Tucked Far Away

 

    There is a board and care home around the corner from my house that my father stayed at (maybe three months) during his brief battle with prostrate cancer.

    So yesterday when I was out walking Lucie I saw a man about my age pushing a wheelchair of a loved one and it was quite familiar.  His passenger was either incredibly thin, or perhaps close to the end.

    They were stopping and marveling at flowers, hedges, and even shadows cast by trees. I remembered these walks quite well.

    Immediately the memories were triggered, and I went back to that time when I was pushing my dad outside and trying to grab, and savor every single second we had together.

    It's funny how grief goes. It's so bloody painful, and razor sharp initially. Yet, it has to wane. The sharp edges have to get worn, and soften. I hate to be cliche but one has to go on. The part that hurts goes away but the wound is always there.

    I will always remember how he grew so quiet at one point during his illness.  t was SO unlike him. My father was like a maven. He knew so much about everything. I remember during one of his silent periods, nervous and desperate to draw him out I asked, "What are you thinking about?"

     "How to beat this thing," he responded wistfully.

    I stopped and let Lucie do her sniffing on a nearby Boxwood while I continued to watch the two.  I found myself smiling as I had completely forgotten the walks with my dad.    

     Once Lucie was satiated with sniffing we continued on.  

Adolescence. . . (AKA -Stop this ride I want to get off)

    I passed a young boy his morning on his way to school. He never looked up. His head bowed, full of curly brown hair, and his eyes razor focused on the sidewalk. Although seemingly quiet, and nondescript, his head clearly full of thoughts and his body chock full of raging hormones.

   He was a middle schooler.

    I taught middle school English a few summers and decided right then, and there that middle school teachers were a special breed.  They were in a special club that I admired, and revered, but under no circumstances wanted to join.

   And I will never forget those early years of teaching as I went to graduate school at night. I was pursuing my Masters in Brit. Lit., and the wide disparity between the two groups of students was not lost on me. My own students (my class) crawled over each other to respond. They overlapped, and even spoke over each other, and often could not even wait their turn. Their eagerness knew no bounds.  And the graduate class? It was crickets. Only a few (who knew the entire novels cover to cover) responded consistently. Most of us were too fearful to say the wrong thing, or worse to have the wrong opinion with our professor.

   I always theorized that something happens in middle school. I don't know what exactly it is. It's like purgatory. They have to swim upstream through the hormones, growth spurts, bad skin and bad hair.

   And so when I passed this young boy this morning I wanted to just reach out and tousle his hair, or tell him everything was going to be alright. He would get through this. Everyone goes through it.

      But he didn't see me.

First Days

      I don't care what year it is- first days feel like first days. The first day of school is no exception. For me a new lunch box, brand new markers and maybe even a new outfit made a world of difference. And even my first days as a teacher had the same rite of passage. (I'm still a sucker for a new set of Flairs).

     I was still running around, my timing was off, studying these new faces and taking those mental notes in my first few hours. My game was slightly off, but I was okay as I knew I just needed to swim through the uncertainty.

    But a first day is like no other. I will give it that. It's fresh and it's clean. There is nowhere to go but forward and there is something so exciting and fresh about that. The newness is in the air and we are all silently drinking it in.

    When the bell rings everyone files out- some faster than others. Their faces, postures, even the their shoulders seem to belay a release of anxiety. The ride is over.

    Until next time. 

Reframing

     I've been trying out this mindfulness reading now for I think about six months or more and I've gotten so much out of it. I go outside with my coffee, read, and watch (listen) to the birds in my assorted feeders. Just the practice of going outside in the morning for maybe 15-20 mins a day has made a daily difference in a myriad of subliminal ways.

    I see I am a tiny bit quieter sometimes, and  sometimes more patient. But the biggest change I see is that I crave/ need this quiet start. If I am traveling, or anything is going on and I can't start my day this way I miss it. I definitely can feel the absence of this ritual.

   I've read a few somewhat reflective, mediative and self help books. Many of them have affected how I see things and helped me view aspects of my life with a whole different lens. 

       My newest morning read is Manifest, by Roxie Nafousi. This one is more about self realization. It promises to help you create the life you want.  I don't know about that yet-I just started it, but I am visualizing what I want. In addition, I am trying to embrace the positive and concrete advice about how to navigate your thought process. 

     Today's passage was about replacing negative thoughts with positive ones. The average brain has 60% thoughts, and a whopping 80% are negative.

   I THINK I can handle this. . . .,