Two Ships Passing

   This morning on my morning run (where I get most of my best thinking done) I ran by two (not one) cars whose passengers were engrossed in their phones.  One was a driver at a traffic light and I decided to trek behind him just in case he might not see me. And the other cell phone user was at a four way stop. The driver was focused on the road, and the passenger was a young teen fully engrossed in his cell phone.  And although they were together in so many ways, in many ways they were not.

    I don't know why but I was struck by my own experience. I remember vividly when I transitioned from the "friendly bus driver," taking my kids and their friends places, to the sullen teenage times where there seemed to be an invisible glass wall dividing the front seat from the backseat.  And then of course I remember finally graduating to all passengers on a phone, everyone quiet, everyone glued to their respective screens. 

   And as I started slowly jogging through the crosswalk I looked back at the random stranger who really wasn't a stranger at all.

Purty Dang Blessed

 

       Elementary school teaching has changed over the years. In my humble opinion, it has lost its' way.  There is too much emphasis on test scores, and outcomes and not as much emphasis on learning, and the student. There is a also great deal of stress. (Who am I kidding?!) And in the past 25 years this former educator has seen far too much.  If I'm going to be honest- it was definitely time to hang up my satchel. However, to put a positive spin on things, I will say that one of the most beautiful things that I take away from my teaching experience is to know that the little community we created for nine months in our class still carries on.

    I recently learned that a group of my students still get together (whenever they are local) and still keep in touch via social media.

    One texted me the other night because she was with her good friend  (also from our class) and they were asking me about a favorite art project of theirs: victorian houses. We designed, and drew our own individual houses with different windows, doors, surface treatments, etc In addition, I discovered two other best friends from our class were exchanging pictures, and memories of our outdoor education trips to the Marin Headlands on social media this week.

    You know what? I can still see their faces. 

Canine Prophet

     You know I do yoga, and I have also tried practiced breathing. Often, I  dutifully go outside in the morning in efforts to capture those small moments ( frequently to no avail). And yet there is a full fledged fully furred Buddha right in my midst. This wise little soul is just waiting to impart wisdom to me on the myriad of ways that I could slow down, and savor life if I would only listen.

    And when I rush by, always on my way "somewhere uber important," I typically will get a tiny little eye opening, and the subliminal message, "Oh, you are still doing that?"

Legacy

 

    My father was a character. There is no way to sugar coat it. When I was little I SO wanted him to be like other dads. I would have KILLED to have him dress, talk, behave and/or drive with a just a semblance of normalcy.

   Alas, it was not to be. EVER.

   I saw a friend's post recently remembering her father on his birthday. She mentioned they shared a love of classic rock n roll, and sexy cars.

   I randomly thought of what my father and I both shared.  My father and I shared a love of art, classic literature, classic and modern films, a passion for the environment, and questioning everything. 

  Not too shabby for someone who answered our front door in his boxers.

  I'm still struggling with that one, folks.

Tales of the famed Marilyn Monroe

    My father told me a story once.  Mind you, he was full of anecdotes if you only had several days. He mused about meeting the famed Arthur Miller in the fifties while he was on some kind of lecture circuit.  My father was an English professor at University of Colorado and I believe Miller at that time was on some kind of tour with a book or a play if I am guessing.

     As a drama student I was lapping it up and eager for each detail. I remember just listening to him in awe. My father was non impressed. 

"Well, no one got to see him or talk to him at that party, Morna. Whenever anyone asked about him the host just gestured to the upstairs. Apparently, he was upstairs on the phone in a closed room talking to his wife who was in California for hours. Marilyn Monroe was upset, and he was calming her down. I don't think he ever came downstairs? I think someone eventually brought him a drink, and a plate." 

   As I listened I remember nodding, and concluding that the details in the media of her much chronicled neurosis were probably true. 

Big Sigh.

Ah, the days before social media! Ah, the days when news was composed of facts.

On the Periphery

 

 You know when you don't belong somewhere the feeling is universal. I can recognize it a mile away.  I can remember vividly visiting my old elementary school, somewhere that was my home for virtually six years, (this is a long time when you are thirteen). I thought how glossy, and foreign the green asbestos tiles were to me. Or I even wondered, "Why are these drinking fountains so low?"

    It was the same when I visited my old school to do an art lesson.  Newly retired I had promised my colleagues I would substitute teach from time to time, or do art in their classrooms. I'm not a stranger, but I don't belong. The teachers dip their heads in to talk on their way out to recess, and there are posters on the school gates advertising some event that I know nothing about. Even the kids reserve their best shiny greetings for me. Their, "Good morning, Mrs. Gersho!" is positively choral.  Don't be fooled! This solicitation is not the same as how they might greet someone they know, someone who is familiar, someone they can test or push.

Fortitude

    This is my Aunt Nette. Her given name is Jeanette Stanford Blair. She was born, and raised on Stanford Farm in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.  Rumor has it that she was tough as nails, called 'em as she saw 'em, yet at the same time was both tender and practical. I won't even go into what she said to my father when he got out of line. Which was often- but that's for another time.

    I was told that she went off on a train to marry her husband, and came back barely six months later.  She never spoke of the matter again, and neither did anyone else.  She returned to help out on the old homestead, and take care of her younger brothers, and sisters She continued to take care of family matters, and run the farm for the next sixty years until her passing.

Good Will

    If anyone had told me that a casual friend I knew from high school would one day help my daughter make definitive footholds in her career I would have been in total disbelief.

      Recently my daughter has settled in southern California to try to break into the film industry.  A friend suggested that I look up an old friend we both knew from high school, Herbert Welsh. Herbert, according to my friend, now worked for a television major network.

     Flash forward to him advising her, helping her network, and basically making himself available to her at almost any opportunity should she ever need it.  I feel so comfortable not just with her living in a brand new city, but that she has this support in her career ahead for her because of him. 

   When I have tried to thank him, or even express gratitude he is dismissive. "Someone did this for me." Or he simply responds, "I want to give back."

   I don't know which touches my heart more? The idea that someone would bestow this depth of kindness with the expectation of nothing in return is one thing. However,  I guess the concept of the randomness of Herbert's friendship so long ago and what it has now blossomed takes the cake.

  Cut to me- just sitting in gratitude- gratitude for the randomness of life, and also basking in the beauty of good will.

     

Alexander Was Right

  

   I don't think I can properly describe the sheer beauty of a budding flower. It represents so many things. One one hand, there is a layer of science, or new life, but of course it represents so much more symbolically. Spring is rebirth. Spring is starting over. Spring is a cleansing. Something about spring also represents hope to me. And I think of Alexander Pope's "Hope springs eternal," quote. And then I think, "Yes," Alexander it most certainly does. 

   And what about those tiny buds? I just can't help but gaze at these tiny buds- these pods- waiting patiently to bloom. Their counterparts beside them already blooming in solidarity. "Come on," they seem to whisper. "Come on out, the water is fine." 

Me and my Crystal Ball

   

 I hate to be an old fogey but here goes. . . . I'm not sure how good all this technology is for mankind, but mainly I really worry about how social media impacts our kids.

    I know there is always this "life was simpler back then," thinking, and who doesn't get all warm and fuzzy looking at the yellow glow of a kerosene lamp in a cabin window? However,  the real problem is that I believe the constant barrage of information on social media coupled with the false information it promotes ( i.e. quest for perfection) is basically gonna do us all in. I truly believe it.

   There I said it. I feel better. 

    Five years ago my incoming freshman shared a draft of a paper she wrote on the negative aspects of social media that simply blew me away. She had epiphanies and revelations that even I hadn't even thought about. She expounded that the people presented in their social media accounts weren't real, and that their bodies and lives weren't real either.  She wrote that the people, and the lives presented on social media platforms were aesthetically perfect, and basically there was no such thing. Her paper was spot on.

   Cut to winter 2023, and I'm talking her down off the ledge at night because everyone has jobs in their careers, everyone has perfect boyfriends and big salaries. (And trust me, I don't even TRY to bring up her paper) Instead, I remind her of something we always talk about, and that is that social media does not depict real life. And we end almost all of our late night calls with my mantra, "Try to stay off social media. It's toxic."

This is one time I really hope mom is not right.

Jealous

 

     I love to watch the birds in my yard. I can't explain it. I try to keep the bird feeders full, my binoculars handy, and then sit back and watch the show.  Sometimes, my mornings are quite busy, and I am often on the way to another task when I remember to feed them. However, if I am lucky I will try to wait. If I time it just right, it is pure magic.

     Once the feeders are full I quickly return to the house. Within minutes at least one solitary bird will fly down, and light upon a perch on the bird feeder. In just a few seconds another bird will come. There is no noise whatsoever from the birds, and no calling. (The exception to the rule of course is the California Bluejay. He can't keep his beak shut to save his life).

    I never get tired of watching this process, nor marveling in their seamless ability to communicate without sound.  In a world where one is being inundated with screens, social media, over saturated mass reporting, and even the news ticker tape displayed at the bottom of a t.v. screen I must admit I am downright envious that our feathered friends can communicate through silence.

Parallels

 

    My mother got sick when I was little, went without oxygen, and ended up with significant brain damage. So, in her case she was "here" with us, but also sometimes not.  It was hard to explain, and often easier to not elaborate.  The state of confusion was real. I can still see their knitted collective brows now asking, "Is she alive?"  And of course the follow up,  "Well, I'm sorry I don't understand. Why doesn't she live with you again?"

    My sister is a practicing alcoholic. We discovered her alcoholism about six years ago. In and out of rehabs she cannot seem to get well.  Again, hard to explain, and definitely easier to not elaborate. " Where does your sister live?" someone inevitably will query. Or even, "What does she do?" Someone might innocently inquire.

     My own painful shame equals the pity emanating from their faces. The irony of these parallels are not lost on me. 

   

Unbreakable Patterns

 

    I'm the youngest in my family, and the last of four.  For me there were no baby books, no infant pictures, no brand new ANYTHING.  My mom was done when I came along and it was obvious everywhere. I was that pest, I was too young, I was a tagalong that everyone resented BUT I must add if someone was picking on me- LOOK OUT! 

   Both parents were very busy and my older sister took on the household. She ran us like the military, and now with a career in higher education I imagine the anthropology department is also run with equal finesse. And it is this very background, this very history that led me to question and then quickly abandon an issue with my sister this summer while visiting.

    "I've booked you an airport shuttle for tomorrow morning," she said firmly that night at dinner. We had already talked about this. I had pre-ordered a Lyft to sleep on the way to the airport. She was against this as she wanted to pay.  I dreaded the shuttle with the multiple pick ups and drop offs in the wee hours before my flight. I grabbed my phone to cancel my Lyft ride because I knew better to argue with my big sister. 

 In the dark racing to the airport that morning I surrendered to thought that she will always want to take care of me. I settled into the cold, vinyl seat slightly irritated but very content.

Knew Them

 

    This morning I drove by my kid's elementary school (kinda hard not to as I live across the street) and I saw a group of moms gathered talking in the parking lot. Immediately, I recognized the familiar "after drop off" congregation.  Instantly, I found myself traveling back in time fifteen years or so in those brief seconds before I actually turned in my driveway. I smiled, and had to stop the reflex of my hand from leaving the steering wheel to wave to them.

   I knew them.