Shannon Writes...

Remembering.

So, I was on the subway, very content after church, brunch with one of my dearest friends and a trip to Tiffany's (I had to get a new necklace chain, doncha know?), and grudgingly reading the grumpy Englishwoman's book (as mentioned in previous post). In it, she was discussing with a friend as to who their guardian  might be, if the selection was someone they had known and loved, who had died. The discussion in the book took two or three paragraphs, and as it was first introduced, I immediately dismissed the idea as creepy, weird and irreligious. (<-- I may have made that word up.) And then, just as quickly, when I turned my thoughts to who my guardian might be, I knew right away it would be Sally.

Just thinking about how proud Sally would be of me, and how I've shaped my life, and what she would suggest about what more I should do and have and be, nearly moved me to tears on the subway. I was Sally's nanny for two years, while I went to NYU. I looked after her two darling girls, the older of whom was 2 when I met her and the younger was 4 months. Sally was married to David, and a newish mother at an age that is older than I am now. So she had already lead an exciting and fufilling life -- traveling, writing, developing a careful and particular aesthetic that I can see coming out in me now.

Sally was not like a mom to me. We didn't have an intense emotional closeness. I was too overwhelmed and scared to be comfortable enough to do that, and she was busy. And we both tended to focus on the girls, which was right. Yet, when you work in someone's home, helping to raise their children, there is an intimacy. So I learned from her. I learned that it was ok to be picky about furniture, that it was ok to lie to children occasionally, that it was ok to curse out the trucker who almost hit your baby's stroller, that it was ok to go out on a weekend with just your husband, that it was ok to miss you work life, that it was ok to draft thank you notes before you wrote them out, that it was ok to be rich (so long as you were generous and kind too) and that it was ok (and good and right) to wait until you met the love of your life before you got married and had kids.

Sally had cancer. Once, she beat it. The second time, she didn't.

I miss her. I don't mourn her like the girls and David must, still, always. But I do wish she could see the person I've become. Less scared, less overwhelmed, trying to do good work, unafraid to curse out the drivers. I wish she could see one of my plays performed, especially the one dedicated to her. I wish she knew how carefully and ardently I draft my thank you notes. I wish she knew that I cry every Christmas season, when I hang the ornaments she gave me on my tree. I hope she knew I love her.

And if she is my guardian, she has done a fantastic job.

Geez, can it, lady.

I apologize for the insufferable tone of the previous posting. My computer should have some kind of mood-sensitive keyboard that keeps me from being able to type when I approach with pouty lips and downcast eyes.

I did the very best think one can do when one knows one should write: I wrote. It was good. And later, I went to a friend's performance (whining the whole way to my stalwart best friend, Andrew, about how I don't liiiiike to meet straaaangers) and saw two old friends who I haven't seen in years. So good to catch up with them, so good to see my friend's show, so good to be out of the house, in good company.

And I wrote! I wrote! It must be summer!

typewriter. knitting needles.

typewriter. knitting needles., originally uploaded by flint knits.

I spent much of the day cranky. Even though much of what I had to accomplish was a pleasant mix of I'm-getting-things-done and Hey!- This-is-fun-to-do! (e.g. buying a birthday card, going to the library, unfolding and putting away my laundry, making salsa), I was just a cranky-pants about it.

For one thing, I miss my friends. Saturdays can be difficult for me. I make plans and I feel resentful that my time has been taken away. I don't make plans and I keen and moan about town, wishing I was more beloved (this is ridiculous and I know it, if that helps you forgive me for this ridiculous behavior). There's a continuing blip in one relationship that drags me down when I ponder it too long. And everyone else seems to be busy or unaware that I am sending out "You should call me! Right now!" brain waves (and not calling myself -- because I should be doing the above-mentioned errands).

For another thing, I am reading a very whiny book from a very whiny woman who seems to feel that her life is difficult because she is blessed with three children, a loving husband and a home in the beautiful north of England. I'd just toss the book aside, but I'm getting paid to read it, so read it I shall. But her ennui! It's catching!

For another thing, I saw a mouse in my apartment. God, do I hate that.

For another thing, I'm in limbo, job-wise. My work is essentially (but not quuuuiiite) done at Stella. Yet, because of that "not quuuuiiite" bit, I can't revert to my usual sleeping patterns yet. I'm doing some days on Shannon schedule (up late, up, um, late) and some days on the Stella schedule (to bed early, up early). This isn't working, of course. And there's some emotional strain in being almost able to say goodbye, but not quite yet.

And finally, the big thing, is that I am ready to write again. Yet I didn't write today, until a few minutes ago. I should have been at the computer in my t-shirt and underpants when I first got up. But I dribbled around until 4 pm before I got to it. Shame on me! Not because all that's important in my life is writing, but because I should know what I really want to write by now, and let it happen.

Anywho. This photo, which I am in love with, encapsulates what I want most of the days of my summer to be: crafting and typing. If I can achieve that, I'll feel that I have used this precious time off well.

Out!

My sweet Period 8 girls made this cake for me, One of them works in her parents' bakery, hence, the unusually adept decorating job and the cake made to my exact specifications when asked what my favorite kind of cake is. (I responded, a chocolate cake, with chocolate pudding filling and white icing, since I could not tell the truth which is that my favorite cake is any my mom makes!). Thank you, girls. It's perfect, and I love it.

I just noticed the little green leaves the whole way around. Dang, Dee, you're good!

 

 

Period 8 happened to be my last class on my last day of teaching at Stella. We're done with classes now, and have two weeks of finals to get through. Then, we're really, really done.

I'm really glad I stayed at Stella for one more year. By the end of last year, I was worn out and thinking about going ahead and leaving the position and looking for something else. Another year of 90+ minutes commutes - each way - seemed so overwhelming. And it was overwhelming. That was simply too much time spent trying to get from one place to another, no matter how good the podcast or book meant to pass the time is. Anyway, I stayed because I couldn't contemplate beginning a job search at that time, and because I wanted to see my homeroom graduate, and because it didn't feel right yet.

This year was a long year. Although I did less at my church (thus saving myself an additional 2 hours on the subway), it felt like more, because my energy was so low. I didn't write very much last summer, and wasn't very productive during the year in terms of my playwriting either. So it became a year of sacrifice... I gave up my time so that I could be at the school for the girls. I don't mean to be a martyr -- the emotional and spiritual rewards for me were great, and it has been deeply gratifying to share this special time with everyone -- but it was a sacrifice.

So I embrace summer very much, this year. I embrace hikes, and lunches in Park Slope with my working-from-home friends, and trips to PA, and air-conditioning, and movies. I embrace writing - a lot. I have so many ideas! I embrace sleeping past 5:15! I embrace anticipation and relaxation. I'm so ready!

 

Hot.

We got out of school early today, at 1 pm. We've been let out early, unexpectedly, before, for snow, or ice, or because the Pope died, or because a water main broke in front of the school. Usually, everyone - teachers and students, alike - listen for the tell-tale announcement from the school principal: "Would all Department Chairpersons please come to my office at the next bell?" and we know what's coming!

This time, however, with temperatures soaring above 100 degrees in an un-air-conditioned school building, there wasn't even time for that warning. At 12:45, the principal came on the loudspeaker and basically said, "Folks, get out of here and into some A/C." And the building emptied faster than the last day of school. I didn't even hear any "Whoohooo!"s coming from the girls. I think they had already sweated all joy out of themselves.

It's the ability to make sensible decisions like this that I will miss about working at a small little Catholic girls' school on the beach. Obviously, I will NOT miss that the school isn't air-conditioned, putting us in that situation to begin with. But I'm moving to teaching in a NYC public school next year. There is much to be excited about, and I am excited! And I think, that by moving to a very small school that specializes in theatre, I will have many of the benefits of autonomy, and collegiality that I have enjoyed for the last four years, along with the protective structures of a behemouth like the NYCBOE (principly: money. excellent benefits. a teacher's union.).

But I have only two more days of teaching left at Stella, and so my mind tends to focus on the sweet little things that I enjoy there: the candy eggs for each teacher on the day before we go on Easter break; Irish soda bread (recipe from Galway) in the teacher's lounge on Saint Patrick's day (along with ever-increasing complaints that we should have off because it's a saint's day, after all!); knowing everyone single adult in the school by name; classes being cancelled because of the MTA strike (and before they were cancelled, getting a ride from the principal of the school). The decisions made not by bureacracy but by a sensible, kind woman in a corner office, who walked through the upstairs hallway (experiencing what was an actual haze of heat) before saying, "Go home." All of these things are beloved memories, and I am so happy I had the chance to make them. I pray I may find some sensibility at my new school.

That's sick.

This is a photograph of a tissue. I pulled it off flickr, because the lowly tissue has been my most stalwart companion this weekend. I have been, and am, and it seems like may ever be, sick.

I get sick a lot. I don't really know why, as I tend to get enough sleep and eat a goodly number of veggies and fruit (more of the former, but still...) every day. I exercise daily and almost always have. But ever since I was a child, I'm just prone to the sniffles, the odd little stomachache, the feeling of "just not quite right."

Man, it's a total drag.

For the most part, when I get sick now, I just sort of trundle along, making adjustments as I need to, but sticking to my daily life. I'm definitely one of those people who says things like, "Well, since I am home sick, I will get some blogging done!" or "Since I have to lie here, I will go through this book I am supposed to review!"

Not this time. I've actually been too sick (and, perhaps, just to run down from an incredibly busy and tense May) to do much of anything. This is what I've accomplished since I got up at 10 am Saturday:

1) Watched 5 episodes of "Friday Night Lights." I think that I live in Dillon, Texas, now, y'all. Seriously. I teach English at Dillon High School and I hang with Tami in her office. I've got a bit of a crush on Coach Taylor. I just had a milkshake from wherever it is that Smash and Saracen work. [Also, an aside to people who watch this show frequently: Have you noticed that Tyra is ALWAYS home and ALWAYS answers her door? Also, have you noticed that the Taylors do not cook for themselves or eat nutrional food, yet are in amazing shape?].

2) Read "Sunday in the Park with George." I saw it on Friday night, with Roo, for my birthday. It was so wonderful that I wanted to experience it all again! So I read (and, um, sang it) to myself.

3) Ripped out the pages I had dogeared in about 60 magazines.

4) Slept 9,000 hours.

5) Blew my nose 800 times.

6) That is all.

I think I must be coming out of the illness now, since I have remained upright long enough to type this. Or perhaps I am so bored out of my skull that I just really, really, really want to be better. Hopefully, an early night and another round of heavy sleeping will set me back to work tomorrow.

Or, there are 3 more episodes on the DVD. Clear Eyes! Full Hearts! Can't Lose!

Eyes Wide Open

For over a year, I've wanted to host the American Friends Service Committee's Eyes Wide Open exhibit at my church. This exhibit displays a pair of combat boots for each soldier killed in the war in Iraq, along with shoes representing the Iraqi civilian deaths (estimated by the BBC to be over 1,000,000).

This weekend, Memorial Day weekend, we finally were able to bring it to Saint Peter's. The count as of Friday, May 23rd: 178 New York soliders killed in the war. 4,079 U.S. soldiers killed. 30,329 wounded. I remember the figures exactly because it was one of my jobs to put the numbers on the display boards.

Here are some photos from this deeply moving, peaceful, disturbing, illuminating, helpful, agonizing, sad, joyous, beautiful, worthwhile exhibit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All personal momentos on the boots were added by family members. This makes me think of the Viet Nam veterans memorial in D.C. It is just as heartbreaking to look at.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was hard to sit in the exhibit all day, with this girl's face across from me. I thought a great deal about why this war requires so little sacrifice from so many of us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At 8 pm, we lit a votive in front of each pair of boots, along with candles by the Iraqi shoes. I do not have words or photos sufficient to tell of the terrible beauty of this sight.

 

178 pairs doesn't seem like that many on paper. (These and the rest of the photos are from my friend Magda).

O Lord, it is your will to hold both heaven and earth in a single peace. Let the design of your great love shine on the waste of our wraths and sorrows. And give peace to your church, peace among nations, peace in our city, peace in our homes and peace in our hearts.

- adapted from the ELCA Book of Worship

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rest eternal grant them, O Lord, and may light perpetual shine upon them. Amen.

Dapple.

When you teach English for a living, people often expect you to: 1) know the correct spelling of all words (I don't, as a cursory glance over this blog will show) 2) correct one's grammar with impunity (I can't because I'm not always sure and grammar's a changeable beast) and 3) have a list of favorite writers and favorite words. After being asked these questions too many times, I settled on Anne Lamott and Thornton Wilder as my favorite writers, and "murmur" and "babble" as my favorite words. (It thus makes me very happy that my friend's theatre company is called Babel.)

Today, sitting in the park, I realized I have another favorite word: dapple. I like everything that dapple makes me think of: trees, the woods, a forest, nature, mountains, a park, sunlight, summer, freedom and ponies. Welcome to my personal favorite word lexicon, dapple. I hope you'll like hanging out with murmur and babble, your alliterative homies.

I won't lie to you, folks. It's been a difficult week. I've been sick. I'm getting a lot - A LOT - of rejection lately. My plays aren't being accepted, I was turned down for a residency I really wanted, and in a less specific way, from people, who probably do not even realize this. There are many changes afoot in my life, from the expected and natural change of the season from Spring towards Summer, which means school is wrapping up, to the changing relationship I have with my girls as they and I get ready to leave Stella. I feel some of my friendships changing. And, on top of all of this, I'm in the interviewing stage for a new job, which is fantastic, but doesn't lead one into a feeling of security.

So, today, I've been thinking about things that make me happy. Here's one of those things:

This is the dessert table at my church's potluck a couple of weeks ago. My church, Saint Peter's, is sophisticated and cultural. We don't do potlucks very often. In fact, I've been a member there for 8 years and only remember one previous potluck, which was principally memorable for some raw Swedish meatballs in a crockpot. But I grew up in Western PA (which is kinda half-the American South, half-the American Midwest and a little bit of Poland and Ireland), and I love and miss church potlucks. So this made me happy, even though I cannot eat one of each dessert as was my custom back in the day.

So does this:

This is my friend Aaron's lunch plate from the potluck. I think the only thing he missed is the perogies. This makes me happy too.

I suppose you could say that it's a grim life when only the memory of someone's lunch plate is pulling you through. And that, of course, would be overlooking the love, friendship and support I feel from so many people in my life. But the memories really help.

Networking

When I was a child (and by child, I mean, up until, say, 25, thank you increased human longevity for allowing us to Westerners to extend our adolescence beyond all reasonable cut-off ages!), I really, really hated making or receiving phone calls. With the exception of a call known to be from my brother, one of my parents or a best friend, I loathed picking up the phone and conversing, even when the person on the line was a beloved aunt or jolly acquaintance, etc. But, still, I'd rather have talked to one of my dad's long-winded, ailing parishioners (and that happened many, many times, which is why I do not really mind when my students go on about boys or nail polish or The Catcher in the Rye, because it's so much nicer than hearing about their colons), then actually make phone calls myself. I really had an extreme dislike for doing so. I suspect some of it was tied into my hearing loss (although I can hear quite well on any phone with a volume control), but some of it was just the unpredictability of it all. Who would answer? What would they say? Would I be clear in my speaking or say something like, "Um, uh, who, you, um, is home?"?

Actually, reading that shows that there's no real logical explanation for my fear. Which I guess is the definition of a phobia. I must have had one -- although I did make the occasional phone call when necessary.

The aversion has carried into my adulthood, but I've gotten better. I do prefer email for almost all of my day to day business, in playwriting and peace work, but that's mostly because I like to be able to refer back to what was "said" and decided. I also prefer texting and emails (which I can read on my Blackberry Pearl, beloved more than life itself, and dubbed "The Girlberry") when I'm out and about, because exterior noise 1) makes it difficult for me to hear, and 2) judging from phone calls I've had with people who out and about themselves, sounds to the person on the other end as though one is calling from the midst of a battle between a marching band parade and a circus. I'm just a texty kind of gal. But I do like a phone call more now.

This week, I've had several nice ones. A long chat with my friend Christine, who is, blessings!, four months pregnant. Another nice, long one with Melissa, who's handling a difficult situation with class and verve. Two shorter chats with my brother, who makes me laugh like absolutely no one else on the planet, and who I miss (he lived with me this fall but now is taking some fancy new job, whatever, fine). A bon voyage call with my parents, who are now in Switzerland (and, I hope, having a fantastic time. I can't wait to learn more about Switzerland than chocolate, watches, cheese and Swiss Army products). the usual quick chats with Andrew. A job interview call, which left me impressed by the passion of educators. And so it goes.

When you live alone, as I do, and spend too much time online, as I do, those phone calls become important. Someone else's voice can really bring me out of whatever dark and dreary mood (too often lately, this mood has been set to Rufus Wainwright singing "Hallelujah" as though I am Shrek, or a character on The O.C. ). I need to hear those voices more often, and make more room for them in my life.

A few months ago, I told a friend of mine that I preferred texting to a phone call, and since then, he usually contacts me by texting. But I was wrong. I shouldn't have said that, because I miss the sound of his voice, vibrant, and definitive, on my cell's voicemail (or in my ear). I've got to tell him that. Perhaps I should trying dialing out more.

What Do I Want for My Birthday?

I turn 34 in 22 days. I really like(d) being 33. I hang out with nice Catholic folk a great deal of the time, and they always say, "Oh, the Christ age!" approvingly when I said I was 33. 33 is how Christ is thought to have been when crucified. It's strange to think that Jesus wasn't ever elderly, although 33 was much older 2,000 years ago than it is now. I wonder if Jesus had any physical problems. I think that having something wrong with one's body is the most human thing possible. I don't know of anyone who doesn't have a bad foot, or a creaky knee, or poor hearing, or so on. So I wonder if Jesus had, say, a heel spur. All that walking. I bet it increased his compassion, if so.

Anyway, my birthday sometimes goes very well and sometimes goes horribly. I guess, with 33 shots at it so far, that's to be expected. I had a number of birthdays as a teenager that were ruined by fighting amongst my friends, or too-high expectations of my part of what kind of boy magic was going to happen at my party. Being able to be happy with what I have and seeing the blessings that are real around me -- not just those that I think I want -- is a skill I'm still working on, and not one that comes naturally to me. But I am working on it.

Last year's birthday was fun! The girls threw me two seperate surprise parties, and I felt very loved. I know they did this because they loved me - and because it got them out of having class for day - and I'm still agog and surprised and blessed that they did this, and so well. The photo is of me at party #1, which involved the traditional (I'm told) swipe of chocolate icing across my cheeks. And, also, apparently, a plastic hat worn at a rakish angle.

What do I want this year? I want to celebrate all the love that is in my life. I want to worry less about whether a boy likes me (and whether any boys will ever like me, like that) and see the tremendous blessings I enjoy every single day, principally, the people the who make their lives with me, and make room in their lives for me. I floated the idea of hiking trip, but I'm afraid it's going to get bogged down in schematics and confusion about who I'd like to have along, after last week's awkwardness. I'd still love to get OUT of the city, be under more than one tree and see the way the sun dapples a forest. I miss mountains and woods so much, right now. But even if that doesn't happen, I want to see or hear from, sometime around my birthday, in no order: my students (esp. my departing Senior girlies), my parents, my brother and sister-in-law, my grandmother, Roo, Vic, Duck, Gordon, Teenie, Paul and Avery, Mel, Robert and Susan Faith, Kiri, Aaron, Mara, Dave, Alison, Jared, Brandee, Magda, Chris, Liz, my aunties, Avril, Gretel, Laurence, Brian, Erica, Carole Ann and Sally. Some of them won't be able to be in touch in a traditional way, but I still hope. Just making that list has made me happy. I hope putting this out there, into the universe, makes it so.

Oh, and I want someone to take me to see "Sunday in the Park with George."