a first

I bought a Christmas Tree from Fred Myers. It is the first time I have had my own, and to my chagrin, I completely love it. I sit by it whenever I can, gazing at the lights and weird collected artifacts with which we have decorated: my mom's stray reading glasses that somehow made it into a package she sent, sea shells from my trip to the virgin islands, a cow vertebrae from Becca in the desert, a gumball machine ring, finger puppets from Ecuador, A photo of our household, another from our wedding, a thank-you card from some good friends, a favorite photo of Luna Dog back when she wasn't so gray, an invitation to my bridal shower, a cool bookmark, some fishing paraphernalia, a copper belt, a necklace of amber, a fuzzy red scarf, a dried sunflower head, a small mirror shaped like a pineapple, my Raggedy Anne Doll. For me it calls to mind an altar: a sacred raised space to help remind us of what we love, what we hold meaningful. All the better that the altar is created by the structure of a tree, a vestige of paganism alive and well in popular America, homage to my pre-christian European roots. And, i love how it smells.

Crows

I woke up to dumping rain- the kind that splashes against windows, fills gutters, thunders on rooftops. It was definately a Max day, as the highway is scary in this kind of rain and getting to work takes even longer than the train. The ride felt warm, uncomforatbly so. I wriggled out of rain coat, hat, scarf, and lodged the umbrella between the seat and the wall. I smudged a little peep hole in the steamy window to allow me a view of lights passing, the river an eerie black snake below. The gray slowly began to replace dark. When I emerged, crows filled the air, resting on stark trees and talking loudly with one another. I was reminded of an artist who makes jewelry that I covet, and of the east in the spring when the snow melts and the crows dominate the slowly emerging sodden fields. I watched a robin wrestle a worm out of the ground, and truly delighted in the common birds, who, for all their familiarity, posess a deep spookiness in the foggy wet winter morning.

the children

It is true that sometimes I look at the children I work with and think “I hate you,” This cannot be good for anyone. Yet this is my job: to show up, to teach, to try and find love in my heart.

It snowed, and we started the day with a hike. It was good to see them slide in the snow, laugh, and happily be children. Is it a true consequence of less structured, alternative schools that children develop a sense of entitlement? Or is this just my perception?

It has been creeping up on me now for a few years, that teaching may not be my profession, but what then? How will I make my bread and butter? I find myself thinking wistfully of jobs such as coffee shop barista, natural food store check out clerk, or (my favorite) independent book store retail clerk, Something where I work, and then I am done.

For now I cherish my time away from them. I look for places to connect to them, I plan, and plan some more. I talk, I listen. I pull my hair out and furrow my brow. I try to breathe enough that I may sleep at the end of the day.

I wish that Sundays lasted forever.