Am I Becoming My Grandmother

Looking at this picture, it is still hard for me to believe that this beautiful cake came out of my kitchen. It all began a few nights ago when I was pondering my team partner's birthday and was in a bit of a quandary about what sort of cake to bake. She gave me a few suggestions and off I went on my internet search. What did I ever cook before the internet? When I first saw this gorgeous thing on line it looked completely out of my league. But the more I searched and reflected on the meaning of real food and the connection between food and friendship, the more I began to think that it was doable, even on a school night. And so it came into being.

The instant I poured that chocolate glaze over the peanut butter frosting, and my hand guided the spatula over the edge of the cake creating that waterfall of decadence, something came to life inside me. I didn't know what it was going to taste like but I somehow knew it was going to be heavenly and that I would be changed by it.

I have always been a good cook, not great but good. I've always attributed it to the fact that I am basically a rule follower. Give me a recipe and I will follow it. I'm not one of those people who adapt or tweak them, I just do what it says. Lately a few things have happened to make me reevaluate my abilities as a cook. #1 I have become known at Buchser as an excellent baker. It was funny at the beginning because that was simply never how I was defined at any other school. Someone else had that role. I was always a part of a group that shared recipes and talked cooking but I was never at the top of the list. Last year I laughed about it but this year it is a more serious mantle that I might now be ready to take on. #2 While my sister was in the hospital with her hip replacement last summer we were chatting with our favorite nurse. She asked which of us was the best cook and my sister immediately responded that I was. Once again I laughed at this because I just had never thought of myself as a better cook than my big sister. I have also recently had a few conversations with my daughter and mother about my great love of Thanksgiving dinner and the important role that my grandmother has played in my life. I still think she is one of the most amazing cooks that ever lived. I would give almost anything to eat one of her dinners just one more time.

This morning I woke up and one of the first thoughts in my head was that amazing cake. I just can't wait to make it again. I laughed it away and then began to think about how my view of myself as a cook is changing. It is an evolving vision. By the time I got through my morning routine the thought had moved from that cake to asking myself, am I becoming my grandmother? I quickly laughed this off as well. I don't ever remember seeing my grandmother take a bite of her own cake and moan, yes moan, about how good it was. I clearly have a long way to go before I achieve "Grandma" status.

Analyzing Hope

A new question has arisen. From whence does hope come? How do we give birth to it, grow it and somehow sustain it indefinitely? Why are some people filled with it while others seem to be left with none? I used to label teachers as positive or negative but now I see it is something much deeper. We who live in hope are those who believe that kids and their parents can change and those who seem to be without hope have become calloused to the miracles, the big ones and the little ones that simply start with today.

I have a student who I have been with for 3 years now and yet I remain ever hopeful. There is no way I can explain that except to say that that is why I do what I do. How could I possibly do this job day in and day out if I didn't believe that kids can change, if I didn't believe that what I do and say matter? The amusing part is it doesn't take much for me to grow the seed of hope in my heart. All I need is a smile, a raised hand, a picked up pencil, a completed assignment. That's all! The rest will come on its own.

And why are others so sure that the miracle will not and cannot happen? Perhaps it is just what they choose to look at and focus upon. They concentrate on the accumulation of days when assignments have been left blank rather than this moment when because a circle of adults showed they cared, it changed. They see the few that have failed rather than the thousands that have thrived.

I am thankful that I do my job within the embrace of hopefulness. On Monday I will again do all in my power to get a smile, a raised hand, a picked up pencil, a completed assignment. I know that it may or may not happen but I also know that it is the possible. That is hope, believing in the possible.

180 Days is Plenty!

Today I started the second half of my second year with a fascinating student. More often than not, as that child walked out of my room last year, I could be seen shaking my head, wondering what just happened. I chalked it up to it being my first year in middle school and not really understanding what these organisms really were. I looked forward to a second chance with this student. Year 2 meant there was a paper trail. And the 7th grade teachers did everything you would want them to do - asked questions, held meetings, set goals. The student was put on medication and I was ever hopeful. Well, once again, as this kid walked out of my room this morning, I was shaking my head. So I guess, one year is probably enough.

Thoughts Rumbling Around

I am fascinated by how individual thoughts rumble around inside my head. Sometimes they inadvertently find each other and come together to form a new and deeper perception of the world around me. But sometimes an event way outside of my own little world propels them into each other, creating a massive collision and I have no alternative but to wake up and pay attention.

Last weekend a friend and I were having a typically light-hearted conversation about how in our teaching experiences the good kids don't seem to rub off on the bad ones but the opposite often does occur. There's something about the socialization of young children, that if you have a group of well-behaved 4 or 5 year-olds and insert one not so well behaved, the angels will very quickly start experimenting with the language and actions of the devil. It almost never happens the other way around. Why is that? Why are we humans, even such young ones, so tempted by being bad? So there is thought #1.

Thought #2 comes from a reminder from the book, Stones Into Schools, of the number of children that were killed in the earthquake in Pakistan because of poorly constructed schools and now the criminal collapse of hundreds of buildings in Haiti killing tens of thousands of people. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think that I would find value in the American system of building codes. But that is exactly where my thinking led today.

Evidently humans cannot do something simply because it is the right thing to do. We have to have rules to follow. Just as young children seem to choose being bad over being good, so do builders and the government that controls them. Add to the mix, corruption and greed and there is no turning back. There are many pieces of our building code that are just plain silly but in my book, silly trumps death any day.

The visual images of Haiti's desperate and pervasive poverty have torn my heart apart for years. And now to watch in living color with commentary, the death and destruction that has occurred because of a country's reckless abandon of concern for the safety of its own people, I am besought with confusion. I have always had trouble understanding evil in the world but this must be it in the flesh. And we as Americans are not blameless. We have bankrolled and turned our backs on the corruption in that country for decades.

Day after day the death count continues with no end in sight. I wait for it to get better, to heal itself. Money is coming in and supplies are purchased. But just like every other disaster, they are not delivered to those in need. Concerns are expressed that people will riot when the supplies are distributed. So we wait. For what? The potential rioters to die of thirst, I suppose.

My deepest hope at this point is that the money that is being generated can be the agent of change. We cannot allow that money into the hands of the current corrupt government with no strings attached. It is the only possible ray of hope in this entire debacle, that out of death will come life. A new Haiti. A Haiti where a child will be born and loved, not sold. A Haiti where children will be educated and contribute to the global future. A Haiti where poverty is history. A Haiti where the government redefines itself as caretakers not murderers of its own people.

We as humans, must stop turning our backs on these countries in turmoil. This chain of events has happened too many times. We know that it's going on, whatever it is. We feel sad. All hell breaks loose and then suddenly we are ready to fix the problem with money, doctors, aid, and anything else our money will buy. I am so grateful that there are people throughout the world that are willing to stop their lives and run to the aid of those in need; the Red Cross, Doctors Without Borders, UNICEF. For the first time this morning, I wished it could be me.

At the crux of it all remains that question of good vs evil. Small children struggle with it at a sub conscious level but as adults, there must certainly be a clear knowledge regarding the end result of the decisions we make. When we shortcut building construction out of disrespect for safety, someone, sometime is going to suffer for it. They are going to die. The visual images of human bodies buried in the rubble of collapsed buildings must be emblazoned on the minds of those responsible for building the new nation of Haiti.

Connecting the Dots

I recently viewed a commencement speech by Steve Jobs that planted a seed which quickly became an aha! sapling. He talked about connecting the dots of our life events and the importance of remembering that we don't know where those dots are going until we get through them and can look back. I get that. My life has had a series of dots that created nothing more than concentric circles because I wasn't willing to let go of what I thought I wanted. I appear to be learning my life lessons and getting better at letting whatever is supposed to happen, happen. This little Connect the Dots message reverberating in my brain just brought understanding to another recent question. I have been telling all my friends that this school year is somehow different. I have changed. The word I used to describe it is aging. I am calmer. I am not afraid to just sit and I actually revel in it. Weekend goals do not get accomplished and it no longer matters to me. I leave school when I'm tired, not when I'm done. Now, no one agreed that this was in fact a sign of aging. Everybody had a different opinion because aging appears to be a "bad" word in a certain sector of people - mostly those over 55. No it isn't aging. It is finally being where I was supposed to be. This is me being in balance, being able to focus on the important things in life because the energy isn't being diverted on forcing life to go my way.

I am a middle school teacher. It is only now that I understand that statement to its fullest. I don't bring the fervor to it that I did to primary because it is where I am supposed to be. I don't need the extra energy, it all comes naturally.

I am about to become a grandmother. There is nothing about that fact that scares or intimidates me. It is where I am supposed to be.

I am a homeowner. I'm not sure how I have kept the financial pieces together in my life over the past 10 years but somehow I am still here in this little house on Fremont Street, paying my mortgage, property taxes and insurance. Perhaps this too is just where I am supposed to be.

Yes, I am aging. But that is not the explanation for my recently acquired skill at sitting on the couch for long periods of time. It is indeed, where I am supposed to be.

Someone Else's Shoes in my Footprints

I recently had the most unusual feeling during a conversation with a dear friend. Over the years she and I have had many chats about her husband and the challenges of marriage in general. But as the conversation took a turn for the worse she pulled out a copy of "Too Good To Leave, Too Bad to Stay" my personal Bible in deciding when enough was enough in my own marriage. All I could do was hug her and say "no, no no." But as we continued to talk I had the odd feeling of someone being inside my head and speaking my words. As she continued I began reliving my own pain and as I shared pieces of my story the tears returned. It has been 11 years but my pierced heart felt like someone had just ripped it open again exposing the gash to the open air just like it was the first time once more. The feeling of never mattering, never coming first. I nodded my understanding, my empathy, my shared sadness. It was the only time in my life where I could say, "I know just how you feel" and we both knew it was true.

I don't often feel myself worthy of giving advice. Even when asked, I am hesitant to share my views. Who am I to suggest to someone else words or actions that could unalterably change their own personal journey? I can tell my story but I can't put someone else in it. But here was someone who really did seem to be living my story and the most deeply painful chapter of it. If I could alleviate some of that pain or even just authenticate the feelings, it was my duty, my obligation to share my perspective. So for the first time in my life I am leading the way. I am taking it upon myself to check in with her, to see how things are going, to get together and talk through the hard parts. It feels good and right. I am happy to be her refuge in this very difficult storm. It is the reminder that no matter the twists and turns of life, be they joyous or sorrowful, they are all best shared with those who love us.