“I am proud of who I am
proud of where I’m going
proud of what I’m doing.
My life is my life,
I have the power to be.
I can reach my own brass ring,
and pull it for me.”

Forgetting the fact that most kids probably don’t understand the brass ring reference without it being explained, this is powerful stuff. WHY, I always wonder, through my tears, does it get me so much? Is it the fact that these affirmations are ones I am only beginning to truly believe at the age of 36? The fact that my schooling, especially my elementary years, installed the exact opposite belief in me? The interrelatedness of these two facts?

There is something so earnest, so honest, so immediate and present about elementary school. I am only beginning to really appreciate it, to accept the kids’ hugs and the open hearts from whence they come. Teaching elementary school has cured me of some of my cynicism; not all, mind you, but some. It’s hard to be cynical when a wide-eyed 6-year-old refugee student runs at you with a hug every morning. It’s easy to get used to that hug.

I have the power to be. I hope that my time with them has conveyed to my students that I believe in their power to be.

Nine and a Half Days

Nine and a half school days left, not that anyone, student or teacher, is counting. It’s the time of year when the local 20-year-olds are home from college and substitute teaching; their first couple of days they wear ties and real shoes and school looks like it’s been overrun by Jehovah’s Witnesses. It’s the time of year when progress is measured and thank yous, said.

One class I spend a lot of time in is taught by an old-school teacher, the kind who believes in respect and politeness and saying thank you. Three days ago I went into her room and was asked to return in five minutes; as I left I saw a flash of green construction paper out of the corner of my eye. My suspicion that something was happening was confirmed when I was later asked to join the class Friday at 10.

It’s lovely when a surprise is truly that. Sure, I knew that something was going on. But did I expect what occurred? Absolutely not. Thank you cards from construction paper, adorned with feathers, and pom poms? I might have guessed. A puppet show of nursery rhymes? I would never have suspected. And for the snacks, well, why does anyone bother to write fiction?

“Gorp,” the teacher had announced to the class, and each had brought a contribution, all of which were combined in the old fashion. So from blue paper cups bearing a national soft-drink logo, we feasted on a combination of the following:

Chocolate chips
Colored candy-covered chocolate chips
Mini marshmallows
Fruit Loops cereal
Another puffy, sweet cereal
Shredded coconut
Smartfood cheesey popcorn
Cashew pieces
Raisins
A salty pretzel/bagel chip/etc snack mix

Truly a culinary wonderment. It was the best surprise I’d had all year. Kids want to do the right thing, and this teacher has taught them, all year long, that kindness and gratitude are always the right thing. It was a pleasure to benefit from this wonderful lesson.

Tribes

Separate from the tribe; get away from the tribe mentality; leave the tribe behind. Caroline Myss, Wayne Dyer, probably the Buddha all emphasize this point. But where is the line between the confining, constraining tribe, and the supportive, growth-prompting tribe? And how does one find that line?

Faced with a challenging decision about work, I find that I am surrounded at all turns by those who would--well, do--reinforce my choice to be there. Problem is, I'm not sure I want to be there. But no one's going to tell me not to stay there, or even suggest I don't. It's a school, a powerful tribe. How do I individuate myself from this?

After I constructed this dilemma for myself, it occurred to me that this is not the real dilemma, not the real deal. Where I do what I do is hardly the real concern. What I do and how I do it, and why and from what place, is the goods.

So frequently I feel so selfish: single, with no kids, I complain about having no time for myself when I eat most meals alone; about not having enough sleep when I sleep at least seven hours a night. So a choice between two perfectly good work assignments seems an invented dilemma, and I'm tempted to choose based on the good of the group--if it's all the same, why not make things easy for everyone else?

But is it all the same? In the beginning it didn't seem like it, which was what got me into all of this in the first place. It seemed like one path could take me where I wanted to go. Or where I thought I wanted to go until I started thinking about it. And now I just don't know what I want.

"We awoke one day to discover that we had lost our dreams to protect our days." I have worked so hard to discover my dreams, excavate my authentic self. I don't want to forsake her--I'm just not sure where she is.

Neighbors

The phone call came at 5:21 a.m. I don't have a panic reaction to middle of the night phone calls (not being a parent), and it took three rings for me to even recognize what was happening. Then I figured out what it must be, and let the machine take the inevitable message: "We're on a 2 hour delay," A's voice said. It was too dark to see the snow that prompted the call, so I reset the alarm, and refilled the hot water bottle to help me get back to sleep.

When the alarm went off next, light was trying to get through the snow on the skylight. I checked the window: lots of snow. Checked the date: April 5, and yes, two days ago, I could see just about all the grass in the yard. Sigh.

By the time I got showered and out the door I was feeling pretty proud of myself for leaving enough time to brush off and warm up my car. I expected that gravity would get me out of my driveway: wrong. I got stuck halfway in and halfway out, lodged on snow that spilled into the door of the Civic when I opened it. On three separate trips I went to the barn for my shovel (previously put away), the house for salt (the remnants of a bag), and upstairs for better (waterproof) gloves. To no avail. Down the road, I could see the neighbors mucking around with a tractor. I kept shoveling and the shovel broke. I was about to cry from frustration, when the next inevitability occurred: they came to help.

The woman and older man couldn't push me out, gravity now working against us, but fortunately I was stuck out enough into the road to prompt the next car to stop and help push: the extra umph was enough and I was out. Handshakes and thanks all around, and though I was late to work, I got what I didn't know I needed: I finally got to meet the neighbors.

J, K, Lahiri

Creative expression has a momentum and a spiritual imperative, I told J tonight. Five kids into this thing we call this life, she's feeling the need to tell her story, get it out there, and I said, YES. If I am learning anything, it is that our stories are all we have and to tell them is to open ourselves truly to the universe. Boy, it sounds like I'm writing a self-help book, no? She and I agree that it's in our emails to each other that we express ourselves most truly, most genuinely, most without-bullshit-y. But I'm writing this now.

One month and seven days, writing every day. Wha-hoo! I've given up on sitting; writing is my practice for now. Every day, often last thing before bed (like tonight) despite good intentions to the contrary. Tonight I had to finish my novel (The Namesake, Jhumpa Lahiri, devistating in its inevitability), then my friend K came over to return something. A glass of water turned into impromptu tapas: left over curried cauliflower, quickly spiced chick peas, blue corn chips, red wine. Brainstorming about where and how she might position herself to meet the man she is sure the universe is preparing for her. Then J called. Now I write.

Curried cauliflower:
2 bay leaves, 4 cardamom pods, half a teaspoon of cumin seeds, cooked in 2 T. oil.
Add and saute half a chopped onion, 2 chopped cloves of garlic, 2" of fresh ginger, chopped.
When the onion is soft, add 1 t. curry powder, a generous pinch of red pepper powder, 2 T. tomato paste, 1 T. harissa, 1 cauliflower cut into florets, enough water to cover.
Cover and simmer, stirring occasionally, until all is soft. Remove lid at the end to evaporate the excess water.
Serve hot, or warm, but it was better rewarmed two days later.

Quickly spiced chick peas:
Half a can of chick peas, water to cover, 1 T. olive oil, salt and pepper in a pan.
Bring to a boil. With a fork, mash the chick peas. Add paprika and ground cumin, a half teaspoon of each. Cook uncovered until the water has evaporated and it's a spreadable consistency. Serve in a bowl, drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with paprika. Eat with chips, crackers, whatever's around.

After the savories we had dark chocolate, almonds, raisins, more red wine. Lovely.

absolutely perfect

Tonight I ate the most perfect meal. As with many things in life, perfection is often a matter of timing. So this evening, a perfect confluence of attitude, occasion, sunshine, and culinary perfection joined to create my most perfect meal to date.

My attitude was beyond positive as I'd just gotten off the phone with my life coach, who pointed out that today is the one-month anniversary of incorporating an important action into my daily life. And, I was headed toward a networking opportunity that seemed amorphous and felt right. Attitude, occasion: chicken, egg? Perhaps. At 5:00 when I stepped outside, the sun was shining brightly in the blue sky. The temperature hadn't yet dropped enough to warrant hurrying, so I enjoyed my stroll to the restaurant, soaking in the rays of premature daylight savings.

Ah. Upon entry I knew I had found an oasis, that I would be well cared for here. The gentleman who told me to "sit anywhere" quickly deduced that this task was beyond me in my post-school-day condition, and pointed me toward a table (there were only three!) near a window, away from the door. I sat and took in the white tablecloth, pressed but not stiff; the sparse, elegant Asian-influenced floral arrangement (berries, pussy willows, leaves of various shapes, sizes, and textures, and two simple tulips) in a heavy rectangular glass vase; the comforting cloth napkin with its autumnal print.

I love a restaurant that offers fancy labeled wines by the glass, and saves its best wine for the house--a simple italian red in a wonderfully ample glass balloon was smooth on my tongue and underscored the comfort offered here.

The food was absolutely perfect, with apologies to Kevin Henkes. The soup was an African vegetable, and as I often tell people, Africa is a big place made up of 67+ countries. I lived in one African country that never came close to a soup like this, and I'm glad I experienced this one. Two different kinds of sweet potatoes--the dense, dark orange and a lighter, crisper variety--and white potatoes swam in a thick coconut milk base, accented by thick slivers of coconut meat and lots of bright basil. Onions, etc, were most likely pureed into the base of the soup, which was intensely flavorful from start to finish. On the side, half a pannini-grilled sandwich of pesto, olive tapenade, and just the right amount of jack cheese. I actually managed to savor this and finished the last bite after I finished the soup, a self-discipline coup if ever there was one.

The salad portion consisted of tender greens, two bites of roasted red and yellow peppers, and a few thick shavings of Parmesan cheese, lightly dressed in a dressing notable for its absence of distracting flavor.

And as I contemplated which local coffeehouse to hit for a sweet treat, the waitress brought my bill--and a Lindt truffle. My only disappointment of the evening--it was milk chocolate, not dark. But Nina Simone played on the stereo and the sun was nowhere near setting. It was still, absolutely, perfect.

Tonight I ate the most perfect meal. As with many things in life, perfection is often a matter of timing. So this evening, a perfect confluence of attitude, occasion, sunshine, and culinary perfection joined to create my most perfect meal to date.

My attitude was beyond positive as I'd just gotten off the phone with my life coach, who pointed out that today is the one-month anniversary of incorporating an important action into my daily life. And, I was headed toward a networking opportunity that seemed amorphous and felt right. Attitude, occasion: chicken, egg? Perhaps. At 5:00 when I stepped outside, the sun was shining brightly in the blue sky. The temperature hadn't yet dropped enough to warrant hurrying, so I enjoyed my stroll to the restaurant, soaking in the rays of premature daylight savings.

Ah. Upon entry I knew I had found an oasis, that I would be well cared for here. The gentleman who told me to "sit anywhere" quickly deduced that this task was beyond me in my post-school-day condition, and pointed me toward a table (there were only three!) near a window, away from the door. I sat and took in the white tablecloth, pressed but not stiff; the sparse, elegant Asian-influenced floral arrangement (berries, pussy willows, leaves of various shapes, sizes, and textures, and two simple tulips) in a heavy rectangular glass vase; the comforting cloth napkin with its autumnal print.

I love a restaurant that offers fancy labeled wines by the glass, and saves its best wine for the house--a simple italian red in a wonderfully ample glass balloon was smooth on my tongue and underscored the comfort offered here.

The food was absolutely perfect, with apologies to Kevin Henkes. The soup was an African vegetable, and as I often tell people, Africa is a big place made up of 67+ countries. I lived in one African country that never came close to a soup like this, and I'm glad I experienced this one. Two different kinds of sweet potatoes--the dense, dark orange and a lighter, crisper variety--and white potatoes swam in a thick coconut milk base, accented by thick slivers of coconut meat and lots of bright basil. Onions, etc, were most likely pureed into the base of the soup, which was intensely flavorful from start to finish. On the side, half a pannini-grilled sandwich of pesto, olive tapenade, and just the right amount of jack cheese. I actually managed to savor this and finished the last bite after I finished the soup, a self-discipline coup if ever there was one.

The salad portion consisted of tender greens, two bites of roasted red and yellow peppers, and a few thick shavings of Parmesan cheese, lightly dressed in a dressing notable for its absence of distracting flavor.

And as I contemplated which local coffeehouse to hit for a sweet treat, the waitress brought my bill--and a Lindt truffle. My only disappointment of the evening--it was milk chocolate, not dark. But Nina Simone played on the stereo and the sun was nowhere near setting. It was still, absolutely, perfect.

Good or interesting food I have eaten lately

Quick chick pea curry:
Chop half an onion, 3 carrots, and 3 cloves garlic.
Saute all in 2 Tbsp. oil until softer, only 3-4 minutes.
Add 1 can chick peas, drained; 1 heaping teaspoon good curry powder, some salt, a fair amount of black pepper, and enough water to cover the chick peas.
Bring to a boil, reduce heat, cook 5 minutes.
With a potato masher or the back of a big spoon, mash the mixture so that some of the chick peas are broken up and some stay whole. Simmer for another 5 minutes.
Add 1 cup kale (chopped) or spinach, washed, stir, and cover until the greens are soft, about 3 minutes.
Serve over rice. You're done!
Serves 3-4, depending.

That was Saturday night. It was really surprisingly good. The kale added some texture as did the carrots, which were not overcooked, and the whole chick peas. R doubted me when I directed him to mash the chick peas, but he later conceded the genius of my ways.

Sunday, we went to K and E's. She made tamale pie with beefalo, eg, buffalo meat, which tasted like cow beef, maybe a little drier--I think it's leaner. It was a combo of meat, kidney beans, whole corn, onion, and tomato, probably sauteed; then covered with a cornmeal-quinoa batter baked to a cornbread-like crust. It was fantastic, if a little dry. The crust was really substantial--not one of those wimpy biscuit crusts. There was as much crust as filling, which makes it a winner in my carb-loving book. She served it with a nice salad--baby spinach, cabbage, sliced white mushrooms, bean sprouts, dried cranberries, feta. The cabbage gave it a nice crunch and the cranberries gave it sweetness. E made black and tans (Bass and Guinness, authentic to the yesterday's St. Pats) and it was very relaxed, cozy, and neighborly, even though we live 30 minutes away.....that's practically next door in Vermont!