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I went to the periodontist the day before Thanksgiving. He appeared alarmed at the blood and pus still happening in my mouth. He poked and prodded and squeezed and then gave me new prescriptions for different antibiotics. I woke up on Thanksgiving day and the swelling was worse and my gum was more red and inflamed than before the surgery. The pain was deep in my jaw and radiated up through my eye. I tried to watch The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade anyway.

I grew up in a house with one television and I liked books better, so I usually just watched the things other people in my family were watching, but I always loved the parade. I’d drag my blanket out to the den to watch the crowds all bundled up in New York City watching the giant balloons. A few years ago, I caught a behind the scenes look at how the parade was made and I realized all the art that goes into the floats. There are people who work for the parade all year long. That sounds amazing. I would love to try that. One day, I am going to that parade and I will be one of those people bundled up waving in the background. But my pain definitely distracted me from enjoying the event this year.

I felt bad for Shayne. Thanksgiving is his favorite holiday. He devours stuffing and pie. There was no way I was cooking, and even though we had invites, he doesn’t like going places without me. Earlier in the week, Shayne got a lock box for his medicine. All the meds are put into slots and then a timer is set and the box alarms when it is time to take the doses. The alarm is shrill and doesn’t turn off until the med slot is opened. Now, theoretically, it doesn’t mean that Shayne has to take the meds. He could remove the pills and throw them away, or shove them in his sock drawer. But it gives him consistency that he hasn’t had before. And it’s given me a small glimmer of hope. I am shocked that I can still have a sense of hope about this illness, but I guess deep, deep down I still believe that life can be better for him.

So anyway, Shayne decided to go to a relatives, even if I stayed home. He was making a salad and he started narrating the proper way to cut up a bell pepper. I was laughing. It’s been so long since he has done something funny that I forgot about what a great sense of humor he used to have.

I woke up still in a lot of pain. And the day after Thanksgiving brings a realization that I will be going back to work in a few days, and I have a lot to prep and how in the world is that going to happen? Shayne brought me a smoothie in bed and called it–healing potion. He said the swelling seems a bit better, more like I have a wad of chew in my mouth, instead of a wad of acorns. I couldn’t help but smile. Maybe the lock box is working for him? Maybe my new antibiotics are kicking in? I am cautiously optimistic.

I am in bed assessing how I feel. Last night was rough. Pain makes me throw up. I know this from migraines, childbirth, an eight millimeter kidney stone, and this recent gum surgery. But there is actually something worse; my body’s reaction to pain medicine. I cannot handle it all and I will throw up and be violently ill for hours. I was toughing this out with ibuprofen and Tylenol, but after five days of being more or less miserable I took one prescription pain pill. Forty minutes later, I was dizzy I couldn’t make it up the stairs.

My son said he was an expert at helping old lady bones. I think it was a joke, but I was concentrating on not hurling until I made it to the bathroom. I DID not want to clean up my own mess. Shayne, who more or less has been inattentive to my illness, all of sudden grasped my acute pain. He got me into bed, then got his computer and headphones and made himself a home on the couch on the other end of the attic. On my trips to the loo, he would have water, cool clothes, a hand to help me up.

I did go to sleep eventually, but I woke up to a man shouting. It was Shayne. I called out to him and he apologized. He said, “I am just talking in my sleep. The voices are never gone.” Sometimes he scares me, but mostly he makes me sad. He is doing his best.

I have to go back to the periodontist for a wound check today. And even though I haven’t been up yet, I am still super dizzy. I probably have a million typos. I’d like to take a shower, but what if I get in there and pass out? I am not going to let my son find me naked. That’s too traumatizing for anyone. I could take a shower in my clothes? That seems counter productive. Speaking of that, Shayne hasn’t changed out of his Russell Wilson jersey since the Packer game. He says he has to wear it so they keep winning. That’s a problem that I can’t think about right now though.

He lost his car keys last week. I can’t really help him look, but for the life me I don’t understand our key problems. The house is clean and we don’t have clutter, so I don’t even know. I made him empty out the trash can yesterday, so at least I know they won’t be in a landfill somewhere. But he can’t drive a stick, and I can’t drive when I can’t walk, so I had to ask for a ride.

Here’s the thing though. I hate asking for help. If I ask, believe me, I have tried thinking of every option first. I am grateful that I have the kind of friends and family who show up. And maybe that’s the lesson in all this, let the village in. So I am going to try to get up, and get to my appointment and hope the corner to healing is right up ahead. If anyone wants to drop off a cheese pizza for Shayne or maybe some soup, I wouldn’t say no.

It’s the last day of school before Thanksgiving break. My vacation started early because I am at home in bed after a pretty horrific gum infection surgery. I look like a lopsided squirrel who was in an altercation with a raccoon. For a bit, my eye was even swollen shut, but I can see now. I opted out of the pain meds because I am nervous about having narcotics around my son. Ibuprofen/Tylenol is working except when I miss a dose. My son is supposed to be taking care of me, but I slip his mind on the regular. I asked him to get me an ice pack about an hour ago. If I really want it, I will probably have to get it myself.

But at least I know everything at school is taken care of because I am working with the Groovy Girls this year. I mean throughout my career I have had fantastic colleagues. I have made the kind of friends that have become my forever family. Every person I have worked with has touched my life in some way, and maybe all the combined experiences have made me ready and appreciative of where I have landed–in a team of awesomeness. It is the perfect storm of creative and organized and strong and soft and fun and serious. I feel empowered by my team. I want to show up everyday and be my best. So it kind of really sucks to be dealing with gum trauma when I could be at school. For the woman who was having panic attacks a year ago with just the thought of stepping into the classroom, that’s a remarkable statement. I am so happy to be able to recognize the steps of the journey and to have gratitude for where it has lead me.

The night before my surgery, a friend of my older brother texted. She was worried that he wasn’t picking up his phone. This has to be a a hard time for him. The “firsts” after someone has died are the worst. My late sister in law’s birthday is in November and Thanksgiving was her holiday. I know my brother is still devastated and the last time I talked to him, he admitted that things were very, very bad. And even though I have been preoccupied with my mouth problems, he is never far from my mind. I don’t know how to help him with his pain. You can’t get over loss, or around it, you just have to go through it. There is another side, but getting there isn’t easy and sometimes seems impossible. Looking for the light helps me through things, but I don’t have the answers for anyone else. All I have to offer is acceptance for where he is on the journey.

I had planned on a road trip to the Gulf Coast for this Thanksgiving, but the doctor has asked me not to travel. He said I will need to check in with him next week and honestly the way I am feeling, I am not sure any kind of travel would be a good idea. So I guess it will be a vacation of rest and healing. I am starting to believe that life always gives me what I need, when I need it. So the Gulf Shore will have to wait. I will enjoy my time of rest, reach out a hand to my brother, and be grateful for this season of grace and the groovy girls.

For as long as I can remember, I have had the most vivid dreams. Sometimes this is awesome. Once I had a dream that I was a pro skateboarder. I could do amazing tricks and flips. And once I had a dream that my parents were living on a fishing boat in the Mediterranean. The water was crystal clear and they were so happy. As amazing as those vivid dreams can be, vivid nightmares aren’t so great.

When I was really little, I knew my mind was making stories while I slept. I had to be really careful what I watched on TV, because the images would get mixed up in my brain and sometimes wake me in terror. I remember the first night of the mini series, Roots. I fell asleep and found myself in the hold of the ship with whips and chains and woke up, tears streaming down my face. I ran out of my bedroom toward the den where mom was watching Johnny Carson in the firelight. She let me settle on the couch and we agreed that I wouldn’t watch anymore Roots. But real life stuff would get into my brain too. Like a spark from the fireplace would pop out onto the hearth and I’d wake up shaking in terror from the house engulfed. I would see a mouse in the garden and wake up because rats were crawling all over my body.

So if nightmares were a problem for me when I had a happy, mostly idealized childhood, image what a dozen traumatic events have done to my nighttime brain. Last night I had a dream that I was driving a moving truck through a tunnel, then it was spinning out of control and then I landed with the top of the truck wedged into the roof of the tunnel. The truck burst into flames and I fell to the highway below. I was hurt, bleeding, burnt, but I needed to get to Target because my dad was meeting me there. It’s not the worst dream I ever had, but it still woke me up with a gasping sense of urgency and it took me a minute to realize that I was safe. After those dreams, there is no going back to sleep.

The funny thing about my adult nightmares is that they often come when my daytime life is fairly calm. Take now, I am happy at work. I love the women I work with; the administrative team is among the strongest I have ever experienced, and the kids are great. My son isn’t what I would call stable, but he isn’t lost or living in his car in the mountains either. I am enjoying my graphics arts class, and the most dramatic thing I am watching on TV is Thursday Night Football. I think the dreams get worse at times like this, because I don’t trust times of peace.

My little cat, Lucy, has become the nightmare whisperer. She must sense something wrong because she crawls to me and climbs right up onto my chest and settles inches from my face. She falls asleep before I do, but as her purrs die out, my heartbeat slows.

I would love to not have another nightmare as long as I live, but I would never want to give up my ability to remember my dreams. My dad visits me, and I get to ride horses and make friends with lions and walk on the beach. I really do try to have healthy sleep habits and think positive things before I close my eyes, but I don’t know if my nightmares will ever really completely go away. I guess it’s my brain reminding me that I still have shit to work through. And maybe I always will. The best thing I know to do is to get up and see what needs to be done. I don’t try to remember all the details of the bad dream and live in it, but I don’t try to shove it away either. I am learning how to recognize my fears and pain and not treat fear and pain as enemies. Instead I am learning how they can be allies for growth and strength. It’s not easy, but maybe that’s the only way to sweet dreams?

I am taking a graphic arts class and I’ve had to build a website this week. I have learned a lot about the language of html and css and all the stuff that make websites work. Html is interesting as far as language goes. I realize that I have actually witnessed some of its evolution. I remember back to my high school days when the computer would boot on after an eternity and a green cursor would be flashing and then if you knew the magic code, maybe something else would happen. I remember teaching English in the early 2000’s and kids were using punctuation to make smiley faces and winky faces and all kinds of picture messages. Now emojis take the place of those quirky punctuation pictures, entire lives are lived on line, and computers are a different machine than they were thirty years ago.

For my assignment, I had to choose a season, input a picture, write about the picture, and link another website that went with the theme of the season. At first, I thought about fall, because it’s been such a glorious fall this year. I never remember the colors just lasting, and lasting. But when I was scrolling through my photos, I came across the Bryant Park photo.

When the kids and I were in Manhattan the Christmas after my parents died, we spent an evening at a world market in Bryant Park. There was a carousel and both the kids wanted to ride it, even though they were both beyond the age of being excited about that kind of thing. While they were riding it, I looked up and saw the bare winter trees, immense, reaching for the sky. The skyscrapers of the city were just beyond, glinting with yellow lights. The sky was a beautiful, mauve color and it felt a little mystical. I remember the three of us sitting on a bench together afterwards, just taking everything in around us, completely at peace with the experience. And that’s why I love the photo so much. A rare moment when we were all in sync.

I am enjoying the graphics art class, but it hasn’t been easy to squeeze into my life. I can see the appeal of creating websites from scratch. It’s fun to put in the language to make the colors and text come together, but I don’t know if I’ll ever grow to love coding. It’s a beautiful fall day, and I am hunched like a grumbly, witch over my keyboard trying different potions to make my heading text get centered. I just need the text to be centered, I don’t need to know how it happens, or why it happens. I kind of wonder what in the hell is possessing me to learn all this anyway, but it seems like the right thing to be doing now.

The holidays are fast approaching. Truth is the holidays make me feel untethered and orphaned. I’d love for my kids to be home with me for cozy Hallmark moments. But that’s not how life works. The hardest part of being a parent is accepting that kids grow up into their own lives. I am not sure what my daughter has planned. My son lives in a limbo world, and I never really know what version to expect. Sometimes I feel like I am in a cage of unstable circus animals. Or maybe just the drugged lion. The thing is though, I do have a key, even if the image of him lost in a haze is always with me. I have to remind myself that I am not the one trapped.

Anyway, I had a dream that I was driving through the mountains with my dad. I looked behind us and the sky was on fire. I told Dad that everything was burning and he said, “Well, we aren’t going in that direction.” It’s funny how I always feel my mom around me, but dad mostly comes in my dreams. I wake up with strength to do the day. And for now the fire is behind me.

So I am taking this class to learn for myself. I try to see the good all around me. I am grateful for the texts from my daughter and for the moments my son notices that I am in his corner for the right reasons. I might not know or understand everything on this journey, but I feel like I am on the right road for now.

I was in third grade when the Broncos went to the Super Bowl for the first time. My teacher brought in cupcakes with orange frosting and we listened to “Make Those Miracles Happen” on a scratchy, popping 45 while we ate the treats. I had no idea what any of that shit meant because I was football illiterate at eight years old. Craig Morton. Orange Crush. Bowls that are super. What?

My mom caught the fever though and would turn the channel on and cheer and scream at the TV. I don’t know what I did, but it wasn’t that. I had to learn the rules to football in physical education. Once I read an article in Cosmo about how to talk about sports with men. That article must have been well written because I can speak with knowledge about the line of scrimmage. My brother played football in high school. I was a CU Buff during the Orange Bowl years. And I live in America, so football is hard to ignore. It seeps into your brain through osmosis. For years though, I managed to check out of all things football pretty well.

I am not sure how old my son was when he got bitten by the football fever, but he had my mom for that. She would cook a big meal and she and Shayne would watch the Bronco game. It was their thing. Since the development of his illness, most of Shayne’s interests have ebbed away, but he still loves football. In my quest to help keep him tethered in reality, I try to share his interest. So football it is. I watch the games with him, discuss the players and coaches, rejoice and commiserate in the triumphs and fails of the weeks. So when I got the opportunity to take him to see the Broncos play at home in Denver, well, how could I turn that down?

Shayne has been to Bronco games, but I have not. So he was telling me what to expect and he said something about a horse. I said, “Wait? There is a horse? In the stadium? I like horses.” In theory, I know they are the BRONCOS, but a real horse? And my idea of watching a game, is being in the same room as the television and drawing or playing a game on my phone. I guess I missed the horse?

Somebody described schizophrenia like this to me once: The brain gets all sorts of information all the time, but it knows how to filter and focus on the most important details. But with schizophrenia, the filtering device is broken, so all the information is the most important at the same time. So as we were walking up the ramp in the arena, I saw the sign about the stadium holding 75,000 people, and heard the loud pop music, and saw the giant screen highlighting the morning NFL games, I looked over at Shayne to see how this is going to be for him. He was laughing at something only in his head and he seemed happy, so I thought we’d just roll with it.

I am not going to lie, being in that stadium was not what I expected. It was freaking cool. People were all dressed up and dancing and laughing and it was the biggest party I had ever been to. The opening act was a mariachi band. It was almost like having my dad there. The singer, Isabel Maria Sanchez, was incredible. It brought me back to Radio Mexicana of my youth. And then the most beautiful white horse pranced across the field. I could have gone home right then, completely satisfied, but the surprises just kept coming. During the national anthem, two giant flags were unfurled on the field, the stars and stripes and the Colorado. Seeing the fabric ripple in the air was truly awe inspiring. I told the woman next to me that it was my first game and she pulled a button out of her bag that read, “my first Bronco game.” I proudly pinned it to my shirt.

Shayne was equally excited. He did get lost once coming back to the seat. He went up and down the stairs a few times and someone noticed and helped him get back to the right section. He made the Lion King noise (that cry when Simba is presented to the animals) when the screens asked the audience to make noise and he got inappropriately angry at a call, but no one really noticed because everyone else was making noise and getting inappropriately angry too. At one point he said, “Why don’t we live in a place where I could do this every time?” Uh. I had no answer to that. And the best part? The Broncos won, even if it was lucky, they still pulled it off. We left the stadium high with joy of winning in Bronco country. Actually that wasn’t the best part. The best part was when we got home, Shayne hugged me and said thank you for the best day of his life.

I never would have thought that going to a football game would rank high on my list of memorable events. It was like being in a storybook with anticipation and fear and magic and happily ever after. I loved sharing that with my son. It’s nice to have a memorable moment that is joyful. Our moments of exhilaration have been few and far between. It gives me hope that there will be more. Shayne said that the road will turn for the Broncos. I don’t know about that, but for me, I will always remember my first game. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.

When my parents first were killed, I’d reach for my phone to tell them something and realize that I couldn’t dial that number ever again. I don’t do that anymore, but there are times when I would give anything to talk to them, especially my mom. Sometimes she made me straight up crazy, but I realize how much I valued her as a person and how much she taught me. My last words to her were “I love you.” I am grateful for that each day.

One of my cousins suggested a girl weekend at a hot springs, picking Pagosa as a location. I invited my daughter, hoping she’d want to come. Even though, she is only in Albuquerque, I don’t see her as often as I would like. She always says she is busy, but I think there is more to it than that. But for once, she agreed.

I think about all the trauma that I have been through in the last years, and I know my daughter has been through the same, plus all the trauma of the pandemic. Most of those events happened during her teen years when she was supposed to be young and carefree. Dealing with all those things has given her anxiety and a need for security and a lot of emotions to process. She has some anger and some of it is directed to me and to her brother. She has accused me of choosing him first. It’s hard for me to refute her point. Dealing with his schizophrenia and keeping him safe and finding help for him has been an all consuming task. I can see how Darian feels left out, but at the same time I don’t know how I would have done it differently. She also thinks that Shayne is just a bad person and that he doesn’t deserve what I give him. But, he is my son and I love him and abandoning him isn’t a choice. Asking me to choose isn’t fair.

Currently, my daughter avoids her brother at all costs. I can only spend time with her if he isn’t around. I don’t love this arrangement, but I also want to share my daughter’s life too. I thought the Pagosa Springs trip would be one way to promote some healing in our relationship. My cousins weren’t going to arrive until Saturday, so I thought I would have some quality alone time with my daughter Friday evening. But of course she had other plans. I don’t know when I will ever learn that my plans aren’t her plans. She met me for dinner and blazed away when the sun came up.

So Saturday morning I found myself alone in Pagosa Springs. For about ten minutes, I was pissy and considered going home. But I decided to drive out to a Chimney Rock and check it out. I have driven through the southwest corner of Colorado a dozen times or more, but I have never been to Chimney Rock National Monument. The first thing I noticed was people looking through boxes up at the sky. And I remembered the eclipse.

I learned that Chimney Rock may have been built by ancestors of the Pueblo people for sky watching. The area was full of people with cameras pointed at the sky. I purchased the eclipse glasses and joined the party.

Then I made the trek to the top of the mountain to see the kiva ruins. The view was spectacular.

I took it all in and just enjoyed what the day had to offer. I met a couple from Lynchburg, Virginia on a year long tour of America. I met a tarantula on a mad dash away from me. The temperature was perfect and the golden leaves magical. I met my cousins and we had a great evening in a place that over looked a lake with some soaking in the springs and a scrumptious dinner. I love the women in my family. They inspire me with their strength. I wish Darian had stayed, but she has to make her own path.

I am taking the road home slowly, even though I have responsibilities weighing on me. I walked up to Treasure Falls and marveled at the scenery, just in case I never come this way again.

I can give my daughter all the grace in the world. I just hope we both live long enough for her to look through her pain and see the love that I have just for her.

Even though, I don’t remember the first time I went to the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo, it was a place that I visited several times as a child. I remember my little brother always liked the monkeys and I liked the giraffes and elephants the best. I remember seeing a mouse skirting along the edge of an enclosure and it sparked a story in my head about a free mouse living in a zoo. I remember my mom always a little short of breath with the climb to the carousel. She’d sit on the picnic benches, resting as we whirled around on the painted horses. I always enjoyed my time at the zoo, but I had no idea it would become so important in my life.

When I was a young mom, I didn’t have a lot of money. Someone gave me a zoo membership for Christmas when my son was four months old. Having a place to go, for free, was such a good thing for me at that time. So many days, I packed up a few diapers, a lunch and headed to the zoo. I’d carry my baby through the displays and read the signs to him. The gorilla house was new then and I remember Shayne crawling in front of the windows, then holding on the glass to walk, then running up and down, so excited to see the gorillas. His first sentence was “Tiger sleeping. Night-night.”

Going to the zoo was our thing for a long time. Over the years, I learned the rhythm of the seasons at the zoo. Summers are so busy, but the mist machines are fun and there are face painters and special attractions, like one summer white tigers and another koalas. In the fall, lights for Christmas start being hung and the crowds disappear. The cool crisp days are amazing for animal viewing. People go away and the animals come out. There are always new surprises–no matter the season.

When one of my co-teachers wanted to take the students to the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo for an end of the quarter field trip, I said I would plan it. After all, I have been a hundred times, how hard could it be? I’m going to skip that answer; except to say that I don’t love being the point person. The day started out stressful. The dates on the tickets were wrong and we forgot our lunches back at school. But when we got to the zoo, everything fell in place. I was reassured that the ticket thing had happened before and it was easy to remedy. The zoo staff was so welcoming and helpful. They gave us a place to store our lunches (the ones we remembered and the ones that were delivered) and even shuttled everything to us at noon.

The kids were so excited. Many of them had never been to any zoo. One girl was crying because she loves giraffes and never thought she’d see anything that amazing. They fed the giraffes lettuce leaf after lettuce leaf and flattened pennies in the souvenir penny machine and all crowded together on the hippo scale. I didn’t have to do anything all day, but follow along and capture photos of the joy.

In my years of coming to the zoo, I have watched the evolution from animal jail to animal conservation. The cages have come down, the pits filled in, the concrete taken away. On my journey through the zoo this time, I noticed how the bones of the old zoo from my childhood are still there, but only because I know where to look. The last remnants of old are currently being deconstructed, the bear pits and the cages that once held tigers, then monkeys are gone. Also gone is the playground where Shayne learned to climb and jump and then later helped his sister learn to do the same. The carousel I rode on as a child, and my children rode on is also down. I have faith though, that it is being carefully restored and painted for another generation of kids. The construction made me nostalgic, but at the same time, I cannot wait to see what the new plans will bring. I am sure it will be even better than before.

The zoo was a place of wonder for me as a child and a place of peace for me as a young woman. I am so glad that it came back into my life at this stage. I loved watching the magic and contentment touch the lives of my new colleagues and friends.

When I got home, my son was under a blanket. He said the voices were bothering him, making it hard for him to move. I sat on the couch next to him and took his hand. I told him about the field trip to the zoo and a new area was being built. He didn’t say anything for a long time and I thought maybe he didn’t hear me. So often he doesn’t respond to what I say, but later he said, “Maybe there will be a capybara exhibit. Or flamingos. Or a butterfly meadow. We’ll have to check it out.” And he squeezed my hand.

The shadow of the boy I knew is still there, but only because I know where to look. Sometimes I want that time again, but life is hard enough without wanting things in the past. I could spend my energy looking back, but then I would miss out on all the great things right now. I can only move forward, believing that there is more joy to come.

I have always been a morning person. When I was really young, my grandpa came to stay with us for awhile, and he was a morning guy too. I remember coming down the hall, wrapped up in a blanket to watch Andy Griffith, my only choice back in the day. My grandpa was sitting outside saying his morning prayers and the sun was barely peeking above the garden fence. I went outside that morning and sat near him on the low rock wall that lined a path through the lawn and listened to the birds and watched the sky change. It felt powerful. Like all the possibilities for anything were right there.

I think back to the happiest, most creative times of my life and the one theme in common is the early morning, languid starts to the day. I would get up in the dark and listen to the night noises of crickets and spend some time writing or painting and gathering my thoughts for the day.

Lately, I have been using my mornings to work on a memoir. I used to think memoirs were written by aging rock stars who had one good song. But that’s just me hiding behind a joke. All the signs in my life point to–WRITE. So even if no one ever reads it, I am working on my journey through darkness and finding the way to the other side. Sometimes it’s hard to get the words on the page, not because they aren’t there, but because they are there too much. Allowing them to spill forth takes a lot of strength.

I just finished teaching a literature unit about memoir in my curriculum. It was from Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson. She is a writer and wrote a memoir about her childhood in Brooklyn and South Carolina. She writes about her grandfather and her memories of spending time with him and a lot of other kid memories of family and games and the early love of words and stories. She writes in verse, but it isn’t rhyming and cutesy. It’s lyrical and powerful, even haunting. I don’t know if my students loved it, but I did. It was familiar and inspired me to keep working on my own words on the page.

I went to Antonito a few weekends ago. My aunt and uncle were parade marshals at the Labor Day parade. I stood on the corner with my cousins to wave like crazy when Uncle Bobby and Aunt Orlinda drove by. Then I spent the afternoon hanging with my family. We sat in chairs in the front lawn and talked of old times. I have so many memories of growing up in that front yard next to the train tracks. I asked my cousins if they’d ever move back. They said no. I never lived in Antonito. But I would. I would buy one of those old buildings on Main Street and paint the story of the Taylor’s on the brick wall across from my Grandpa’s old shoe shop and I would get up early and write until the sky got its color.

Maybe that day is coming. Right now though, I am just enjoying this time of reflection and peace. I am soaking in the morning light and trying to listen to what the universe is giving me now.

When I was in Michigan a few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to visit the Henry Ford Center. I was unexpectedly blown away to see all the cars that basically shaped the twentieth century, but I was also really impressed with the mission to carry on Ford’s legacy of innovation and creativity. The day we were at the center, we saw a glass blower and a weaver. The center embraces that art is the birthplace of innovation.

I learned that there was a high school on the campus. Just because I was so intrigued, I looked it up and saw there was an English opening. It felt like a dream job, high school English in a place focused on the power of creativity. While I was in Detroit, I put in an application.

The Henry Ford Academy called to offer me an interview. Of course they did, because this is how my life works. I have to say, at any other time in my life, I would have been over the moon with a chance at such an opportunity, but I declined the interview. For the first time, in a very long time, I am happy. I feel like I am exactly in the place I need to be.

I finished my first full week of the new school year teaching middle school language arts at Harrison K-8. I am happy to report that I didn’t have any panic attacks and that none of my days ended in tears. My teammates are wonderful and everyone has been warm and welcoming. So far the kids have been great and I am enjoying my days. I come home and have the energy to go for a walk, or ride my bike, or work on a project. I am so used to just surviving, that this new feeling of contentment is hard to trust. But I am trying to soak in this new place of joy.

The first unit of the literature series that I am to teach is about childhood. As I have been preparing for the unit, I have been reflecting about the year when I was in sixth grade. I remember it as my favorite year of school. Ironically, I was at Harrison then too, the old, original Harrison site when sixth grade was still part of elementary. The new wing had opened the year I was in sixth grade, so my classroom was brand new and had a feeling of modernness that the rest of the building didn’t have. I was so excited ti be in a new space.

I had the best teachers that year. My home room teacher discovered that I could type and she let me skip spelling and work on my stories. She told me that I was a born writer. She also taught us art, not crafts with construction paper, but drawing with perspective. She laughed aloud at my comic strips about sarcastic soccer balls. I wonder what happened to those; I would like to read them again. My reading teacher handed out McDonald’s gift cards for perfect tests and completed book summaries. Most of the work was independent and I blazed through it, so I could just read. I remember reading Gone With the Wind that year and The Outsiders, and Summer of the Monkeys. I kept my family in free fries, milkshakes, and apple pies. My math teacher had a big booming voice and he told stories and showed us how math was used to build skyscrapers and highways. He made me care about math for life.

Sixth grade put the whole idea that maybe I could be a writer or an artist or maybe a teacher in my head. I was always a good student, but sixth grade opened up my thirst for creativity and pushed me to excel. Because I became so invested as a student that year, my parents made a decision to send me to private school in seventh grade. So while all my friends were talking about going to school downtown with lockers and bells and sports, I was getting ready for uniforms, nuns, and meeting girls from all over the world. My years in private school are a story for another day, but I often see that leaving public school at the end of sixth grade was a road that probably took me to an entirely different destination than if I had joined the kids at Canon City Junior High.

I did eventually walk through the halls of public middle school, but as a student teacher. I was teamed with mid-career teachers who were passionate and having fun everyday. All the middle school teachers would crowd in an old supply closet for lunch and laugh and joke. It honestly felt like a big family. Everyone was warm and welcoming and went out of their way to help me. I felt supported and part of something great. Maybe that’s why middle school has always felt like home for me.

When I left teaching middle school, I was ready for a change. Art was a good fit for me, but I never felt completely comfortable at the elementary level. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the kids and made some life long friends with coworkers. I know I influenced literally hundreds of kids, but there were always things at the elementary level that made me feel impatient and antsy. I used to think that part of me had a middle school rebel brain that couldn’t be turned off.

My years of personal trauma have left me shattered and shell shocked inside. For a long time, everyday felt like a battle. I got up and tried to push all the feelings, memories, pain away, so that I could move ahead. But pushing away the fog just made it swirl around me more, trapping me, confusing me about the path forward. Traveling through the fog and trying to teach lead me to a place where I didn’t think I could move anymore. I felt frozen in a space with danger all around me.

Even though, I have spent a lot of time working on healing, I am not there yet. I was so scared to go back into the classroom this year. I didn’t want to be frozen again. When I stepped into the middle school at Harrison, I was embraced with warm, exuberant, vibrant welcomes. It reminded me of how I felt when I first stepped into a middle school setting all those years ago.

On the first day, I sat in the cafeteria at the “new” Harrison, next to my old middle school colleague and listened to my new administrator talk about the theme of the school year–Into the Storm. He told us that American bison stick together and meet storms head on, while cattle turn away from storms and often get lost or separated from their herds and don’t survive. I know he was making a metaphor about facing the school year together and meeting the challenges head on, but the metaphor was exactly what I needed. It made so much sense to me. The fastest way to get out of the storm is to go through it. Stay close to the herd. Feel. Experience. Run to. Not away. Go through. Not around. Get to the other side. Reach for the sun.

Into the Storm. A metaphor for a new way of traveling.

Last night I went to the high school football game. Just inside the gates of the stadium were three men who were part of the original middle school team when I student taught. They each have given me advice, served as my mentors, made me laugh, made me feel welcome. I went over to say hi. They greeted me with hugs and huge smiles, and it felt like a sign for me. They were there at the beginning when I was starting my journey and they were there again last night, cheering me onward.

Maybe the eye of the storm is calm. Maybe that’s where I really am. Maybe the wind and peril and confusion are still out there. I don’t know. I just know for the first time in a long time, I feel like there might be an end to the storm. I have found my herd again and I know the path forward.