Ramblings

Maybe it’s the autumnal air, the trees beginning to turn their brilliant colors, the sky deepening it’s hue before a long winter’s sleep. Something has affixed itself to me; something that has no name but boards alongside restlessness and boredom. Let me interject and state that this has nothing to do with Lucille. On the Motherhood front, I feel a sense of gratifying fulfillment. Motherhood has simultaneously shattered and healed me. By day’s end I am exhausted, but even in a collapsed state on the big brown couch, every evening, my heart swells when I turn the monitor on and see my daughter’s rumpled body in the corner of her crib, her doughy hand clutching her lovey.

This thing, this some other, has more to do with the rest of my life. I’m 36. Am I too young to be facing a mid-life crisis? Is that what this is? I have been teaching for nearly eleven years, a decade split between two schools I love. For the majority of my career, I’ve been fortunate enough to teach exactly what I want and how I want, and I have been relatively successful at it. But lately the claws of a greener pasture seem to have fastened themselves to the hours of my days. Daydreaming has turned into thoughts of a full-fledged photography business, or transforming into a married with a kid version of Carrie Bradshaw. My usual state of acceptance and general happiness has been stained with a narrative of I want more.

Can we really have it all?

Pause.

My god, can we have it all and more?

My immediate response to this nebulous fog is to organize. The need for a clean slate, for shirts hanging in the closet to be filed side-by-side according to color and sleeve length, makes me happy. Begin a cleanse and whole body makeover.  And I know why. It’s because I can control these. I can make changes, I can reorganize my desk drawers, I can clean out the pantry – I can be in complete control of the outcome. I’m not grasping at gossamer trails of smoke in the air that don’t exist. Shirts on a hanger are concrete items that can be manipulated. The daydreaming, the fettered state of metacognition – it’s all so elusive.

The reality, though, of this more, is not really real. At least it appears to be temporary; it comes in waves. While I was feeling as previously described for several days, I then sank my teeth into planning one of my new courses, and guess what? I felt revived. The color came back into my cheeks, and the wan sense of boredom retreated. Clearly this just bolsters the case for not making a rash decision. Good thing I didn’t resign and go spend umpteen-thousand dollars on lenses and a new camera body. Good thing my family still has health insurance.

Good thing.

Lucky.

A new year. And of course the inevitable reflection of life and my existence within it. I said back in September that I was going to consider dismantling this blog. As of right now, I've decided against it. There is still a strong sense in keeping some of my life off the screen, but there is also a want and desire to write about it. The author in me, perhaps seeks to share, or at the very least engage in the act of writing. And "publishing" on this blog holds my writing accountable to me. For now, that's good enough to remove this blog from the chopping board.

Every new year's eve, I find myself saying, "this year will be better, I can feel it." I felt that on December 31, 2011, and I felt it again last night. 2012 held both sunshine and rain. Big Red took a giant courageous leap and made a career change and also got a brand spanking new car! I got healthy, lost a bunch of weight, and then began fostering a romantic vision of starting down the road to a family. It happened quickly for us, near the start of summer, and just as we were beginning to wrap our heads around the idea - after 11 weeks, it was gone. Just like that.

And then school started; my "kids" were now seniors, this would be our fourth year together! I had incredibly high hopes for the first semester. Alas, it fell hard, and has fallen quite flat. The class I was/am teaching has missed the mark. I know it and that has been rough. As for forging on towards a family when we were cleared for take-off once again, the family train became a mission. Too much of a mission. My personal life and professional life, both for which I had grand visions, became blurred and disappointing. I was trolling through a fog and it sucked.

This winter break was exactly what I needed, and somehow I've convinced myself to pull my ass out of the muck at work, just enough to get through the remainder of the semester, making the best of what pieces of the course I can salvage. I'm determined to end the semester on a positive note.

As for the personal, I am giving myself permission to step off the train and attempt to relax a bit. I don't want to hear, "just don't think about it," because that's virtually unattainable. In fact, it IS impossible. Trust me, I'll be thinking about it all plenty, but I'm working hard not to allow this vignette in my life to become all-consuming. I don't want to hear questions about how is it going. That's incredibly infuriating, regardless of the source: friend or family. I'm inquisitive myself, and love to know about the lives of others - I understand that. This journey in life is incredibly personal - more so than any other. I know people care, and I know they want to know - but tough titties. If I've got news I want to share, trust me, I'll share it. Moving on.

My eyes are not averted, just refocused on the other just as important pieces of my life: my husband, my Olive, my family, my friends, my health, my creativity, and my peace.

On the advice and encouragement of a friend, I'm going to my very first acupuncture appointment next weekend. Totally excited! Even Big Red was intrigued (I think I may have even detected a hint of some interest from him...). It's a new year and I can't think of a more appropriate time to have my chi or "life energy" realigned and balanced. I'm completely open to it.

My resolution intentions for 2013 are to remember (thanks Mia) that this is just how it is right now, live in the present without projecting, seek to find balance, and to enjoy.

This year will be better, I can feel it.

Sunday Morning Poetry

I am many things in this life, one of which is a writer. Although I don't find myself writing much these days, I still think about putting pen to paper fingers to keyboard. You could say I've slacked off in the writing department, and I don't mean writing like writing this blog, I mean like the writing I used to do, what I studied in college: poetry. So when inspiration strikes me like a lightening bug aglow before my eyes, I find I need to drop everything else and write. And that's what I did this morning.

Last night, Big Red and I attended the 30th birthday of a friend. Five months ago she had her first baby, a gorgeous little girl. Perhaps you've seen her deliciously adorable face grace this blog? My friend began to tell a story of being at a pool, how she was wearing a bikini and how her niece questioned the marks on her belly. She responded saying the marks were her tiger stripes. That stuck. That coupled with what another friend said many, many years ago created the perfect storm and out came the following poem. It's rough and in its infant draft stage, but I'm just so damn excited to have finally written something again that I wanted to share.

This one is for Lyndsey and Raeann.

Scars

When the flaxen haired little girl pointed

at her bikini bare belly, and asked about the striae, she

did not hesitate to answer—these are my tiger stripes.

She spun a story that satiated the pool-side curiosity,

then submerged herself in the water, leaving the little girl

intoxicated with twinkling dreams of one day roaring.

Of course in the raw morning moments

in the privacy of her bathroom, she would pinch

and tug at loose folds of her belly, posturing

her naked self, trying to remember what her body was before.

And even though the shape of her figure did not

match the post-pregnancy bodies of celebrities on television,

she was not entirely uncomfortable with the tiger

stripes nine months left behind—those silky striations

like bunting across her belly. She was certain that the corpulent

camber of her hips could be amended, but the marks

would never leave—lines of flesh like the pink ribbons

she would someday tie into the fine fuzz of her daughter’s hair.

There was repose in knowing that when she died and her body lay

rigid on the slab, whomever examined her remains would be

certain she was a mother, they would revere what she created,

being ever so careful with this tenement—

so she says quietly to no one but the reflection            

in the mirror—these scars are those worth bearing.

Thanks.

First and foremost, Happy Thanksgiving.

It's nearly 8 am, and I'm the only one up this early. Which is kind of ridiculous since I'm not even cooking anything today. There's a thick scarf of fog outside and the grass has been painted white with frost. When I let Olive outside this morning, I skipped the slippers, and my feet nearly burned from the chill of the concrete. Can you say, "winter?"

I haven't been around this blog lately, mostly because I haven't had much to write about. I guess that's a good thing in some respects. The biggest news as of lately is that I had an essay published on page 2 of the newspaper. It's the closest I've ever gotten to page 1. I received some lovely responses from readers, but the best response was a phone call from an 86 year-old man. He said he'd been the very first principal of one of the oldest high schools in our district. He told me he also took my same approach with students. He then said he was a little mad that he hadn't written the essay himself, as he saw it from his own voice. It was a tremendous compliment.

Big Red continues to slowly make progress on the bathroom downstairs. The walls have been insulated, the plumbing has been worked out. The next big step is to install the shower. We might even get to that today before heading over to his mom's house for dinner! He's also been making great progress on his personal happiness. I wrote about it some time ago, how he'd been struggling, and while I didn't outline all his daemons - those are his to share, I will say he has found himself in a much brighter space. There is a lightness about him that had been absent. His smile has returned and he's been able to tolerate work in a way that doesn't seem to drag him down.

As for me, a door may have opened for an opportunity to photograph a wedding - a small wedding. Just the groom and his fiance and whomever marries them. In all actuality, it would probably be more like an engagement session. While the simple utterance of the phrase photograph a wedding makes me want to turn and run, this scenario isn't the typical one. The couple may decide to go with someone else, and that's all well and good. I honestly don't know if I'd choose me either. In the email to the groom I basically laid out my current skills, my current equipment - one camera and one lens. Not so much to scare him off, but just to make sure all expectations are super-duper clear. But if they do choose me, I'll be grateful for the opportunity to continue working on my photography and for being the person who gets to document their special day. I'll let you know what happens.

I am grateful for a job in this very volatile economic climate, especially in my school district where a measure just passed to close several schools therefore cutting 400 jobs. Yes, 400 - and I still have my job. I am grateful for my students and their willingness to let me be me in the classroom.

As silly as it may sound I am grateful for having had the means to purchase my camera - a little piece of wondrous technology that allows me to have fun, express myself and record tiny slices of peoples' lives, as well as mine.

I am most grateful for modern medicine and its ability to bring smiles back on sad faces.

There is so much to be grateful for this morning, and every morning, really. To list them all would seem cliche.

Student taken photograph of me at my desk.

I love and I am loved. For this, I am most thankful.

show and tell?

Hello and goodbye. Just kidding. I haven't written because 1. there hasn't been much to write about, and 2. if there was something to write about, I was conflicted about sharing it. Which brings me to this post: how much sharing is too much sharing?

I know people are stopping by to read this blog. I know it because I track it. Some of these reading eyes are people that I know, some are that I love and trust. Many are strangers. They only know me as I've told my life in these posts. Two blogs that I have been following, The Vintage Wife, and Aura Joon, have recently posted about this very issue. Cedar, over at The Vintage Wife, chronicles among other aspects of her life, motherhood. Her daughter Lucy is absolutely adorable and delicious. She has, pretty regularly, posted images of her daughter for the past 21 weeks, but just declared that she will not longer being doing so. Cedar writes that she doesn't want Lucy "to feel when she is older that mama shared her entire childhood...precious family photos and memories with whoever would read it." She also goes on to write that it's her charge to keep those memories and images private until Lucy "can make that decision on her own." I can't help but agree with Cedar, as well as Aura over at Aura Joon.

In August Aura posted beautiful pictures, one of the things she's known for and loved for, and then left a little cryptic "p.s." with the following comments: 

...another reason I am taking a break from this space, as I am starting to grow a bit worried about our privacy, and especially Elodie's. When things like searches for where we live show up in my google statistics, it makes me want to jump ship and completely delete myself from the online world. I have a child to protect now, and it is not her choice to be seen here in this space. I am going to think about what I am sharing as far as her privacy goes. I think I have already decided that I will no longer be sharing photos of her face, because she does not have a say in that.

I think about people who display their children in activities when they don't like the attention, celebrities selling pictures of their kids, and parents who force their families to go on reality shows. It makes me so sad, and I need to consider that her voice is important, even if she can't express it. This is no where near that extreme, and I have no issue with other people sharing photos of their children online. But this is a choice I am making that I think is best for our family.

Then more recently, on September 25th, Aura made it clear she would be leaving her blog. This post alone has received 133 comments, many in which readers express their sadness over the end of her blogging. So again, this brings me to what I've been chewing over lately. Let's face it, there's only so much I can write about Olive before it gets boring. Yes, we all know she's a fabulous dog, but after a while, who wants to read about a dog? To some degree, folks want to read what is sensational, what peaks their interest. If you're into reading mommy and baby blogs, then don't you want to not only hear about their trials and tribulations, but admit it - you want to see those cherubic faces as well. This isn't a baby or mommy blog, not yet anyhow (although these women have given me much to consider), but if I am to write about my daily life, that includes people (Big Red) who don't necessarily want their issues published online for all to read.

As of now, today, this lovely Wednesday afternoon, I'm not ending the blog. What I am though is questioning what is okay to write about and what is not. For the past few months, Big Red has been going through a rough time. I've wanted to write about that, mostly about how I'm dealing with it, but I haven't figured out how to write about my end of things without displaying him unnecessarily. Kind of hard to do.

I will say this. The other day, I pulled out THE BOX. This is the box that holds my wedding binder, the left over wedding invitations, cards we received, and a few of our wedding favors and personalized cocktail napkins. I love this treasure and every now and again pull it out and leaf through the carefully organized text of our wedding. Oh, the binder. What it reveals about me speaks volumes. I was freakishly organized. I can't help but smile every time I leaf through each purposefully designated section. And yes, I was one of those rare brides that enjoyed every second of planning her wedding. No Bridezilla here. Just pure fun and joy in attention to detail. I came to the section titled "Wayfarers Chapel." The Wayfarers Chapel is where we got married - an indescribably beautiful little chapel made of glass overlooking the Pacific Ocean. One of the tokens we received after exchanging vows was a copy of the transcript used in our ceremony. I turned to the actual vows and reread exactly what I said to Big Red that day. I reread them again and again. And again and again, the words for better or worse kept leaping off of the page.

By no means are we in such an or worse situation that would lead to the demise of our marriage. Not even close. What we are navigating is an or worse time in Big Red's life that is affecting his happiness and therefore having a cursory affect on our daily lives. What I have come to understand about being with someone means that what you experience, they experience with you. Your happiness and sadness do not exist in a vacuum - at least it doesn't in our marriage. What I am doing to help Big Red get through this trying time is to be present for him, to listen when he needs an ear and to allow him to struggle through this journey. Unfortunately my need to fix things has no place here. My place is to continue being his friend and wife. I do my best to keep what I can control, consistent, and he has reported that he's appreciated that.

I'm confident that the or worse portion will run it's course, in fact there have been signs that it's headed on its way out, and I look forward to the brighter and for better times ahead.

Back to School.

Tomorrow begins the 2011-12 school year. My students are 11th graders and it will be our third year together. I'm actually looking forward to seeing them. Strange? Maybe. Or maybe it's because I've been blessed with a fabulous schedule for the first semester (an unusually light load of classes and students), or maybe it's because I'm insanely organized and a fanatic about having things in order WAY ahead of time. Each year of teaching bolsters my confidence, and this year is an exceptional one. I get to teach creative writing - totally my jam. This is what I do, and I love that I finally get to teach it my way to my students.

Maybe it's because I've long since realized that no school year is perfect. Some days are inspirational, and some days are total shit. Some days you want to hug all your students and some days you want to drop-kick their arrogant asses down the hallway. No one can be a hero every day, and no one should expect that. Teachers, just like their students, are human. Some of my students will think I'm awesome and I'll be their favorite, and others will want to shred me, or just call me "weird as f*ck." Yup, that happened last year. Whether I'm a bitch or I'm amazing, I'm me,  And that's not going to change.

I know enough that this is not a popularity contest and that all subjects can't be won over. Some will be lost along the way. I will continue to trust my instincts. It's worked so far. I'll hope for the best, but be flexible enough to accommodate the unexpected. With teenagers and the machine that is public education, it's inevitable.

Whatever it is I'm ready. Bring it, punks.

summer writing

Los Angeles, 1988

Green dish soap swiped off the cracked white tile

counter was Dad’s genius answer to our pleas of

 faster, faster! The Slip ’N Slide, a runway of plastic

stretched across our yard and (with permission) onto the

neighbor’s.  A beautifully perfect green lawn that made Dad

shake his head on several occasions. Water from the hose

made the yellow contraption work well-enough in July,

but we wanted more.  We were free,

we wanted to fly. Just a few drops from the bottle

and Dad’s cockamamie scheme sent our summer

browned bodies rocketing across the two lawns. With reckless

abandon we threw ourselves over and over again,

only Dad’s cautions about the approaching sidewalk, louder than

our squeals of delight. Ours was a city of cement and right

angles, neighborhoods basted in perfect patchwork quilts, tiny

squares of real estate stitched together, every inch

exploited and accounted for. We dreamed of huge

backyards, settling instead for the sun-warmed hose

water out of the sprinkler, taking turns leaping through the umbrella

of mist—our imaginations filling in the small spaces with fat

cavernous swimming pools and yards wide
enough to keep us safe from skinned knees. 

© Ilene, 2011

writing & craft room

My writing & craft room is complete. I enjoyed making it over and I love being in the room even more. Although the curtains were a novice sewing project, I'm happy with how they turned out. The next task I'd like to conquer on the sewing machine: zippers. I think I'm going to try and make pillows with removable covers. I see gorgeous pillows everywhere and I nearly vomit when I see how much the cost.

Virginia Woolf once titled an essay: A Room of One's Own. Women need their own spaces. This room is mine. It's mine alone in which to be quite, to be creative and reflect. I expect that as my life becomes more complicated (read: family life), I'll want, more than ever, a space of mine own.

My room.

Pretty, pretty pink and green curtains.

Writing space; I made over the chair! It was garbage left on the sidewalk, now perfectly usable.

Accessories. 

Craft area. The slipcover was something I created and sewed (hides an old desk).

     Cork board re-purposed. Old picture frame spray painted white, and fabric over the cork.

Bookshelf storage: books, fabric, sewing supplies. The bookshelf was a cheap find - only $30. It's a tad rickety and I fear for how long it may/may not last.

Sewing machine all folded up becomes a display table with antique typewriter, some books, a framed California postcard, and the machine's manual. 

     Representing my roots.