Culture Shock Rocks

Just kidding.

This is now old news, but I let the thing molder in my drafts, afraid of something. Afraid of you.

I crossed the ocean to live permanently in the US. The point of no return was this January when I didn't renew my teaching contract in Morocco.

I had things to do:
make more money
be away from an inherently sexist culture (Sure it's bad here; it's worse there.)
be accessible to my family
engage in a culture

I hope this ordering of priorities is not accurate.

This land, this land that is yours and mine, has been mysterious and painful to me as I returned to it. For all I can tell over the past four months, the good things happening were not caused by me, and the bad things happening were not my responsibility to fix. My whole responsibility, especially this summer, seemed to be to watch and listen.

Watch at the Starbucks outside of JFK, where the plain-clothes cop raised his arm to get the creamer, and revealed his handgun sticking out of his jeans.

Listen to my niece's stories about our family over the last year.

Watch as traffic moves in a slick rhythm on a very fast highway.

Listen to the radio announcer tell who is to blame, and understand every word. Understand nothing.

Watch as the people I love reach out, and out, and out. And reach back. Tentatively at first.

How I Felt a Few Days After Returning From Morocco

I feel like I'm on the outside of the world looking in while I am unemployed.

I focus on the right now question. What is happening right now? The chicken is baking. The piano is silent. The house is full of expensive, cold air that insulates me from the summer I can see and hear out the windows, though it is all muffled by this air conditioning. The air is so conditioned that it conditions me.

The kitchen smells like onions and lime, waiting for the chicken to be finished. I salivate: when did I last eat a meal? Where have I been the last few days and weeks?

I have never traveled this far before, and I feel lost.

Scenes From Prague Last Fall

Leaves are turning yellow here, and we walked among their falling last night.

There's a bright restaurant, all windows, along the river. It looks over at the castle in the nighttime.

The castle says, "I'm beautiful."

The restaurant says, "I'm alive."

---

The restaurant would trade its life for beauty in an instant, I think, because it does not slow down and breathe in that life. It is making money, money, money. We are in a little hurry to have fun and take in beauty and talk about having seen it. But we are alive, unlike every castle. 

---

On Monday, we saw banana trees drooping low, bearing their lush bunches closer and closer to earth.

On Tuesday, we saw a wall of leafy vines, all turning from green to burnished red, draped over a wall. 

Like a shawl. 

November Dedications

Wednesday, 1 
Today is dedicated to having enough.

Thursday, 2
Today is dedicated to Thor and the refugee Asgardians.

Friday, 3
Today is dedicated to that group of women who prays for me and laughs at my jokes. I thank my God every time I remember you.

Saturday, 4
Today is dedicated to the Enneagram.

Sunday, 5
Today is dedicated to Hay Hassani's thrift clothes. You are so reasonably priced. Thank you.

Monday, 6
Today is dedicated to Monica, who sees the Kingdom of God.

Tuesday, 7
Today is dedicated to the Apostle Paul, who preserved the Gospel from extra conditions.

Wednesday, 8
Today is dedicated to every bank everywhere that actually does their job. So, that would exclude my bank in Morocco, just to be clear.

Thursday, 9
Today is dedicated to Tyler, who sympathized with me at odd hours while I was grading instead of sleeping.

Friday, 10
Today is dedicated to "The Crucible" movie, which saved me from actually teaching.

Saturday, 11
Today is dedicated to the book Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson

Sunday, 12
Today is dedicated to the taxi driver who spoke beautiful French, and encouraged me to keep learning.

Monday, 13
Today is dedicated to this carpet next to me. It witnessed my attempts to create two unit plans in one hour, and it remained beautiful.

Tuesday, 14
Today is dedicated to the parents of my students. Thank you for trusting me so much.

Wednesday, 15
Today is dedicated to the English department. During high-grading weeks, I sometimes feel like we go through war together... separately.

Thursday, 16
Today is dedicated to the "Time Until" app. Five days.

Friday, 17
Today is dedicated to naps. Naps on the way to work. Naps on buses. Naps on couches. Naps that save first my life, and others by extension.

Saturday, 18
Today is dedicated to Amicitia American School, Fes, who knows how to host graciously.

Sunday, 19 
Today is dedicated to Luke D., who made me laugh until I cried.

Monday, 20
Today is dedicated to the substitute who will have the joy or sorrow of my classes tomorrow.

Tuesday, 21
Today is dedicated to Tyler, who flew across an ocean to hang out for a few days.

Wednesday, 22 
Today is dedicated to couches, windows, and sunshine, and anywhere the three meet.

Thursday, 23 
Today is dedicated to you, Lord, who graciously gives us good things.

Friday, 24
Today is dedicated to a pair of cat earrings; to my brother and sister-in-law; to Tyler; and to the little girl selling tissues next to the train station.

Saturday, 25
Today is dedicated to "Stranger Things" and leftovers.

Sunday, 26
Today is dedicated to comings and goings; may God watch over them all.

Monday, 27
Today is dedicated to the working printers.

Tuesday, 28
Today is dedicated to sentence diagramming; I wish I had known how fun you were when I was in seventh grade, myself!

Wednesday, 29
Today is dedicated to G period. I look older because of you. But I love you, and will keep forgiving you right before class, at 1:40 PM every weekday, and right after class, at 2:30 PM every weekday.

Thursday, 30
Today is dedicated to Shanti and Nissa, who listened without judgment, and kept my phone through the night.

Reset Button

What did it take me to get here, in Casablanca? 

The flight was less than seven hours, a red-eye from DC to Casablanca. I even had the great honor of being able to sprawl across three seats because by luck my row had not sold out. That afforded me three hours of low-quality sleep. Three hours of sleep provides you with just enough energy to stand in passport control for over an hour, but not quite enough energy to remember how to get to the train station from baggage claim. Missed that first train. Whatever. 

What did it take me to get here, in front of a computer with thoughts?

It took me some crying, a good video chat, dinner with friends, time in prayer, twelve hours of sleep, two cups of coffee, a load of laundry, two episodes of something on Netflix, and a banana. 

It was good to be in the United States.

It is good to be back in Morocco.

So Angry

If I were you, there's no reason I would read this. We get enough complaining without searching for it.

This week, here's what makes me angry.

1. People defining themselves by traveling. Collecting friends like souvenirs. I see my hypocrisy. It will take years to remedy.

2. Dudes hollering at me on the street. Yesterday, as I was walking past Beausejour on a main road, I had just passed two young men when I heard that kissy noise every woman knows. I turned around, walked the few steps back to them, and shouted in English, "DON'T DO THAT. DON'T EVER DO THAT AGAIN!" I was livid. Jaw set hard, lips pinched, eyes wide and fixed; I curled my upper lip in disgust. They don't speak English, but the words didn't matter. They nodded, ashamed and uncomfortable.

I have been told to not make any eye contact, to keep my eyes down so as not to draw attention to myself in any way. It doesn't seem to matter. Men here (and in Pennsylvania, and lots of places) think a woman walking on the street is an easy target for their libidinous guffaws. Usually, I walk on for my own safety. But yesterday I had it in my head that I really could, and would, fight. 

3. Students who put forth an extraordinary effort in making excuses and arguing while their work remains incomplete or not begun. In the same category, a senior who shows up at their final and doesn't have a pen.  

Lovelocks of Paris

Locks are prolific in Paris. You buy one at any corner tobacco shop, and attach it to some bridge, or indeed any public metal fixture in a picturesque area, and it represents your committed love. 

I really liked this concept, and I treated it like a treasure hunt all around the city. 

In a park behind Notre Dame Cathedral, where I had no clue
how to focus my lens.

Locks on a tunnel hook along the Seine

On the Eiffel Tower, people worry a lot about structural failure.

The Pont Des Arts, probably the most famous place in Paris
to spot locks

I felt like this lock was mine, because it already had one of
my monikers, and its love was Paris. 

Russian Reader

In my stats, I have noticed a faithful Russian readership, and it appears to be human readership, not just crawling. And maybe it's a proxy, although what situation you must be in to choose Russia as your proxy, I don't care to guess.

I sound like I know what I'm talking about when it comes to the mysteries of the internet, and I assuredly do not. All this to say that I appreciate you, Russian friend(s). Thanks for reading for the past six years.

If I Had it to Do Over...

If I could sit myself down in late July 2016, I would have listened to my very legitimate worries about how to say goodbye, what to pack, and what to do about money. After just listening to all that, December Me would have told July Me the following important information:

1. When it comes to packing, remember, people live there. They either know how to do it or are surviving without doing it. (This apparently does not apply to shoes. Bring ALL your shoes.)

2. Bring a journal from before you left. You were a person quite different then, but still a whole, dignified person. It's good to remember those days when you understood the world around you.

It's also good to see the holes and questions you had before the move. Moving has brought new pain, but it has answered some of your questions, deepened your dreams, changed your life.

3. You don't have to go everywhere and experience everything right away. Reading books is still an acceptable pastime, no matter the continent.

4. You're going to write again. And you're going to love it.

The Longest Day of My Life

Prompt: describe the longest day of your life 

[A story of when I was returning from a mission trip in Australia at age 15. More significant events took place, but this one sticks close in my memory.]

Technically, it would be the day you cross the international dateline, right? What could make that set of flights longer? How about a 24-hour virus that caused you to fill your sick bag every time you experienced turbulence?

While all your friends gleefully bought kangaroo jerky at the Sydney airport, you put your head between your knees and tried to disappear from earth. But, no, you had to line up to go through passport check? or something, and then security, where you discover too late that you had a water pistol in your backpack. But what's worse than holding up the security line for an inadvertent water pistol? Your friend being stopped instead, by mistake. As security searches her extensively, you once more wish to disappear, because of course you aren't thinking about your stupid, delaying-everyone water gun that could have righted the whole situation. You're looking for a trash can to throw up in.

Then everyone in your group of 72 has to board late, and the plane had to wait, and so you're last in the queue to take off, and when you finally arrive in Dallas, you're feeling great, but a little tired from living two days.

Fish, Cats, and Family Vacation

Sometimes, on vacation, a meal out is just another meal. You find nourishment. Maybe you pay too much. And you leave full, but empty. Then there are those special meals out. There's a spark to conversation. The food is better. Commensality.

On our family vacation to Baltimore last weekend, we had a few of those successful, special dinners together. The best was Saturday night. Meg had made the reservations, and she and I had chosen dresses to wear, and Meg and dressed my not-yet-seven-year-old niece Aida in a twirly pink skirt. When Dad saw that Stephen was wearing a collared shirt, he felt under-dressed and returned to the room to change. As we all piled into the shuttle, I wondered why "dressing for dinner" had ever gone out of fashion. It separates the work from the play. I can appreciate people better after I feel I have taken care of myself.

We walked along the piers of Inner Harbor, arriving at the restaurant just before sunset. The inside was inlaid with rich woodwork that reminded one of lavish captain's quarters. Final rays of sunlight peeked through the westward windows, illuminating specks in the air. We all attempted to sit up straight and act as though we always ate in places with multiple forks. I ordered the flounder

We chatted while Aida colored a picture of a shrimp wearing a hat and a hook. (She must have colored ten of these pictures by the end of the weekend.) When we slowed our eating, Dad remarked that we should save the fish that we don't eat so that he could feed it to the starving cat at the hotel. If you don't know my Dad, you'll appreciate that he gave me a little book called 101 Uses for a Dead Cat when I was eight years old. But you should also know that I am an avid cat-lover, and he was less than 50% joking about the book.

So when he issued a proclamation regarding the saving of scraps for a cat, one wondered how much he had had to drink. And one wondered a lot more when the honest answer was that he was not drunk; he was serious. Stephen corroborated the story: a skin-and-bones cat had been wandering about the hotel gates, meowing pathetically, clearly the victim of some tragic human.

When the waiter came by, my father asked for a small box, "So we can give the rest to a starving cat."

No. Joke. I was mortified. So was my Dad.

"The food was excellent, though," I tried to clarify, "It's just... we're all full..."

"--and this cat, it really is starving," Dad helped. The waiter seemed to understand.

Megan laughed, "This is something Princess would love to eat, right Aida?" Princess lives across the street from Meg and Stephen. She often wanders into their yard, and is more a community cat than the property of any one household. Everyone loves her as if she were their own, and my niece and nephew especially so. My brother would often come outside in the morning to find Princess on the top of his car, waiting to say good morning to him. "By the way, where is Princess? It's been a long time since she's been around. Have you seen her, Steve?"

"Yeah, she died a month ago. She got run over," Stephen said matter-of-factly. He immediately realized his mistake.

Aida looked up at him, then put her head down on the table, covering her little face in her little hands. When she looked up again, she was close to sobbing, her face streaked with tears, her nose reddening, "P-Princess," was all she could manage. Megan held her as Stephen tried to mend it.

"I'm sorry, Pickle. I meant to tell you better." Dad and I looked at each other, nearly crying ourselves. I mean, we'll all miss Princess, but my young niece experiencing the first death of a pet (suddenly, over dinner) was almost more than we could bear. She pulled it together after being promised candy from some overpriced, sassy shop in the Harbor.

The night was warm and breezy, and filled with a jazz band. The perfect night for dancing under a crescent moon hanging above the skyscrapers.

Interesting fact: The starving cat rejected everyone else's fish except for the flounder.

Hijacked from my Journal: September 10, 2010

On my way to the bus, I saw a man carrying a giant green duffel bag on his back.

(Maybe it mattered solely because I've been reading Kerouac, and maybe it was the disheveled hair and three of four days' growth of beard on his chin that made him look travel-worn.)

He turned the corner of Lemon and College,

several yards in front of me.

A few houses down, he climbed the steps slowly, to the front door of a nicely-kept house.

It was a place where a family, maybe older, certainly rich, would live. But his door was the smaller front door, where he was probably renting from the nice family.

No stir was perceptible as he entered, late morning.

I thought, "he is coming home after a long journey. And I am the only one who knows."

While in Chicago

I had two mid-terms to send in to my professors on the Thursday that we arrived in North Chicago. One was based on a book mentioned here already, On Being a Teacher. The other was comparing Jack Kerouac and Saul Bellow. I sat in the lobby of the Comfort Inn with my headphones in my ears, listening to Shawn McDonald as I fought to regain my consciousness. I was exhausted from the drive.

I had some reflections of value from the books. But in the end, I emailed my professor for an extension. So, do I recommend On the Road or Herzog? Meh. Not really. On the Road is good to know historically. Plus, it has the ring of some deep truths: the infinite search for purpose, and the imminent failure of it all; the likeliness of disappointment; the feel of connection to one's surroundings; what it takes to be human. But it surprised me with its sadness. Maybe it is worthwhile.

Herzog was not very reachable for me. The book is comprised of the hilarious and wordy ramblings of a highly-trained academic. I could identify with him at the strangest moments. His perspective is rather childish for a man with so much learning. I'm making it sound like I had fun reading the book. I didn't. I laid on the couch for two and a half hours and got bloodshot eyes, a strained neck, and a soppy brain out of the deal. I did, however, find this to be beautiful:

"There is a distant garden where curious objects grow, and there, in the lovely dusk of green, the heart of Moses E. Herzog hangs like a peach."

What is the difference between an event and an experience?

Grand Ohio: A Narrative Tapering Into (surprise!) a List

I arrived in Ohio on August 12th, around 3am. I was so dazed, that as soon as the train was stopped, I proceeded to attempt to exit the train. I did not notice that we had not yet pulled into the station. The conductor man held my arm, keeping me from walking a good eighth of a mile on stones with two pieces of luggage, amusing as that might have been for him.

It was so good to see Ivana! We talked until six in the morning, naturally. Thursday was over before it began, and we never fully recovered from the all-nighter. (We discovered that we particularly have a need to sleep in the nighttime; day simply won't do.)

In the late afternoon, we met up with Kara and Rick, a 3/5 STEP team reunion! At Kara and Rick's wedding last summer, Rick called us his STEP team-in-law: precious. We had such lovely conversation Thursday evening. Every time I see these girls, I feel as though our bond has grown deeper, as we see each other in new environs. We talked about changes, God, education. I played with their miniature dachshund.

On Friday morning, Ivana took Philip and I through a workout at a nearby gym. I was sore until yesterday. Also, I had the chance twice in five days to sport my summer-camp-special knowledge of the Hoedown Throwdown, to undeserved applause.

Afterward, Ivana, her mom, Dawn, and I toured Harry London's chocolate factory. Chocolate. Chocolate...

We then met Ivana's childhood friend/brother at the airport where he works. It was tearful and difficult, as he had removed himself from them two years before and Ivana had missed any chance of seeing him in recent history by being out of the country. We left with a promise from him that he would visit soon: breakfast, if he was able to wake up for it.

Quickly recovering equanimity, we went to see the last three quarters of the movie Ramona and Beezus at a $1.50 theater. The best part was the man who had come alone, sitting behind us, laughing hysterically at the funny parts, and repeating his favorite lines throughout. As a movie-talker myself, I sympathized deeply, enjoying the experience all the more for the joy in stereo quality.

And so Friday ended with games and fun at the DuBose house, and a late night of talking, I am pretty sure.

Saturday contained a DuBose family reunion. How lovely to see them with family! And a lovely family, at that. We stayed in the kitchen for hours, talking and feasting. In the evening, Ivana pulled out canvases and paints and we set to work on being creative!

On Sunday we attended church. The pastor spoke on I Corinthians xiii, substituting “Love” for “Jesus.” “Jesus is patient, Jesus is kind. Jesus does not envy, he does not boast...”

We made enchiladas for lunch and ate together. The DuBose manner of table conversation goes like this:

Person 1: Did you guys see Linda at church today?

Person 2: Who's Linda?

Person 3: She's the lady with the loud dog!

P2: Oh! You mean the lady who carries the huge red purse?

P3: No, that's Mrs. Simmons. Linda's the lady with the curly hair who lives on Grant.

P4: Amy Grant was on TV last night with P. Diddy. They were singing together!

P2: You lie!

P3: [Insert Amy Grant impression].

[Laughter, all.]

P1: [quietly, unheard] I have Linda's bowl from the church picnic still.

Monday. Ivana and I agreed that my stay had not been long enough. We still had not completed all the requisite activities that Canton had to offer, including passing by the football hall of fame (not even going inside, really; and merely because it exists, not because I have any care for football), going shopping,...other stuff. We visited the Warther's museum. What can't a person do who doesn't watch television!?!

In the evening, we attended the O'Jays' (they sing “Love Train”) scholarship banquet. A reception took place in the Football Hall of Fame, then we moved outside into a tent for the meal and the speakers. The food was lame. But we looked good! And we had a good time talking with the people at the table. The speaker was some guy from CNN. When we got back home, we were exhausted. I was pensive and ready for sleep. But we stayed up til 3 am to wait for the train.

Philly Trip

No way should I be writing this right now. I have homework like I can only imagine. But it's going on a week,and my dear little bloggie has no idea about actual life events! Just snippets of thoughts, and, let's be honest, that's nothing to chew on!

Last Wednesday, Daniel, Todd, Wayne and I headed to the train station to catch the 9:30 train to 30th Street Station. Todd brought biscotti. Todd wins.

Daniel gave a brief (and enlightening, as always, Dan, (no sarcasm here, I promise!)) music-genre study on our ride. Shortly thereafter I fell asleep. I dreamed of homework. Then we were in Philly! Todd brought a map. Another win for Todd.

The day was beautiful and breezy. We walked in the historical district on our way to find cheesesteaks (one word, Google, don't you give me that red underline!) in South Street. Gianna's Grill is a hole-in-the-wall spot known for its vegan cheese steaks. Daniel's opinion: vegetarians should stick to creating their own menu instead of imitating meat--nasty.

Later, the Franklin Institute, where they are featuring Body Worlds 2. That was crazy weird. Real bodies, preserved through plastination. Instead of calling them people, the placards called them "plastinates." It was interesting to me in a morbid way. I was pretty disturbed when we got to the fetuses. The human body is miraculous, certainly. I saw an eight-week old embryo already identifiable as a human, but the size of a dime. Dude. But those little humans did not sign up to be put on display in the Franklin Institute.

We walked through the heart. I saw a brain shriveled by Alzheimer's disease. We played with airflow and inertia and camera angles and got hungry again.

Dinner was Reading Terminal Market, formerly the inner city train station before 30th Street was built. I ate sushi which I thought to be fish-free until I found an auspicious tentacle in the maki roll that fell apart. Also, Bassett's ice cream is everything Bill said it would be.

Back to the Franklin Institute for the IMAX showing of Avatar. We had to switch seats to keep everyone from straining their necks and/or throwing up. The screen fills one's field of vision to the point of certain nausea. Avatar is a wonderful movie, a powerful message about the environment, imperialism, selfishness, [loss of] culture... go see it.

Then the late train back to Lancaster. I slept again. This time I dreamed of Avatar.

Loop Inspiration

An exercise for inspiration: begin to write (write!) for two minutes. But you MUST stop after two minutes. Then circle any word from that piece, and begin writing with that word for another two minutes. Repeat. Here is my first loop.
____________________________________

Travel Time.
When you leave the house eventually,
maybe early in the morning,
with no guarantees.
Maybe you will not sleep in a bed tonight.
Maybe you will not sleep, because you are stopped at the border between the U.S.A. and Canada. And the police are inspecting your car.
____________________________________________

Guarantees.
You said "I do."
You exchanged rings.
And yet
it's just whatever.
People tell you both that
breaking this union is
unholy, impossible,
even. Just as you can't
pull apart a golden
circle.
Oh
but you can melt it in fire.
What better symbol can
we exchange?
A heart? A lung?
Bone of my bone
flesh of my flesh.
_______________________________________________

Impossible.
She only has one arm that works. But she is determined to climb the rock wall. So she gets the harness situated, with help. And Wendell holds the ropes, and she begins an ascent.
Impossible.
But she is not alone. Her twin sister uses her two good arms to hoist herself up, just beside her. And with the strength of three arms, they go up, up--to the top.

Gardens and Grandparents

Now and then, the alarm clock and I are friends. On Thursday, at six am, I truly appreciated it. I quickly dressed and added a few items to my backpack. I gulped a glass of water then reached for my keys, closing the door quietly and facing the freezing air of morning. Thin snowflakes whipped about my heavy head as I turned toward the train station, taking the route down James, then Queen street to stay in the streetlights. [Hmm, streetlights: do they give one company, or make a lonely walk even lonelier merely by their contrast at the very moments when one might have accustomed herself to the darkness?]

The train station was lit with high chandeliers and in motion with commuters and a few droopy-eyed travelers like myself. On the train, I began to focus on my book, but I put it down in short time, noticing that the east was brightening ever so slightly. Around me, professional people picked up binders and pens and text messages beeped.

We reached the Downingtown station. I was the only one to get off, while a dozen alighted to take my place. I saw Grandma and Grandpa, snugly wrapped to ward off the windy morning. The sky was fully awake now.

We talked and laughed at our breakfast in their sunny kitchen, anticipating our day together. Grandma politely asked if Grandpa wouldn't mind her driving to Longwood, for we both knew he would get confused, and she would be reminding him of our destination the whole time. He consented with a humorous grace and opened her door for her, as he has done for the past 52 years.

My stomach full, and the sun in my eyes, I fought sleep as we wound around a few back roads to reach the gardens. We entered Longwood with few other visitors. We had the gardens to ourselves so early on a weekday, and we explored the treehouses and hiked around the back ways toward the pond. I resisted the urge to run toward the meadow to the left. A green pathway extended far off the road over a rill and into a grove of firs. The walk would have worn out my companions unnecessarily, and we decided on an early lunch at the Terrace cafe.

We stayed over an hour at lunch, talking about the most important things: baptism, the Holy Spirit, family, coffee, teaching, hospitality. It turns out my grandparents know a thing or two about what makes guests comfortable, and I was glad to learn from them by experience. My grandmother once took a class on flower arrangement, and ever since has created a centerpiece for the table when hosting, giving it as a favor to her guests.

I had almost forgotten that we had yet to visit the Conservatory. It was all the more spectacular because I had not been expecting it! We passed through walks of dapper cyclamen, poinsettias arranged around decorated Christmas trees, one of which had a thousand electric-blue butterflies, slowly flapping their wings! I explored the children's labyrinth of fountains. We entered the orchid room... if only I could tell you! Then the palm room, which they maintain at a balmy 80 degrees. It was the first time I'd been that kind of warm in months! I wanted to remain in the very midst of it all, clinging to a large palm leaf and drop into the center of the rainforest below the walkway. But Grandma moved us on at a stunning pace for a woman of 75 years. On and on we went, room after room of sunlight and green and moisture. We whipped through the desert room, always my favorite, and took seats in the rose room. It was there where I finally realized how much I missed summertime, and how rejuvenated I felt.

Spring is not so far away, after all. We passed a Magnolia tree with buds.

Back at home, we played cards and talked about the news. Grandma always has stories to tell me about both sides of my family, for she was good friends with my father's family, as well. I listened. Then we sat down at the piano and we sang until my voice went hoarse. I'm still not recovered.

I was refreshed. Their slower, steadier burn of energy renewed my spirits. I felt what some people feel their whole lives and never know it: belonging. This is a place where I find pictures of myself through the years on their walls. This is a place where we talk, and we both have a right to say whatever will benefit the other. When I return with them to the gardens in the spring, I'll bound up that hill in the meadow, nothing can possibly stop me.

My Thanksgiving

Ride the train to see your friends. Let them pick you up.
Have a seat in the living room. Sink into the familiarity.
Do not take it for granted.

Enjoy the trees without their leaves. Meet the gray sky with
steely resolve to be happy no matter what,
As you glide along the highway.

Enter a warm house and start right in.
Don't expect the red carpet,
For it wouldn't be home that way.

Go to the church service in the passenger's seat.
Experience the strangest sensation to be driven by someone you
Used to take to school.

Look at faces so dear, that used to fill your heart
So full that they still do. But it's not the same.
And you don't take them for granted.

Feast.
Laugh.
Walk in the blurry four o'clock, almost snow, almost rain.
And do not take it for granted.

Lupita Mañana, by Patricia Beatty

I'm reading an especially difficult book right now for a class on teaching literature to young adults, Lupita Mañana by Patricia Beatty. It is written in English, and Beatty is not of Hispanic descent, although she lived most of her life in California. The book is written for young adults. But it leaves an ache in me.

A brother and sister are forced to travel northward from the Baja peninsula into the United States. They are taken advantage of at nearly every turn, and the only thing that saves them from falling completely into the hands of robbers, liars, and killers is an amount of common sense. These children are not extraordinary in any way. They have no special intuitive powers, no special intelligence, no special savings account waiting for them. They are folks. Just folks. And I sympathize with them something awful! I am stunned by the reality of their situation. I am sure I've read half of this book with my mouth agape.

Of All the Times When I Ignore my Homework...

this weekend proved to be the most worthwhile substitution! Friday after Biology, I started for Houghton College, arriving in the evening, just in time for a lovely barbecue party. Friday evening was general outbursts of joy (especially from me!) at just being in the same room as my good friends. I've longed for them all fervently, and my cup is overflowing!

Christine, Sheri, Shulan, Ashley, Erin, Bethany, Lydia.

Saturday was a mixture of meetings with friends, most notably the surprise party at Bethany's townhouse which I almost missed, negligently planning a low-key, on-the-fly trip to Letchworth park. It didn't pan out to go to Letchworth due to some lucky eggs... but so much the better! (Thanks go to Kevin here!) I walked in to Bethany's living room to find most of my friends from freshmen year seated about, shouting "surprise!"! This is the very kind of moment we all dream about! (Thanks go to EVERYONE here!) Drs. Woolsey and Mills-Woolsey were even able to come and we discussed some interesting ideas for developing the London program.

Liesl, Ben, Eric, Kristen, Megan, Megan, Kristina, Lydia.

Following the party, Bethany, Ashley and I went to Letchworth. We even brought along books, with the mistaken idea that we would sit quietly on a sunlit patch of grass and wait for the sunset to tell us to leave. But it was waaay cold. So we walked around, talked about the future, the past, the present, and made for the car when we couldn't feel our arms anymore. Also Saturday: Chinese, bonfire, s'mores, dancing, laughter.

Brett, Ren, Debbie, Cecily, Sally, Olivia, Rachel, Rachel, Laura, Sarah, Emily.

Sunday was even colder. We went to the Salvation Army church in Wellsville. That was made especially memorable by the two new[born] members of the church: Graham and Chayse.

Pam, Hillary, Matt, Keith, Keith, Erica, Katrina, Laura, Susanna.

On Monday, I attended Dr. Woolsey's literature class called "Fantastic Truths" in which they pull foundational truths out of fantasy literature. Monday was The Fellowship of the Ring. Wow! So many students participated in the discussion--and not simply at a rudimentary level, but insightfully, I daresay prophetically! Monday I also met up with Eric, Olivia, Zan, Dara, Sheri, and several other people. It was a full day. In the evening I attended the lecture given by Stanley Hauerwas. I will devote time to describing that lecture at some other point.

Dara, Maddie, Ashley, Kristina, Amanda, Amy, Connie, Mark, Sophie.

These lists of happenings are not terribly interesting for someone not in the know of how influential each of the names mentioned has been in my life. My aim in acknowledging them here and now is to somehow not forget that we can come back together as if time and space had not separated us very far. We have already done it once.