back-to-life shopping

Not to make too much of it, but for twenty-two years, and that would be since the age of four, I have gone "back to school." I distinctly remember leaving kindergarden preview day...the sun through the dusty windows, the fresh masking-tape marks on the carpets, the easel sides brimming with pungent acrylic sets. I skipped the entire way home, absolutely bursting out of my freshly-scrubbed skin.

The first day, I wore a hand-me-down plaid dress, but this wasn't just any hand-me-down. This was my mom's first day of school dress, pressed and wrapped to survive the years in her hope chest. The patent-leather belt had to be abandoned to accommodate my chub, but otherwise, I could have been Linda Sue starting school in 1953. Our kitchen wall exhibits snaps of the three Lee ladies on our respective first days, all sporting the plaid ensemble. First day outfits were always a big deal. After kindergarden we, thankfully, got to buy our own.

As I grew, negotiations for style and fit and length turned shopping trips into blood-baths. My mom shaking her head, lips tight, proclaiming my outfits inappropriate for a classy young woman. She always won those battles, but I fought my hardest, knowing that those first-day outfits were not just clothes, but somehow a bigger announcement of who I'd become over the summer, and who I'd be that year.

Fast-forward to Christy-fresh-from-college. Handed the keys to my own classroom, I spent these early fall days pulling down crusty old bulletin boards, adorning the walls with freshly pulled butcher paper, hand-cutting speech bubble posters for the parts of speech, crafting calendars with the days' plan. Chopping up days into hours, and hours into sections, and then waiting for that structure to come to life with students. While I waited, I shopped.

A good friend picked out pinched, pointy-toed heels for my first-day outfit. I thought I looked a little witch-like, but she deemed them perfect. "You need to look a little bit scary," she explained. "You're far too nice in normal shoes." I got through that first day and wobbled home to spend the afternoon and evening soaking the blisters off my feet. I had no regrets. I had stood tall, been slightly scary but simultaneously stylish. Everything would be alright.

I'm a very contextual person. When I transfered from high school to junior high, I bought some loud, bright, pattern-happy dresses because I considered them "junior high-ish." I soon realized that I didn't need to dress like Ms. Frizzle in order to teach 7th graders. I donated most of those clothes to goodwill. Still, it helped me to have some costumes to help convince myself that I could fit that new part I'd been cast.

Now, I'm not officially off the hook. I'm still in school, it just happens to be a low-residency program this time around, and I'm back to being a student. So I've had my "first day" at our residency in Santa Fe. I even picked out a 'first-day' scarf (as a nod to the fact that I am now in a low-res school, I figured an accessory was enough.)

But now it's almost September, and people are asking, in a sweet, conspiratorial tone, if I'm ready to go back to school. I say I'm not going. Then I feel guilty as soon as it's said, like I'm a deserter. And I panic: what if this is all wrong? Teaching fulfilled the performer part of me, the people-pleaser part of me. Even more significantly, it was an easy answer to the ever-present question: "What do you do?" Which, if I'm honest, I have to admit that I always hear as, "Who are you?"

I've daydreamed about "being a writer," since, well, as long as I remember. But facing that life is a totally different thing. It brings up the same kind of fear of failure, resistance, and pressure that teaching always brought. I guess because it brings along me. I haven't changed; I have the same worries and hang-ups as a writer that I had as a teacher. I also have the same strengths, the same drive and determination. I just tend to forget that in the rush of change.

Perhaps I need a talisman of some kind, a costume for this "back to life" season. An accessory, an entire outfit. Maybe some good shoes. See, I believe in the power of good teaching shoes. It doesn't matter if they batter your feet a little bit--the important thing is that they lift up your whole self and make you stand tall.

Good writing shoes...is there such a thing? It's quite nice writing barefoot, but I think I want some new shoes anyway, just to let my feet know that we've got a new direction.

GRACE

Tonight I am a willful prodigal

slurping the pig slop with

relish, deliberate. Beautifully brazen.

tonight my tongue rests,

all dialogue impressed under

my colorful re-tellings, silencing even,

my bent toward prattled repentance.

Tonight I will sleep well

as I used to sleep, in God’s Palm.

Nobody told me about this loophole, I’ve just

always known: it is open, regardless.

A mountainous flesh-space

to jump up and down on, slightly squishy.

The crevice between the thumb and the

soft underside is my preference.

There are many of us here, but I will find

a quiet spot

I will settle in, unseen by the ones who have

all of the answers.

A Stupid Faith

( I think I've been reading too much Eliot. This is a piece I might take to SPU's workshop. Any thoughts are welcome, all 3 of you blog-readers. )

May 21st, 2011

Well, that dream bled out

with a tick of the clock, to

a soundtrack of maniacal snickers

and stifled sighs of secret relief.

Cementing a place among

our litany of

crack-job prophet jokes.

What now? A man’s shout

at the timid believer clutching his red suitcase

tears through the dank

Times Square Air.

Out of the rain, in the red booth.

I blow on my miso soup

Creating stippled cosmos, a swirling galaxy of perforated

Tofu. With the wind of my lungs, on the surface

I bequeath life, and feel my whole living self sink the red seat,

across from a man I love,

who is sipping green tea and staring at the rain.

I take his flesh-and-blood hand, to feel it,

And watch the news play on the TV screen.

Where is your God now? A jeerer

calls, probably not meaning

to echo anything.

Everyone’s thrilled

at faith’s fall. Yes, it was a stupid

faith

Still this man

packed a change of clothes,

chewed his cereal, caressed it, one precious last use of jaws predestined

to vanish soon.

He agreed to the cameras

believed the way few believe, told the crew,

I am blessed, I am, indeed.

If I were God,

I would have broken my silence

broken down at

the sad, naive hope of

such easy escape.

I cool my soup, watch the worlds spin.

A tiny world that can

begin and end, in time.

I wonder how God loves

him, all of us,

in our existence

in our stupidity.

Roman Candle #2

(thanks, Jack Kerouac, for putting things stupidly well.)

Do I have to wear

dark glasses, do I have to sneer

at everyone who doesn't love

the things I love: the Wayfarers

and I, do we all have to be one throng

leaning forward to our next

crazy venture

under the stars? Do I have to catch

every reference? Can I live

a sweet, solitary life

where I don't always burn,burn,burn: only

occasionally? I know They won't

call it genius, but I also know

I'm called (yes, GodAlmighty

Splitter-of-Destiny, he told me) to

live a steady glow.

The week, backwards...

Last night, lit white lights, we lounged poolside, tipping white-wine and playing catch-phrase. I looked around at some of my favorite co-workers and thought to myself, man, this is picturesquely wonderful. And then I realized, I'd thought that just the day before at dinner with my family as we choke-laughed about the rules we followed growing up (and let me tell you, it's pretty fun to be able to laugh with your mom and sister about that). Wednesday evening, we (Joseph and I) devoured sinfully good bread pudding with burbon sauce after a long, lovely ramble through Hearst Castle. Tuesday we camped, feasting on gloriously charred hobo meals and a marshmallow-smeared yam before snuggling down in our tent at San Simeon. Sunday, I hosted a picnic in the park (complete with badminton hijinks, obviously) followed by a fairly intense game of six-person Scrabble. Saturday, poetry-college crafting with a dear college friend, then a walk to the monastery while dissecting lenten discipline, boys (all of them) and the creative process. I am blessed tremendously in this Sabbath. It is a gathering time.

drafts

It's not that I've stopped writing, or even stopped using this blog. It's just that right now, everything is in draft status. I count 53 consecutive drafts since "Sweet Potato."

That stat makes it pretty clear: my resolve to share my writing got trampled under the craziness of life. A full-time job, a new (fantastic) relationship, great friends, wonderful but hurting family, a church worth investing in, more creative outlets than I can, well, let myself out in. (?)

...See, sentences like that are responsible for all these drafts. I write a line like that, gag a little, promise I'll go back and tinker with it, and then forget all about the entire piece. I've been pretty disciplined with so many other things: teaching, grading, doctor's appointments w/ my Dad, evening running and cooking,...writing is the thing that gets shoved aside.

But that has to change. I'm taking a leave of absence from work and going back to school for an MFA in creative writing. I've been planning and saving for an opportunity like this since I started my credential classes. And this is the year: everything, from my pink slip being rescinded just yesterday, to my leave of absence letter going through with the board, has worked out perfectly. I have a little saved up, and I've made it into a program I'm really excited about.

Of course I'm nervous. I worry I've lost all hint of voice in my aforementioned lovely chaos; I haven't written a poem, really, in months; and my identity has become so rooted in my job that I wonder if I'll ever be able to relax and not need to be seen as "Ms. Lee."

But I can't stay with a job simply because it gives me an identity. It's so important to live honestly. And for me, right now, it would be dishonest not to take this year to write.

The discipline piece is the toughest for me. See, even this sad little whine-of-an-essay floated into draft status yesterday as I wandered into my room and started pushing furniture around, creating a "writing space" for myself. I spent the morning dreaming of thrift-shopping for a vintage tea station and painting a wall with chalkboard paint. It's so easy to neglect work in the pursuit of the romantic idea of "being a writer."

...I picked this up out of "drafts" on Monday, read it over, and cringed. But this little draft exists only to point out I've got to stop drafting. So the irony of it staying a draft is just too much.

On a happier note, I found a wellspring of hope and inspiration in this Ted-Talk sent to me by a dear friend. It's pretty much perfect, expresses all the reasons I want to write and teach writing, and I'm super tempted to simply delete my paltry thoughts and copy the transcript. But I'll let my draft live, and share hers as well:

http://www.ted.com/talks/sarah_kay_if_i_should_have_a_daughter.html

And immediately after listening, I wrote three poems of my own, which I hope soon to polish out of draft status and post up here.

sweet potato

I like songs that tell half-stories. This is one of those songs. The specifics still leave space for your own story. It is so charming, and it sends out a clearer mood than message. Listen to it, and if you are like me, you will like it and listen to it several times, and make up characters for it.

Sia-Sweet Potato

She cooks you sweet potato, you don't like aubergine
She knows to boil the kettle when you hum bars from Grease
She senses you are lonely but still she can't be sure
And so she stands and waits, stands anticipating your thoughts

How can she become the psychic that she longs to be to understand you
How can she become the psychic that she longs to be to understand you

He brushes thoroughly
He know she likes fresh breath
He rushes to the station
He waits atop the steps
He's brought with him a Mars bar
She will not buy Nestle
And later he'll perform
A love-lorn serenade, a trade

How can he become the psychic that he longs to be to understand you
How can he become the psychic that he longs to be to understand you

So give her information to help her fill the holes
Give an ounce of power so he does not feel controlled
Help her to acknowledge the pain that you are in
Give to him a glimpse of that beneath your skin

Now my inner dialogue is heaving with detest
I am a martyr and a victim and I need to be caressed
I hate that you negate me, I'm a ghost at beck and call
I'm failing and placating, I berate myself for staying

I'm a fool
I'm a fool

He greets the stranger meekly, a thing that she accepts
She sees him waiting often with chocolate on the steps
He senses she is lonely, she's glad they finally met
They take each other's hands, walk into the sunset

Do you like sweet potato?