To be smooching on the Eiffel Tower or to not be

It begins in the throat:sandpaper. Then the shoulders try to shrug but the sinews feel butter-coated, sloshed. Then the nose tries to enlist like a nasty conformist weakling, and, suddenly, one has an active crawling bug on the week of her trip to Europe.


However, it hasn't overtaken me. I'm drinking Airborne water, popping JuicePlus pills, swallowing zinc and C's. I will overcome and will not even kiss my sweetie to give it to him (he needs to be in good form since romance demands so).


Yet one must think . . . will we be spared from something if we get left behind? Hmmm . . . to be sick or not to be sick, that is the question. I'll do my part to be healthy unless some other force whacks me on my back.

Life's musings, death notices

My third post in one day. I must truly be procrastinating my grammar decisions and my 9th grade fiction decisions, although grammar will be more innovative than imagined, and multi-tiered for the parents who desire the advanced treatment and for those who rebel and accept the basic package. A car wash approach. But, now, I want the 9th graders to hone their short story writing skills (the 2nd annual writing competition) and read The Hobbit and the obligatory Lord of the Flies all in the fall semester. And with three school days a week, time runs out quickly. Despair! I can't assign layers upon layers upon heads. Dismay!


On the Personal Front:


1. Kevin and I leave for France on Thursday.
2. I can't wait to smooch him on the Eiffel Tower.
3. Cody is going to the school where I teach.
4. I am scared to death for his success.
5. My purple phox is all a-lit outside my window.
6. I'm supposed to be planning for my course instead of blogging.
7. I ate three granola bars in a row.
8. I'm reading the book called "The Book Thief."
9. My husband just knocked on the glass door and told me a neighbor's husband just died; the husband in the house right beside them died about a month ago. I hope this isn't making its way down the street.




Au revoir!

Roll over

Oh, Grammar, how to teach you? Must I truly teach the correlative conjunction and the compound-complex sentences and the reflexive and intensive pronouns? Should I really use valuable class time to delve into your science, instead of your usage in students' writing? Or, do you really need to be labeled so that the students can so quickly forget about you (which they truly do -- even my smart students forget about you)? Yes, students need to know how punctuation works within your rules. Yes, students need to be able to identify certain parts of a sentence (noun, verbs, adjectives, adverbs), but when did you become a tyrant in my classroom, shaking your algebraic fist at my young learners who would rather be exploring meaning instead of hammering work ants to death. I must rein you in this year. I must! I must. I will:


A Rein Plan:
1) Go through the grammar book and choose the essentials;
2) Send the students home with their paid for books, where the two shall meet more than in the classroom;
3) Perform grammar check-ups throughout the semester, which looks like -- once every two weeks, set a grammar assignment deadline; throughout each week, spend only 30 minutes of class time covering the assignment, answering questions; incorporate the grammar lessons with their writing assignments, making practical sense out of the abstract; cut the abstract good-for-nothing lessons out! Amen, sister, preach it!


Thank you, O Grammar, for cooperating with the Alpha Teacher.

Thought deposit

My blog has suffered from distraction of good and hard things, but I've been yearning to return lately, so here I am.

Currently, I am downstairs surrounded my papers and books. Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 stands nearby taunting me to a dare to choose it for a student text, a parent's anxiety. Will I receive a letter from a parent which asks me why I don't choose a book by Catherine Marshall or by one of those Christian writers that are making the popular fiction rounds? I'm not sure why I want to choose this book. I've not even read it, but yet I think it might be preparatory for students to figure out how to assimilate belief with social, and perhaps religious, criticism. How is faith firmed when angular worldviews are presented? How do you accept good points about life, truth, government, human nature without scalding your thin skin of Christian paranoia? Well, I want my students to be prepared for all sorts of ideas by learning how to think, filter, toss the damaging but save the good. If God imbues all, then let's see Him in action. Yet we can certainly not get caught up in destructive images, thought patterns, hopelessness. Come on, students, learn!

I'm teaching now obviously, and I love it. I have anxiety, yes, but that spurs me on to be better. I'm going into my second year, and I must go to work right now on my freshman curriculum.

Perhaps I can write in this blog again and trust that I don't have to produce little mini-treatises here but just deposit thoughts as I make my way through the land of potholes and God's grace and love and direction-giving.

Apt

"If there is a me that curses and struggles and a me that winks and walks in peace, do I have a choice of selves?" Hugh Prather

Iowan friends

They are all caught in crisis and far away from St. Louis where we were to converge at a Women's Faith Conference this weekend. My friend called me, updating, panicky, unsure of the crest in Iowa City and what that would bring.


Therefore, tomorrow, I'll drive over to the big coliseum alone and sit in a pack of reserved, empty seats where there should be Iowan women leaning in for the personal lesson. Right now, they are poised with buckets and suitcases and calls to one another and pleas upward and dreams of mighty waters.

Appropriate at the moment

"I sometimes react to mistakes as if I have betrayed myself. My fear of them seems to arise from the assumption that I am potentially perfect and that if I can just be very careful I will not fall from heaven. But a mistake is a declaration of the way I am now, a jolt to the expectations I have unconsciously set, a reminder I am not dealing with facts. When I have listened to my mistakes I have grown. " Hugh Prather

GFCF

Its happened. The allergist has hit the fan. The anecdotal "proofs" win over: Cody is now on the GFCF diet plan having tested positive to allergies with wheat, milk and corn. Well, what's one more thing, really? So what if barely anything in my cupboard meets the requirements. So what if as a family, we have to give up pizza and mac n' cheese and popcorn and ice cream.

Surely I didn't just write that!

Oh help.

Elements

We hiked along the shooting star punctuated trail today; the boys with sticks; me with another mother and a father. We came to a creek with a flat moss slippery stone extending across, water flowing overneath. Three boys plopped down; one father splatted on his derriere. It was funny; I was glad for my country skills. The boys dripped on, through the pines, talking, laughing. Cody was smiling, a surrounded kid with magnetic likeability.

Last night before bed, he said, "It all started with a simple smile." And, he smiled and would say no more.

Earlier, and unrelated, he had gone with his mandolin-mother to be the marimbula-son, thumping at the little fiddle-tune-jam with the other two boys and men. We looked at each other, heads nodding appreciatively and focused contentedly on our instruments as the song went on. Can life get better than now?

Prayer at night, before school drop off. God has taught me again to pray for the power of the grasp: that we may have the power to grasp how high and wide and long and deep Christ's love is for us. God has taught me again to approach him with freedom and confidence. God has showed me again that trailing after outer toxins pollutes me. I'm cleansed and confident, and when I pray for Cody, I'm feeling again that He is listening and taking care of things.

Grace-within-challenges has flipped me over. This granted idea has granted me many sights in the last week alone. Cody is the beneficiary, and me too. I'm back in the river, taking in all the scents of the hills, trees, rocks, dirt => the elements which are communion with God wherever.

Thankful breathing. He lives to love.

Amen.

Aspie trails

Aspie trails to you, until we meet again.

I know last month was autism awareness month, but it should have been name autism flare month. Perhaps the changing weather, the lilting confusing chemicals within mind and body, the increased agitations from the pollens?

Last night, I saw a headline online which said "Autism linked to Parents' Mental Illness." It reminded me of ancient times when having twins meant that evil was within the parents. I looked up causes of autism again this morning and saw a long list, not solely genetics either. No one knows for sure. I hate being blamed. Although I do have the run-of-the-mill mentally down or anxious times, I would not call myself mentally ill.  Isn't it easy to blame the parents? Parents are doing the best they can, at least we are. It's frustrating ... on we march despite outside critique and finger-pointing and devised correlation from sample groups.

Today, we begin a series of attacks against some of Cody's recent fluctuations -- we go to a new allergist, a whole-person allergist. Then next week, we go to a counselor. First, my husband and I go as parents who are tired, hopeful, needful of counsel, desirous of more tools to help. Then we send Cody -- these early teen years are indicators of new things, new intensity. Finally, we're trying a psychiatrist out, just to talk, perhaps to explore medicines. Aiii, I hate saying that word aloud, yet inner mental pain may need an aspirin. We will be cautious there.

April caused me to seek out that essential spiritual dependence, so God gave me this verse, which is perfect for our worry:

Although he may stumble, he will never fall because the Lord holds him in his right hand. Psalms

May Day

Delayed posting to the point of blogger password amnesia. Life flows on all around me. My daughter surfaces and hugs me and smiles and thanks me now. That is Good. God is Good. We were even hippies at an Earth day celebration together recently. She sighed and said, "Look, Mom! Liberals!!" because in her college town they are all conservative, rich, church women who aren't kind (this was an early morning quote from her one day when my phone rang, and she chugged out her steam of momentary beliefs to which I had to skirt and debunk and smile at and grant her patience for and find out the true story for her angst). But, we did happily walk amongst the liberals one fine Sunday when she was home. The next Sunday, she hung out with me at church and then went to sing at the nursing home with her grandparents. She also went to one of my homeschooling co-op class days where she took up a like-guitar and sat on the like-quilt with me and my three students outside on a delicious day. She knows G, C, and D, so why not? Then she went into my US Constitution class. When I mentioned an example, using the war in Iraq, she guffawed loudly to which the conservative children students' heads swung around in astonishment. She likes to guffaw about politics these days. She's frightening. She's inherited her father's hothead about such things, and I don't mind pointing the finger. Anyway, it was so fun to have her opt to be part of my normal day, instead of 1) sleeping 2) watching a TLC fashion or design show from potato position 3) hanging out with friends with wild hair too. No, there she sweetly was with her sweet mother just like the days of old, laughing, relaxing, relating. God is good!

Other than that, lots of other things have been going on this last month. I became smarter after a huge dumb period. God gets the credit, I must admit. I became more sought after musically by some non musicians who are related to a man in our band. We're playing in overalls and hats at a Cosmo Club dinner on Friday night. We are supposed to be the Soggy Bottom Boys (&girls) from O Brother Where Art Thou. I am trying to waver like Alison on one of my songs but I am not Alison, and she doesn't want to be me, and so I'm stuck pretending. But, I do think the song sounds pretty ... people have oohed and aaahed already! I sing it with my bandmate, and we blend better than ever.

Cody just walked by; he's getting tall and handsome. Hopefully, those two qualities will wipe out his classmates' memories of his band day throw up this morning. Now he's playing his keyboard for the thousandth time today. Radetsky March, who would have known? Thank you, Johann Strauss for invading my household. What possessed you to do so?

I shot baskets tonight for exercise. Must shower. Must tell all that I must shower.

Happy May Day!

The Linger and the March

I feel afflicted with a LowGrade winter Linger (even though today is the first day of Spring). These last couple of days, I've been fatigued and walk around lifelessly. However, an unplanned moment can be medicinal. Today when driving Cody to school, he turned on, as usual, our TLC (Teri, Linda, Cody) c.d. that we're creating and which he's been appreciating musically in increasing measure. He played the track of "Radetsky March," a recent recording in which Cody plays the keyboard, I'm on guitar, and Linda's honks on the accordian. Suddenly, in the van, Cody and I couldn't help ourselves as we wildly began clapping and grinning like Austrians at the new year. I had the energy to punch the air a couple of times in coordination with the accent staccato notes, and Cody imperiously titlted his head back and forth to the march beat. We laughed appreciatively at each other's antics before the song was over and we slipped back into our own lingers. Breakthroughs are simply the best.

Thu, thump; thu, thump

Wow, I showed the man-with-tools a borrowed marimbula. He sketched it, took measurements, and called me with a few muttering questions. And, look, somehow he let loose a real living marimbula which I brought home today! A marimbula is a bass type instrument which originates, in varying forms from the Carribbean. It sounds great with bluegrass and replaces the cumbersome, expensive stand up bass fiddle. I was instructed on how to stain and tune it. I'm still amazed and am engaging in full-fledged idol worship!

The orange and black belt warrants a couple of grins after the belt ceremony. If I thought Cody was an intense air-choppin' dude while an orange belt, I will have to prepare myself for the total destruction of the orange and black tornado. Lord have mercy on us innocent folks.

about a boy

I'm so worried about Cody today. Last night at a birthday party for one of the men in my bluegrass group, I was surrounded by their inquisitive wives and other women. They had multiple questions for me about Cody's perfect pitch, about his Asperger's, about, about, about. Today, fresh upon the thought, upon the concerned faces and encouragement, upon the memories of that lost little boy struggling desperately within normal expectations, I woke up realizing our journey and worried worried about his future path. He has found his gift of music, and we engage in it daily, yet he feels still so alone as it relates to his peers. The fear has gripped me again. Please, God, help him grow, releasing inhibitions, toxics, anger, fear, the harsh outer words of the world. Release me to trust you to take care of him. Amen and amen.

Egg shaking

The hardest thing to do was to shake the Shabbot egg and sing in Hebrew all at once. But, there I was, alone, near the back, near the sunny windows of the bright synagogue, trying hard to participate in an old Jewish rite: Bat Mitzva. My friend's thirteen year old daughter glowed, particularly when carrying around the Torah in a cloth around the warm, small, bright sanctuary. My friend spoke about the Jewish sense of community and how it had wrapped itself around his daughter, and how her deceased mother had converted to Judaism on the same day many years before. My friend's love interest wiped her eyes one row over in front of me. The ceremony was long, three hours, intense, joyous, mournful (chant for dead), and family-involved with aunts, uncles, cousins arising to read parts of the Torah on their "daughter of the commandments" behalf. The cultural conviction of a spiritual value was high; I felt peaceful. I wondered if, location different, I would attribute this to the Holy Spirit. But, in a Jewish synagogue? I wondered about the relativity of religious belief. I inwardly reaffirmed belief in Christ, although the spiritual expression in front of me impressed me with its call upward to an old Light, to God, to a way of Life. The prayer book was lovely with interpretive readings, poems, insights to which I felt extremely compatible. I wondered about the expressive depths of my Christian heritage, particularly as a "low-church" attendee. It seemed awfully lacking, shallow, reliant upon one's own emotions which often were tangled anyway. The Bible, yes, yet, the Bible used for certain agendas, certain formulas for thinking. Here, certain sacraments were holy, sacred, a bit like the Catholic church. Perhaps they have the same issues of the Catholic church -- rites becoming meaningless with overuse and lack of personal attachment? But, my friend's 13 year old daughter said in her speech that this would not mean for her "rites without personal meaning." We all reach, don't we?

My friend gave me a hug afterwards as he received the congratulations of his friends and family. He is a good person and lives his cultural faith well.

I affirm my belief in Christ, yet I could have easily been born Jewish, believing that the Judaic version of truth passed down from Abraham is the Truth. What do others do with this thought? Perhaps it affirms their selection into a God-ordained slot; perhaps we all want to believe exclusivity.

God-light

The week was full of people, good and smart encounters, up until the end. Talks of creativity, spirituality, relationships, aging, film, music, writing. But by yesterday, I was entirely wiped out and feeling that codependent emptiness, which intense focus on others brings to me. Thus before my day of friend and film festival begins which will inevitably pour more of the world's amber liquid into me, it feels essential to hear grounding words for my wayward, wandering nature. And, here they are to root, anchor, restore straight from the third chapter:

baptism into new life
wind hovering over the water
formed by the Spirit
reborn
questions procrastinate against evidence
Son of Man
lifted up
look up to him for eternal life
God loved the world
God gave his son
no one needs to be destroyed
whole and lasting life with belief
He came to help
acquitted
no longer under a death sentence
God-light streamed into the world, but
men and women ran for darkness, not
interested in pleasing God;
practice of doing evil rejects God-light
fears painful exposure.
But anyone working/living in truth/reality
welcomes God-light so that the inner and
outer work can be seen as God-light in us.

Father, help me to not scurry into darkness but to always be exposed to your God-light, even through addiction to fear and unknowingness. Help break the cycle. Forgive my created plights. Thank you for hope and life.

We cry out!

It was one of those stereotypical song writing moments where I jumped out of bed because the song was going to explode if more and more lines kept alighting in my head. Perhaps it should have, but the subsequent song gave me too much joy regardless of quality (a cool thing about creativity too ~~ the joy in allowing anything to be born).

The satisfying thing about this particular song is that it was written with the nursing home audience in mind. My little band played for them on Tuesday, and our emcee led the residents into a round of shouting "Yahoo!" Old gnarled fists were raised, crooked toothless smiles were lit, white-haired curly ladies yelped, and they all escaped for a moment into that universal need to yell something out: like "Amen!" or "De-fense!" or "Al-right!" Why does that feel so good to us humans?

Anyway my song invites participation of yelling out, raising fists, becoming exhuberant for nothing (except for the 'prettiest train' in the lyrics). I can't wait to play it with them and hear them become part of the living loud no matter what experience once more.

And then there are the apples, cherries, pears, tooth-wigglers, precious metals, heavy-laden pods. I saw them all weekend, showing that my single perspective protects, yes, but can limit a view of plenty. There is the loving children director who baptized my son with her zest and longlasting service and care to children. There's the assistant minister who, leveled on a lower administrative ladder, accepts, even with welcome sarcasm an Eyeore loyalty to the steady flow of incoming newbies needing discipled who are searching, for once, for a vein they once, or never, tapped into. There's the nurse who gives to women's ministry, glowing, gently, purposefully. Or, my heroine of women's ministry, who commuicates God's love through genuine adherence to his call for her life to serve others with compassion, care, and creativity. There's my old beautiful girlfriend, who served on the board, and who allowed me to move on in my current, as she did herself, due to what was necessary in our lives. There's my longlasting friend, who still expects coffee, who leads others through psychological, spiritual mires, who helped me practically raise a strongwilled, strong-living teenager, who is a call away from being a wise and loving guide, who knows I want to reciprocate as much as I can. There is the impactful pastor who has a gift for speaking and who has offered me sincere counsel and desires Christ-transformation in lives of those who flow through the church. There is the man who smiles to all, whose passion transcends any strong or weak human leadership, in order to convey God's goodness; we see him dutifully every week with his headset on, greeting, smiling, caring, being humble. There are the children, two of whom I saw randomly out and about and who came to smile and hug me, who trust you to love them, to show them God's pure love inside.

These are a few of the reasons that I love my church and wish to remain, despite the basement fires that burn in every church. Overall, its basket carries a wholesome harvest. And, even though, it's my job to eye the fruit, the weave that holds it up, I can relax at times and trust by evidence that some things are good.

An Inner Uglier Look

Earlier today, my husband and I took our customary Saturday morning jog, walk, talk on the trail, and we discussed again our church and the fine line between leadership servanthood and materialistic usurp-hood. Then later, he sent me this link which reveals the "hypocrisy" or at least greed of some of the major Christian evangelists in our country. Many of this group are being investigated right now by the top Republican on the Senate Finance Committee. Unfortunately, the excesses appear to be true and is an excellent warning of what to look for even in its infancy stages: http://www.inplainsite.org/html/tele-evangelist_lifestyles.html#Index

I liked the ending paragraph to this article which I've copied below:

Conclusion
“There are bound to be some people who will read this article and say to themselves, "So the leadership live in nice houses or nice areas, so what? This is God's way of blessing them. They deserve this for leading God's people." I wonder if these people ever really stop to think about what they are saying? Do they really believe that God would bless those in leadership with lifestyles that totally contradict everything that Jesus taught. He and the men who led the first century church led by example. They were servant leaders. Ask yourself if any of the apostles would've chosen pricey homes or affluent areas for themselves. More to the point, would Jesus have done so? Ask yourself if the apostles would have used the contributions and tithes of the people in order to have done so? More to the point, would Jesus have done so?” (Leadership Lifestyles of the International Churches of Christ. Timothy Greeson)