Lifeguard On Duty

It has been a while, but racing down to the water’s edge for the first time this summer is like greeting an old friend. This is the ocean I had played in nearly every summer as I was growing up. I’ve been in the Pacific and Caribbean as well, even the Mediterranean Sea. But this is the ocean I know. I let the water lap over me feet and I move out deeper, familiarity rising and falling over me with each wave. I brace myself against the strong undertow, gazing out at the wide expanse of sea where distant boats float on blue. A sandbar allows me to stay waist deep until a rising curl whips me off my feet and I feel that sensation of floating midair before I crash back into the white froth. I ride the waves for a while like this, jumping the smaller ones, diving under the larger.

And then the waves changed. The crash of water is more insistent, stronger than before. I barely catch my breath from one before I’m hammered by the next. The thought of moving closer to shore hits me only a moment before the whistle blows. I start swimming hard. The group I had been swimming with is now a wave ahead of me, and then two. The waves are striking me at different angles now, holding me back in a watery grip. With each big wave, I kick for all I’m worth, thinking this is the wave that will carry me all the way to shore, but I make no progress. Each time, I’m pulled back deeper into the ocean. I can’t see anyone else in the water anymore. I look to the shore. The lifeguards are standing now, not breaking eye contact, waving me in. I fight the water again, swimming, but in vain. A feeling of exhaustion washes over me suddenly, and I know I have nothing left. I can’t make it in. Another wave dunks my head under. I don’t fight it. After the crash, I let my body float back to the surface and gasp for another breath. Salt stings my senses. I look again to the life guards poised on the water’s edge. I slowly shake my head and wave an arm. I can’t do it.

Then suddenly, I hear a succession of short fast whistle blows. Two life guards hit the water, swimming at me faster then I thought possible. I have time to think of staying calm. Strong arms, stronger than the clutch of the water pull me from the riptide. I won’t recognize either of my rescuers later. I’m only aware of the arms that hold me on either side, bringing me to safety. In that moment, even before my feet touch the sand, I am at peace. I feel perfectly safe. 

Once the strong arms were there, nothing else mattered. It meant moving beyond the humiliation of asking for help. It meant moving beyond the feeling of insufficiency at not being able to help myself. It meant resting in a strength far greater than my own. And I think I'm learning to do that. Maybe this was all just part of the process. 

Camping

I just got back from a camping trip, not the roughing it kind by any stretch. Not that I'm opposed to roughing it camping. That's just not what we did. I haven't camped in a long time. We did it a lot growing up, but it's been a while. And this particular campground was only about ten minutes from home. But it was camping just the same. I was excited enough to buy my own tent. Or maybe I just didn't relish the thought of sharing a tent with certain individuals who snore insistently. The tent I got was advertised as a 2 man tent, so naturally it sleeps one. If I ever get married, he'll just have to get his own tent. My new miniature abode has a base measuring 7 feet by 5 feet, but it isn't really. It's more like 7 feet by 3 feet and is rather like sleeping in a coffin.

Lot's of experience camping teaches you certain skills. I can now get changed inconspicuously in the backseat of a car (though that may have less to do with camping and more to do with three years of deputation and being required to arrive at churches in a skirt). I can roast marshmallows to perfection. And I generally don't forget the basic essentials anymore. The only things forgotten this trip that were deemed worth going back for was salt, aspirin, and the second bag of marshmallows.

The best part of camping:
Cooking "gourmet" over a wood fire.
Snuggled up in a sleeping bag reading by flashlight late into the night.
Walking along various campsites and watching people who have no idea how to set up a tent.
Guitar and psaltery by firelight.
Telling funny/scary stories--recalling the story Mom told me when I was eight that gave me nightmares for the entire rest of my childhood.

That was that

Saw a strange thing on the way home this evening. It was dark, 10:00, and the thunder showers predicted for the afternoon had finally begun, giving my wipers quite a workout. And I was straining to see through the torrents. Just before I pulled into my driveway, I saw a shadowy shape in the road. I slowed to a crawl, trying to make it out. At first I thought it was just another overturned garbage can, but it was two distinct shapes. One black, the other a lighter shade of the same. An animal? I crept closer. Two cats. They were staring at each other, nose to nose for the longest time. They were seemingly oblivious to the downpour. Then their heads came up in unison to look at me, their eyes connecting with my headlights and flashing. They actually looked perturbed that I had interrupted them. But still they just stood there. Finally, one darted to one side and the other off the other side of the road.

And I wondered briefly what they had been talking about.

And now I must go to bed, because such thoughts can only mean I am dreadfully exhausted. And when I wake up people will be people again and cats will be cats and that will be that.

April 1

April Fools, 

A teachers worst nightmare.

Worse then the day after Easter when the Easter baskets are already mostly empty.

Worse then the morning before before trick-or-treating when the mere anticipation of sweets has been working its toll.

Worse then the last week before Christmas when the kids realize it's already too late to impress Santa, but their parents will cave and buy them presents anyway, or the first week after Christmas when they know they've still got a whole year to be good.

April Fools day outshines them all. Every teacher approaches class with trepidation, knowing they are about to be bombarded by an assault of pranks, thought up according to a child's perception of humor. They have probably been coached by Dad or big brother with all sorts of suggestions on how to aggravate the teacher. These will be misconstrued and come out worse or stupid. I hate April Fools.

Fortunately I work with preschoolers and all I really had to endure were the highly unoriginal There's a spider behind you and Your shoes are untied.

I told them that there was really no such thing as April Fool's Day, that the whole day was set up as a joke to convince people that first of April was a holiday, but it was just a fake, so really the joke's on them. They didn't get it. 

All around it was a pretty mild day. No short-sheeted beds, no stolen cakes, no bunnies painted purple, no pictures turned upside down. no clocks turned back or ahead, no dressers with their drawers turned upside down, no jello in the shower heads, no ice cubes in the teapots, no snowmen on the toilets, no bras in the freezer.

I survived this one just fine, and I've got another year before April strikes again.

Carpe diem

Do you remember when you were required to have a detailed ten year plan of your life? Everyone would ask and your answer would somehow determine your value or future success, and subsequently, you watched your friends be divided into two groups: those who would be something in life and those who would not. I had the speech down. I could usually come up with a response that would satisfy most, maybe even inspire a few. But I hated giving it. Who was I to say where I would be in ten years? My desires would probably change in the next year or two. Most of my ten year goal would not happen. The rest I hoped wouldn't.

Categorize me in the group that didn't make it if you will, but for the record, I am content.

My life is made up of a job I don't love, but will do. I could do a lot worse, and there are days I genuinely feel I'm making a difference. The rest of my time is spent with a six year old who is quite possibly the most important thing in my life. I live with my sister, brother-in-law, and two beautiful nieces, six-years and four-months old. My parents live just down the road. My brother lives 3 hours north. He's one of those rare exceptions who will probably actually achieve his ten year and love it.

Is this the life imagined for my self when I was in college? Not even close. The only thing that has remained consitant about my life is the ever presence of God. There are things that I still want out of life. I won't be living here forever. I'll find a better job. But right now, I am happy. God is so good. I've decided I'm not going to wait for life to happen. This is my life. Right now, it's about living in the moment, making memories. If you've seen my facebook photo albums, you've seen record of those memories.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not ditching goals and planning. I'm embracing this mindset hopefully less in the irresponsible, faithless aspects and more in the choosing contentment and enjoyment areas. For now. this is my goal.

Moving

You know you've moved too many times when...

• the scent of cardboard causes an instant escape mechanism response: turn, scream, run
• half the boxes in the basement are still packed from the last move
• you know the difference between packing tape and storage tape
• you own a tape gun
• you're the only one who can make your dishes fit in the original box they came in
• you still have the box they came in
• you don't hire movers because you know you can do the job better
• you've learned to pack in small boxes
• you've decided your next vehicle will be a pickup because it will make your next move easier
• most the things you own are travel size
• you know you can wait till the last minute to start packing and it will still get done...somehow

2008

Christmas, New Year, presents, programs, lit trees, Luke 2 readings, family, shopping, decorations, cookies, long lost relatives, laughter. It's been a good holiday. I can't wait till next year.

Life is good

Shelly just started kindergarten
We still have a few more weeks of warmth
I'm off tomorrow
My books are finally alphabetized
Tim gets to go back to school
I've had some good talks with my students
I got to spend some time with my grandma
I jumped out of a plane with Tim
My apartment looks really nice
I made the most amazing chicken salad
I think I'm going to get it patented

Random thoughts I don't have time to develop

Spring is cruel. All the trees are coming to life with yellowy-green leaves that get thicker every day. Pink blossoms cascading from branches and white poofy ones that look something like cotton candy. I've never been a huge fan of spring. It's muddy. But this place looks like something from a greeting card. And then there's my house with with 8 trees out front as bare as winter would have them. They are the only leafless trees on campus and have become quite depressing. But I will have my revenge. I went out last week and bought a half dozen potted plants. Now when I look out my window, or at my windowsill rather, I see green and feel a little less neglected by the season.

I bought Ocean's 12 and 13 recently because I found them on clearance and someone told me I would like them. I refused to watch them until I had seen Ocean's 11. I finally got around to watching it online this weekend. The Japanese subtitles were kind of annoying, but I couldn't find any other sites that were free.

I've been back from Maranatha for a week now. It was a fun weekend, and I've been meaning to put together a happy list from it, but life got busy again the moment I returned. I had a wonderful time talking to Miss Betsy, watching the Mormon Pride and Prejudice with Chelsie and RuthAnn, singing Head and Shoulders in my old 2's and 3's class, playing violin at Calvary, attending the play. I went to all my old haunts with a notebook and came up with some interesting thoughts which I will not record here. I guess it was weird being back just to visit. But I'm glad I went.

I met the sweetest lady last night. Her name is Irene. She's the kind of character I would write into a book, quaint and happy, talking a mile a minute with something good to say about everyone and everything. You know she must have had a bad day somewhere along way, but you would never hear about it. There was something about her that seemed more fictitious than real. Now my mind is actively trying to determine how many roles I could work her into.

I'm going to Sight and Sound this weekend. I can't wait. I'll try to post something about it.

Life is getting out of control

The little things that interrupt my daily routines are the first cues that something needs to change. Granted, I'm not addicted to routine. I like change well enough to keep life spicy. And I scorn traditionalism. But everyone needs their thread of sameness that connects one day to the next, and my thread is unravelling.

1. My bed is unmade. This is a personal pet peeve. There's no excuse for an unmade bed. It takes all of 30 seconds to pull up the cover, and that single act makes anything else that is out of place look a little neater. I live alone. An unmade bed is no one's fault but my own.

2. I found a potholder in my underwear drawer. Clearly, I didn't have time to sort my laundry. What's worse? It's been there for 3 weeks.

3. My book shelves are still not alphabetized, and all the newly aquired books are growing in verticle stacks on top of the horizontal ones. I live the disjointed personality of an analytical (highly organized) and an artist (highly disorganized). So life is always a little out of kilter, but unalphabetized books are really upsetting my balance.

4. My plant died. I watched a movie that said you're not ready to be in a relationship until you can keep a pet alive, and you're not ready to own a pet until you can keep a plant alive. The moral was something about responsibility and caring for someone/something else more than yourself. I was trying to care for my plant. Honest. My grandma puts used coffee grounds on her plants to help fertilize them. No one told me flavored coffee would kill one. Guess I'm not ready.

5. uh number 5, I don't have time to finish this post, but if I don't post it now, I'll never get back to it...

Just over nothing exists something

Warning: following is the most abstract, vague, non-committed post I have ever written. Do not expect to understand. Do not expect anything to mean what it looks like it means. If you can decipher any of it, congratulations—you know me better than I thought you did. If you do not understand it, don’t feel bad. After all, everyone must have their secrets.

Colors, sometimes bright and intense, sometimes fading into a state of near non-existence spread across the canvas of time, adding pigment to mere thought. When the brush first made a mark, it struck perplexingly. The artist should have known, should have had some concept of the finished painting, should never have made such a wayward stroke. But it seemed the brush had moved of its own accord, irresponsibly marring the image. The first mark was careless, but easily remedied, easily painted over.

The artist painted twice, three times, a forth. Each time on the same canvas. Each layer of paint concealing the previous. And when he was finished, discovered to his alarm that the painting he had hidden was more beautiful than the one that remained uncovered. The painting is framed now, hanging inconspicuously out of the way. To those that find it through effort or by mistake, it is as it appears, simple, a child’s effort made valuable only by the cost of the frame. To the artist, it is a secret, concealed for all eternity. He cares nothing for the visible product, despises it in fact. But he sees the truth. For behind the clear sky lie vibrant colors of abstract design. Between the hills now covered with trees, is a daring image he never intended for human eyes. In the depths of a still lake is the remnant of that first brush stroke. And in every other crevice are the pictures that never left the artist’s thoughts. He sees them. They are as real in his mind’s eye as if they had actually met the canvas. But alas the artist’s skill prevented them their moment.

If only. If only the artist had not doubted his work. If only he had not cared what others thought. If only the others knew what to look for. If only…but the if onlys are endless. So, as the boundaries of reality and fantasy meet and overlap, the only thought that remains is: if only the artist now had the heart to destroy the painting. And the title of the painting is as unrevealing as the painting itself: June uncovering secrets through invisible noticing.