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When I was in fourth grade there was an eclipse. We made”glasses” with cardboard and pinholes and I honestly don’t remember the process. What I do remember is gathering outside with all the school and using my milk carton to look at the sun. It was fun for a minute, then I dropped the carton on accident and it got crushed by one of the milling masses, forever marking my memory of my first eclipse. Fortunately, I have had other opportunities to experience the wonders of the sun and moon intersecting.

On Monday, I wasn’t focused on the eclipse at all. Instead I was trying to figure out a way for kids to practice citing text evidence, because the STATE ASSESSMENT was looming. The kids came rushing back from recess asking me if I had seen the ellipse. I knew right away they meant the eclipse, because I can barely get them to use periods, I haven’t’ dared tackle ellipses. They would not stop gathering at the window. They would not stop talking about going blind. They would not stop shrieking my name because they were so excited to tell me about the sun being eaten by the moon. I was pretty sure I was going to lose my mind. No one gave a damn about citing text evidence.

Then Tuesday came and we started state testing. I am skipping the test part because part of the directions say that the test is not be spoken of. I started calling it “the test that cannot be named,” but only in my head. The kids were good during the allotted 110 minutes, but really didn’t want to do anything after. I found a super interesting article about the history of solar eclipses with an interactive poll and a way students could post a response and reply to each other. They were so excited about the eclipse on Monday, but learning about it through reading was a BIG ask. But it gave me an epiphany.

Maybe the epiphany was coming, because this has been something I have been puzzling over for sometime. Kids hate reading. They have been taught to read for answers someone else is asking. They have not been taught that reading can be fun, that reading can take you somewhere else entirely, that reading can spark questions and thinking and dreams and desires. For the most part, reading for many students, is a hoop of flames to avoid.

Since Christmas I have been team teaching a class called AVID. AVID is a program designed to teach academic success through things such as goal setting, collaboration, inquiry, exploration and team building. I haven’t been formally trained, but I have a handbook, and a website, and I have watched someone model the lessons. I have also been teaching for thirty years and it’s no different than any other program designed to teach kids how to be successful. The great thing about AVID is that I get to team teach with my colleagues. We can plan together, and help each other with management and technology and not feel alone when events go awry. So during this week of crazy solar phenomena and state assessments, we decided to do team building activities during AVID. We started with building a device to drop an egg safely. We gave kids two dollars in play money and they had to purchase things like cotton balls and tape with their money. I also told them could have an extra dollar if they sang a song as a group. Most eggs did not survive the flights, but the kids answered their exit tickets with thoughtful, honest responses and enjoyed the process. Then we provided the students a bunch of cardboard and the left over egg drop materials and split them into teams to make a marble maze. It was a surprise for me to see the creativity come out. The students built obstacles, ramps, and cages to trap the marbles at the end. One team even had the marble fall into a cup of water at the finish line. If the maze didn’t work, there was no rage quitting instead diligent problem solving ensued. At one point a girl said to me “Is this for a grade, or just for funsies?” I said, “Oh, it’s for a grade. It’s worth 156,000 points.” She smiled. Every team made a maze. No one was harmed in the making. Everyone, including the teachers, had fun, and creativity, cooperation, and trial and error lead to success.

I realized that maybe the joy of reading can be unlocked in this same way–with risk-taking and vulnerability and reflection. State assessment is over for language arts, but I have six weeks left to help kids see that words have the power to transform. Part of me doesn’t know if that’s enough time. But a bigger part of me knows that a single moment of wonder can unlock doors forever. I am willing to take the leap.

I got my horse ride on the beach. Trigger was a fifteen year old quarter horse who has been a trail rider on the beach for a year. He came from somewhere else where he also rode trails. He was impatient to start the ride and when we got on the sand he wanted to jog. I wanted to run. We both had to settle for a quick walking pace. I couldn’t stop staring at the horizon line, taking in all that sky, sand, and water. Add that to the power of the animal underneath me, and the realization that I was doing something I have always wanted to do gave me an extreme boost of happiness.

After the ride I treated myself to a pre-birthday lunch and bought a piece of jewelry in the market. The market is cool. It’s old, built back when outdoor markets were the Walmart, but it still functions kind of the same. Instead of fresh chickens and vegetables though, the booths are full of art and t-shirts and soaps and candles. I stopped at a glass artist’s booth. He uses a torch to make octopus pendants and other jewelry. I recognized the form and struck up a conversation with him. He told me that when marijuana was legalized in Colorado, he almost moved there, because making glass pipes was something he knew how to do. He told me that he decided to stay in South Carolina because he could make a living on selling jewelry and eventually the legalization would probably spread and people would return home and need to buy pipes again. We both chuckled over the truth of that.

I also went to the Old Slave Museum. Two hundred years ago the building was used as a display room for selling people. I kept thinking of a car show room, and sleazy salesmen, and gleaming merchandise. Sometimes having a good imagination is over- rated.

I went to the beach afterward and just walked on the sand trying not to think about anything of consequence. The beauty of the place is undeniable, but so is the ugliness. The truly remarkable fact is that the place seems to have accepted both and is striving for a goal of balance. It was a good lesson for me.

It’s my birthday today. I’d hoped to get to all of the states by now, but I haven’t quite made it. But it’s okay, I have time because, after all, discovery is a journey, not a race.

I don’t even know where to start. So many interesting choices. She-crab soup. Live oak trees. Alligators. Eagles. Gullah theater. Cannons. Salt water creeks. Pecan trees. Jellyfish. And horses.

My day started with horses. Seabrook Equestrian Center is in a gated community on an island of fancy beach side mansions. I had the day wrong, but I am glad I know where to go for my beach ride and I was up so early that I got to make the most of my day. Forts. Bridges. So much history.

First off, a nod to the food in Charleston. I haven’t tried shrimp and grits yet, but after eating the must sumptuous she-crab soup, I am willing to try all the local favorites. I wonder about how anyone can tell the difference from she’s and he’s on a crab? I didn’t ask.

Speaking of he’s and she’s. I listened to a woman explain the Gullah language. E is used for he, she, and it. I saw this presentation at Boone Farm, which is a 350 year old working farm. So, yes, a vast empire begun with slaves. Actually being on the land helped me understand so much. I understand now how tidal creeks work. I understand how fresh water and salt water can be right next to each other. I understand how wild the lowlands must have been at one time. I saw an alligator swimming three feet from the road. I walked under the canopy of live oak trees, planted by a man who wanted to build a grand entrance. But I also saw live oak trees that are hundreds of years old and saw how their limbs reach for ground, so they can anchor themselves and reach for the sky again. That was more impressive than anything I have ever seen before. I see how the thirst for money exploited the land and people. It was impossible to not feel the shame and to see how all of that history affects our nation to this day. Honestly, it made me more sad, than hopeful.

One of things I have learned about myself is that I often try to find the good in every situation, but I am learning that it is okay to acknowledge the bad.. I feel the loss here, and the uncertainty and fear that change brings. However, I also feel pride and love and hope that change will bring better. More than anything, my trip to South Carolina (so far) has taught me that telling our stories with truth has the greatest power.

One of my best memories of my childhood was riding horses high in the mountains. I remember the exhilaration of crossing little rocky streams and seeing the scars of bear claws in the quaking aspens. I have always wanted to try the opposite of that, ride a horse on the beach. Something about being on a horse and riding along the shore, gazing out to the place where the sky meets the water captures my imagination. I actually feel like it has to be something that I do before I die–a bucket list thing, some would say.

When I had breast cancer, after surgery, but before radiation. I went to the beach with my kids. We went to a beach in Maryland where the sea ponies live. They are wild, not to be ridden or touched. It was an amazing day. I was with the two people I love most on the Earth and saw horses and the ocean together, I didn’t get to ride, but I promised myself that one day, when I was healthy again, I would.

Combining spring break with a writing retreat to a state I haven’t visited, adding in a little sightseeing and a beachy, horse day seemed like all the stars had aligned. However, my trip is not exactly starting out as planned. My plane was delayed. And delayed. And delayed. And then I was given a hotel voucher for a night in Chicago. I love Chicago, but that’s not exactly what I had in mind, but when is life ever what I plan?

I decided to go ahead and start my writing retreat. I sat at my desk in my hotel room, gazing out at all the lights of the city, and then wrote, and wrote. I remembered going in road trips as a kid. My dad would pencil out the route with an atlas, but there was no booking VRBO’s back then. Mom would start searching for a road side motel with a pool and vacancy sign in the early evening and I’d put my book down to help her look. I never really thought about how traveling like that, trusting that everything would work out, was really kind of brave. So, I am going back to the airport in a bit. I want to go to the beach, but am open to whatever adventure lies ahead.

I fought against getting a cat for a long time. My daughter would text me grocery lists–avocados, peanut butter, olive oil, a kitten. I’d roll my eyes. It’s not that I don’t like cats, but I was looking forward to getting to a place in my life where I was pet free. I am not actually sure what broke my resolve, but I did end up at the pet shelter one winter day with my daughter, even though she was a junior in high school and already with a foot out the door. I figured maybe she’d take the cat with her? Emotional support animals are a thing now, right?

The shelter has a visiting room to get to know perspective pets. We first tested a big beautiful orange tom with luxurious fur. He allowed me to pet his his head, then after a moment he sunk his teeth into my skin, drawing blood. Then we tried a kitten who was much more interested in stalking her shadow than getting to know us. We looked at the rows of cages a third time and in the last cage was a black and white cat with markings on his face like a mustache. The card read that he was 10+ years and his name was Kevin Costner. The attendant was dubious when we requested to take him into the visiting room. She said, “That cat needs medicine for an autoimmune disease.” He was a bag of bones and his silky hair was in disarray, but he buried his head into Darian’s chest and started purring. She was in love and I figured we could afford his medicine.

Changing his name was the first order of business. I wasn’t having a cat named Kevin. That’s my brother’s name. I love my brother more than anyone, but I wasn’t about to have a pet sharing his name. Darian came up with Charlie Chaplin, inspired by a love of film and the dapper little mustache the cat sported. We then took Charlie to the vet. We didn’t have a cat carrier, but he sat in my lap in the waiting room, completely chill, even though there were yappy puppies and large, growly dogs. The vet despaired over the state of the cat’s teeth and said they needed to come out. My son volunteered to pay for his dental work. I think it’s safe to say, the cat claimed each of our hearts right away.

If I look back at my memories on social media, I can see how Charlie quickly became a cornerstone in my life. Everyday, he inspired me to smile and find joy even when things really were not going so well. During the pandemic, I often phrased the questions and uncertainties of the time from Charlie’s perspective on social media and he became a favorite, appearing in the local paper. He then ran his campaign for president and entertained with his dry, sarcastic sense of humor. Writing Charlie became a balm to all the turmoil in my life.

A couple of years ago, Charlie was diagnosed with lymphoma. It honestly was one of the darkest moments of my life. But, he rallied and responded to the steroid treatment very well. He is still holding his own, but he is losing weight now, and is having a very hard time taking care of his fur. He is too tired to share his thoughts on social media, because he is frantically working on his memoir. I am holding close to him and cherishing each day. For a pet I didn’t want, he has brought me immeasurable joy.

http://americasfavpet.com/2024/charlie-f984

When my son was first diagnosed with schizophrenia, I tried to flood my knowledge bank of the disease by reading and researching. One of the first things I read was about how many times parents of mentally ill children want their children to be “normal.” and that can set up a scenario for disappointment after disappointment. A schizophrenic brain is not “normal.” Even though I read those words, and have never forgotten them, I still hold the wish that my son will be “normal.” Whatever the HELL normal is.

There are glimpses of the Shayne I knew before the illness took hold. Football and traveling bring out the most normal times. So I was hoping this holiday road trip would bring around more fun times and be awe inspiring and amazing.

Well. I had it all planned out. I gave tickets to the last home Bronco game to Shayne for Christmas. Then after the game, I thought we’d start our road trip west to Idaho. Right away, we had a set back. Shayne left his medicine at home. Maybe if we weren’t going to the game, we could have just turned around and gone back for the medicine. He has a lock box now, with an alarm. The alarm is piercing and doesn’t kick off until the pill dispenser is open. It would drive the cats crazy and I am trying to encourage him to stay on his medicine. I told him it was fine. We would just leave on our road trip the next day. But the rhythm was off and my plans included other routes and a different time schedule.

One of the interesting things about antipsychotic medicine and Shayne is that if there is a rare side effect, he will probably have it. The drugs have harmed his kidneys and he gets frequent bladder infections. He doesn’t like to broadcast his issues in that area with his mother, so I wasn’t aware of his ongoing infection, but after the third pit stop over a ninety minute period, I caught a clue.

We took US 50 west and the first day was fine, except Shayne downloaded a novelization of a video game to listen to. He has head phones, but when he hooked up his phone to the car charger the book started playing through the car speakers. I listened to a zombie hunting game for three hours. And the scenery in Utah is monotonous.

Neither one of us are quitters and we were sure we could make a good time happen. We found Lava Springs, Idaho. That was fine. Hot, hot water, starry skies, silence all around.. Finally, we are on track.

When I was a kid, I was obsessed with the Oregon Trail. I read Seven Alone, the story about the seven Sager kids on the trail after their parents died, so many times that my elementary school librarian gave me the book. I always wanted to go to Oregon along the route and see the rivers and forts and all the things. Ft. Hall is right near Lava Springs and I was excited to get to see all the history, finally.

The second day of our trip started early. I know Shayne wanted to stay at the hot springs, but I was eager to see Ft. Hall and the Shoshone-Bannock Multicultural Museum and, yeah. We stopped to get gas and I looked over to the entrance of the convenience store and Shayne was vaping. And I got pissed.

I know he gets high. I have quit making it my battle. I know he thinks it helps him and maybe it does, but that’s not what I see. And I don’t understand why he can’t just be with me for a few days without being high. I tried to keep my mouth shut, but I suck at that. However, I was also not going to fight with him in a car in a different state. But I was ready to just come home right then.

Things started unraveling. Fort Hall was closed for the season, but the Shoshone/ Bannock Museum was open. We went up there, but the doors were locked. I asked at a business nearby. A girl shook her head and said, “They make their own hours in the winter. Sometimes it’s open, sometimes it’s not. Grrr.

I thought we could at least look at the Snake River and see the place of the famous crossing. However, when we got there, Shayne wouldn’t get out of the car. I took pictures and read the signs and then when I got back in the car he said, “Let’s go home. I have a bad feeling.”

Fine. But I wasn’t about to turn around and come the way we had. And Montana was right there. Determined. Stupid. Crazy. How many other adjectives are there at this point for driving to the top of the world with a schizophrenic man child in the dead of winter? Shayne fell asleep, but he woke up when we reached West Yellowstone entrance. He said “Are we going to Yellowstone?” That wasn’t the original plan, and you have to book tours in advance, there isn’t random admission after November 1, but we did go to a grizzly bear refuge and see some bears and then got back in the car. Shayne said, “We are going back home now? The car is pointed in the right direction?” Well. No. Because you have to go around Yellowstone or go back the same way we had come. So Bozeman, Montana or bust.

Bozeman turned out to be lovely. Artsy and beautiful. We stopped and had food and then got back in the car. After a couple of hours, I said, “Why are you in such a hurry to go home?” He said, “You’re in a hurry to go home.” I said, “No, you said you had a bad feeling.” Then he said, “That doesn’t mean anything. This is your trip. I am sorry.”

We stopped in a tiny town in Montana and had dinner and found a place to stay. This morning when I got up, his pills were scattered all over the floor and for awhile he was gone and I didn’t know where or when if was coming back. There are things to see, but he is pacing around waiting for me to go. I guess I will just see where the day takes us and try not to have expectations.

I woke up at my normal early morning time of three am and couldn’t get back to sleep because my mind was too busy thinking about the day ahead and the day behind. To complicate that idea more, it is also the last day of 2023, so I was also thinking a million thoughts about the year that just happened and where I was last year, where I am now, and what lies ahead. I thought about getting up and writing, but I fell back asleep and I had a dream that it was the first day back at work and I was trying to write my blog at my desk that was actually in my sandbox from when I was a child. I was trying not to get sand on the keyboard, or grease from a piece of pizza I was trying to eat. I didn’t get the blog written, because students were crowding around my desk asking me for candy, or cookies, or wanting a bite of my pizza. I shooed them outside and looked out the window. One of my old colleagues was moving along the sidewalk on skates, just gliding and floating like an ice dancer or something. I noticed that she was wearing those kind of shoes with wheels in them, and I wanted some too. I wanted to move effortlessly and find joy in dipping and gliding with every movement. I woke up and snapped on the light and reached for my computer.

Last year, I came across a passage in which a woman writes about visiting a place where a cheetah had been trained to run after a mechanical rabbit that greyhounds run after. When the run was completed, the cheetah was put back in the enclosure and a few minutes later, the animal was standing alert, ears up, sensing something in the wind. She was wild again. And the author noted, of course that happened, because “It’s a f….ing cheetah.” I so related. There have been so many times, that I felt like an animal in a cage. But in my case, I knew that I was in my own cage, and I had the power to let myself out of it. I just didn’t really understand where I put the damn key. 

I went to visit my brother yesterday. I knew he’d be in a bad place because it is getting close to the anniversary of his wife’s death and New Year’s is when it all started going downhill for her. I am not going to lie, I have had a hard time dealing with my brother. His pain is immense and I have nothing to give him to help. But I spent a little time with him. He is a mess, worse than what I imagined. He has basically given up on life and probably if he didn’t have pets, I’m not sure he’d still walking around on the planet. At the same time, I am not sure the pets are enough. When I left, he was crying. I felt so heartbroken for him.

I also went to visit a friend of mine. She and her husband having been building a house on a piece of property in the mountains. It’s been a long, hard journey for her and they have had so many setbacks and problems, and I’ve watched her navigate all the challenges in the past five years. It was such a celebration to see the walls up, and artwork on the walls, and her joy. She was the friend on the skates in my dream, gliding like she was enjoying the ocean breeze at Santa Monica beach or something. I felt so happy for her.

Today, I am taking my son to another professional football game, and then we are embarking on a road trip that has a loose destination of Idaho, one of the states I still need to visit. I set some goals for myself last year–travel more, write more, and find the key to my cage. I did travel and write more and I realized that the cage didn’t need a key, because I could move the walls, or take them down even. It might be hard work and I might have to remove thousands of pounds of granite by myself, piece by piece, but I could do it, if that’s what I really wanted.

Sometimes I can find myself back in my cage. I see all the pain and know there is more that I can’t see. This holiday season I could have climbed right up the craggy hill and joined the Grinch on his mountain. I was so GROUCHY about gift giving and stupid silly bows and ribbons when there are people huddled together under bridges in the snow. I didn’t want to shop or give meaningless things that no one needed and blah, blah, blah, and probably no one would even say thank you anyway. 

At the height of my grouchiness, I went into an art gallery because I knew they’d let me use the bathroom. And I saw a watercolor of a cheetah on the wall. It literally took my breath away. A reminder of the cage I was supposed to be taking down, not putting back up. And then I saw sculptures of fairies make of fabric and wood and random objects. I’m not a doll lover, or a fairy lover, but these sculptures captured something– the essence of something I couldn’t name–wildness, or freedom. The artist was in the gallery. She told me her mother had been a seamstress and dressed teddy bears. When she passed, loads and loads of fabric were left behind. The artist took the fabric home, but didn’t know what to do with it because she didn’t see herself as creative, but she’d alway loved fairies. She let the fabric dictate the mood of the sculpture and because she didn’t feel like she could draw faces, she used things she found to be faces. And then she told me, “I guess I am creative.” Her voice was kind of sheepish, like she really couldn’t quite believe what she was telling, A pride was there, but also an uncertainty. I knew right away that she was also busy taking herself out of her cage. 

I bought one of the fairies and gave it to a friend. All of a sudden, I remembered giving gifts is about love and respect and gratitude for the those who travel along on our journeys and help light our paths. Sometimes gifts can be for others to help light their paths. I also bought the cheetah. I hung the painting in my bedroom. It is the first thing I see in the morning and the last, before turning out the lights, at night. She (the cheetah is a girl) reminds me that I have work to do and inspires me to keep trying.

I don’t know how to help my brother. I don’t know if he can see that working through your pain is the only way to the other side of it. I don’t know if can reach deep into his soul and realize that he has to find his own meaning to life and love and then believe it with all his heart. Last spring, one of my students was telling me about sleeping on the sidewalk with his family as a little kid. He said he remembered unrolling his sleeping stuff and being careful to sleep against a building so he wouldn’t get stepped on. No one knew what to say, so I said, “I guess we remember the bad times, so we can appreciate the good times.” And he smiled at me and said, “Yeah. The bad times make the good times, great. Like when you bring us pink frosted doughnuts.” 

I wish pink frosted doughnuts or paintings could fix all the pain in the world, but I guess everything is a balance. And not everyone sees balance the same way. I wanted 2023 to be my breakout year. I don’t know if it was that. But I walked on the coast of Alaska and peered at starfish under a rock. I drove through fields and fields of grain in Iowa. I walked under opulent buildings in Detroit. I watched my daughter graduate from college. I watched my son destruct again, but also watched him try to pull himself back together and move ahead again. I have met ten year olds and eleven years old that have faced more challenges than most adults I know, but still see have the resilience to face the world with hope. I have watched the power of positivity transform my life. I am grateful for new beginnings, second chances, and my amazing community of love. As I close out the chapter of this year, I am working on taking more of my cage down and seeing what’s out there.  

I took one of those silly tests on social media: Everyone has a perfect Christmas tree. What’s yours? I laughed when this popped up. A Christmas tree made with piled up laundry. Perfect. I am not particularly “grinchy” or ” bah-humbug,” but I had a hard time feeling the spirit of the season. And I wondered if putting up a tree really mattered?

Last year when I was teaching in Pueblo, the students had something called Segunda. It was a like a HUGE yard sale set up in the gym where students could shop for their families. One of my students who bullied and tormented everyone for sport surprised me with a necklace. It was a horseshoe charm with a rose and a four leaf clover. It really touched me because I know she put some thought into choosing it for me. I hung it on my rearview mirror along with a tin flower I bought from a homeless girl.

I totaled my car last May and I was so shaken that I didn’t get the necklace or flower out of the car afterwards. When I realized that they got left behind, I called the salvage yard and someone rescued them for me. The necklace and flower are hanging over the rearview mirror in my replacement car. Every time, I get in the car, I think of those two girls–the homeless girl, using her creativity to turn trash into treasure and Surenaty, so angry and broken, yet a glimmer of soft and sweet still in her core.

But what do they have to do with Christmas? Nothing, except Christmas always makes me think about all that I have and all the people who have nothing. It makes me feel indulgent and spoiled, but at the same time bereft and a tiny bit orphaned. I vacillate between wanting to decorate the house and skipping Christmas all together. I went down a wormhole of looking for cheap flights to take myself anyplace, but here for the holidays.

To add to the frantic, but ambivalent emotions about the holiday is the stress of being in a classroom at this time of year. Kids fall apart. Yes, they are excited and ready for a break, but at the same time a change in routine is coming and many students are facing two weeks at home in chaotic situations. Who knows what will happen? Kids who normally are well-behaved all of a sudden are losing control. I really understand. So this year more than ever, there is not letting up on routine. My job is to keep things on an even keel and forge ahead. But it’s been exhausting and I have gotten home and fallen asleep, putting off getting the house ready for Christmas. No lights. No tree. No presents.

I can home from work on Monday and the Christmas tree had been set up. The decorations were half on and the star on top was really crooked, but the point is my son wanted to make me happy. I am grateful that he knows it is Christmas. There have been times in the past years when I was unsure that things like seasons and holidays registered with him. I finished putting ornaments on the tree and straightened the star. School will be over today and my daughter will be home in a few days and I am finally feeling a bit of the holiday magic creeping into my soul.

I guess when it comes right down to it, Christmas to me isn’t about the tree and lights and finding the perfect gift, but like anyone, I can get caught up in the sparkle. I actually wonder what it would be like to create a tree of laundry and gather around it with my family. I am sure we would still laugh and make memories, because the magic of Christmas for me is really about love, and I have that in abundance.

Shayne and I went to see the Holdovers last night. I’d seen the previews and it seemed a little like a cross between Dead Poet’s Society and the Breakfast Club. I am interested in films about single sex boarding schools because I went to one and the footage I saw seemed intriguing. Shayne likes action adventure movies more, but he is usually down for nachos, so unless the film is overtly a cry festival, he’ll see whatever I suggest.

The theater downtown has been “renovated.” The new owner was talking to a few people in the seats about the changes they made. He said that originally the theater held 900 people and now with the spacious seating it barely holds 250. I remember those tight seats. It gave me a moment to realize that I have been going to that theater for fifty years and have a lot of memories. Shayne was busy looking at his phone at the Lion/Bronco game during this. The score was zero/zero. I had forgotten the football game was on a Saturday night when I suggested the movie. But I was also a little afraid the lions were going to tear up the horses and maybe Shayne didn’t need to see the play by play of that. And if the Broncos were winning, the movie would be over in the final minutes of the game. That’s when the magic happens anyway. So….Shayne put his phone away, and the lights went down.

The movie was great, except there was a scene where the characters visit a mental health institution. The film takes place in 1970, so there are bars on the windows and at first, I thought maybe it was a jail, but then I realized the next character on the screen was going to have a mental health illness, probably schizophrenia. Yep. The male actor played a flat affect, and his only lines spoke to his paranoia. After the scene there was a little exposition about how the main character felt about watching his dad become ill. I glanced over at Shayne and he had tears on his cheeks. I haven’t seen him cry since my parents were killed. I asked him if he wanted to leave and he shook his head and kinda smiled at me through the tears.

I thought we’d talk about how he felt after the movie, but Shayne immediately checked the football game just as the Broncos had a penalty on the last touchdown attempt and we heard the final score. He roared in frustration, then went for a run. It was dark and cold, but running silences the voices.

I am still thinking about the movie. I really, really hate how most films interpret schizophrenia. Some of it is right, but some of it is so wrong. I hate the implied violence. I hate the fear that half information breeds. People might come away from that film thinking people with schizophrenia are violent zombies. In reality, the layers are so much more complex. There is nothing one dimensional about it.

Shayne brought breakfast up to me this morning. I asked him if he was okay. He said he was sad the Broncos lost, but if Detroit was going to the Super Bowl that they better be able to blow a team like Denver out of the water. He was wearing his Russell Wilson jersey though, representing all the way. I asked him if he was still upset over the movie. He shrugged and said, “It was pretty damn depressing. I was crying because you never stop believing in me, even when you should.” I told him that maybe we should write our own movie. He arched his eyebrows and said, “Maybe. At least it would have some punch lines.” Then he turned to leave on his run, but stopped and said, “I bet you liked the movie. The teacher becomes a writer.” Huh. I guess he does.

I am not sure if The Holdovers will become a classic holiday film, but I am glad we went to see it. It reminded me of tradition, connection, and love in unexpected places. It asks us to believe and to hope and to shine, but in a real way with all of our flaws and secrets. It was just the thing I needed to remind me of how grateful I am for all that I am blessed with.

It’s not that I can’t sleep; it’s more that my hours of sleep are distorted. And my dreams have been full of strong emotions. I just woke up from a dream about one of my cousins. I was on a road trip with my mom and dad. We were in New Mexico during the summer and it was hot and dry. We stopped really early in small town, time had forgotten, at an artsy, gifty store that my cousin owns. Although in real life, my cousin lives in Colorado and doesn’t own a business. In the dream, the neon OPEN sign was on, and the door was unlocked, but no one was in the store. I called for my cousin and started moving though the hodge-podge mix of rooms toward the back of building. Mom and Dad drifted through the merchandise which was mostly melted glass, photographs, fun games and novelty things, old books and artsy clothes. And an assortment of doughnuts. Lots. I found my cousin in the back; she was on the telephone, one of those old, black ones with the cord. She was pale and her dark hair pulled back on her head. Her eyes were wide and for a second she didn’t recognize me, then she reached her hand to me, gripping me tightly. My mom joined us and my cousin took her in her arms for an embrace. I said, “You can see my parents, too?” And she replied. “Yes, they are always with you.” I woke up with an intense sense of unease and restlessness, even though there was nothing super ominous about the dream. Both cats were on the bed. Lucy climbed up on my chest. Charlie sat up, his hair going in all directions and kinda glared at me, then settled back down again.

I considered getting up, showering, and going to work. But it’s three o’clock in the morning. It always makes me laugh when people criticize teachers for having summers off. I often spend twelve hour days and I still have more to do. I honestly think technology has added more to the workload. To have meaningful instruction on-line takes a lot of prep, and lately, we have been experiencing a lot of network problems, which means the old way back-ups need to be there too. Double prep.

I thought about using this dark awake time to put up the Christmas tree. I’m not really in the spirit this year. I’ve been thinking about going away for part of vacation. I just don’t have a destination in mind. Then I started thinking about animation. I am taking a class right now and I haven’t finished the animation project. I’m having some difficulties with the software. I can’t quite get my images to do what I want them to do, and I am resisting drawing frame by frame by hand because the computer is supposed to help me with that! I always thought I’d want to animate, so the fact that I’m having a hard time with the process has been hard for me to accept. But maybe because I want it to look a certain way is sort of my problem?

The assignment was to illustrate a nursery rhyme. When my son was a toddler, I bought him a WeeSing Nursery Rhyme cassette tape and story book to listen to in the car. It had sixty nursery rhymes on it and it had a running story that tied them together. We listened to that cassette for months. I have a distinct memory of taking a walk on the riverwalk carrying him on my back with him singing Sing a Song of Sixpence at the top of his voice the entire two mile walk. Every time he came to the blackbird pecking off the nose, he’d reach around and touch my nose. So I wanted to do a version of Sing a Song of Sixpence, but make my character a grunge guitar player, rocking out to the nonsensical lyrics. I can get the character to move, but I can’t get it to stop and start where I want and the sequences get all messed up. Then I start over and eventually get frustrated and wonder why I am taking this class in the first place. I already have a job. Why do I need to learn new things? Does getting a good grade matter? Yet, I am determined to get it right.

I think my time as a teacher is coming to an end. I can see the finish line, I’m just not sure the pacing of the last leg of the race. I’ve definitely got a second wind right now. I love everything about where I am working, who I am working with, and what I am doing. It’s not like everything is perfect, every moment, but it’s really pretty good. I want to show up everyday and do my best because it’s amazing being part of such an amazing team, but I know there are other things I want to do.

I keep thinking about the travels I have done this year. Alaska. Nebraska. Detroit. I want more of that. Starfish under rocks. Wide, green fields. Gritty cites with bright graffiti and neon lights. So I think the dream is about how I feel about my life right now….the store with all the stuff is all my combined memories. It’s a good place with lots of color and fun and a place I can be comfortable walking through. But it’s also cluttered with a lot of things that distract me and keep me from focusing on moving forward. My cousin is my anchor–my family, my foundation, my affirmation. My parents are my travel companions, no matter what the journey. The dream was a resting place, but not a stopping point. I woke up uneasy because I have been busy searching for a roadmap, but deep down the roadmap is my heart.

Right now the road has lead me to a perfect spot and part of me wants it to never change, but I know that’s not how the world works. So I am going to get up and enjoy the day and try not to worry about the little things on the journey. I will figure out the animation and Christmas tree. There is magic in the early morning when the sun starts to light the sky and I don’t want to miss any of it.