Snow Days

We're on our third snow day. The family sleeps while I enjoy the quiet. Yesterday we had a snowball fight, made snow angels, took pictures, ate snow cream, baked homemade cinnamon rolls, walked and slided through the streets of snow, played a ruthless game of Sorry, and started a snowman. The only must-do left for today is to finish the snowman.

We saw three teenagers snowboarding down our hill and two cars stopped without arriving at their destinations. If you consider that the first is possible, the second doesn't seem extraordinary.

Sometime before Christmas, I need to wrap presents.

The computer is mostly down due to a software crash and troubled reinstall, so we're back to a simpler way of life, like it or not. How long will we make it? Hopefully, we will look each other in the eyes a few times before the snow melts, dispose of unkind words, and reengage.

But right now, it's time to take out the garbage, on the off chance the truck gets up the hill.

Holidays

How is it they run up one against another in a seamless stream of take down, clean, store, take out, set up, repeat? Add in work, errands, quiet time, other responsibilities, and our lives seem seed-beaded together into a necklace of celebrations and the work feeding into them.

Living With Someone Else's Pain

How do we cope with the day in day out of living with someone else's chronic, acute pain?

When you wear too tight clothing, it rubs somewhere. You chafe or blister or walk funny. You take it off and feel better. You lose weight and feel better. There's a solution one way or the other.

But you can't take off some pain, and you almost surely can't take off someone else's. If you don't care for the person or don't have regular, close contact with her, perhaps you can avoid her. With a loved one, an immediate family member, that is not a likely solution.

The family is a unit. It functions as a symbiotic life form all its own, and pain or another crisis rips the covers off that reality, sunning it in the heat of reality. When one family member hurts, all hurt. Maybe we each feel the rub in a different place and in a different way and to a different degree. But we each must find a way to cope with the pain that upholds the others individually and the family as a whole. We each reach for the handhold that will build our corporate strength so that we cope together in unity, because to withdraw, to opt out, is to weaken all and self, to collapse under the weight of a would-be usurper.

So when one person lies awake in pain or has to be accommodated in daily activity to alleviate pain and reaches out to the others for help or lashes out in exhaustion, frustration, and agony, the family unit changes, adapts to cope. How?

Words like knocked arrows poise to fly on death's wings through a heart
or like living water pour comfort into the soul

Each moment our lips and tongues tense to ship words into the world we have a choice.

There is an old saying: least said soonest mended.

So spare, careful, caring words can bond a family in pain. What more?

I ponder elements that build in crisis and will post as they coalesce into coherent thought.

Puppets and Knitting

Lulu Mouse globetrotted for a crowd of kids at the Mount Baker Community Center. Lulu and her friend learned a little about the British Isles, Japan, and Mexico, introduced the kids to folk costumes and dances from these places. The children got to participate in some of the dances. Pretty fun all around. The drawback for the forum seems parents at the back of the room talking constantly and little ones running amok to the extent the performers had to stop repeatedly toward the end to quiet the crowd so they could be heard.. Apparently, that's par for the venue. At $3/head, if you've got the money, it's not bad. And most of the kids who were interested in the performance sat up front and could hear. I couldn't figure out if the parents in the back with the disinterested, wild children didn't have other partners with them to take those children out for a walk or if they were oblivious to the noise and needs of others or if there's an unspoken agreement among regular attendees that this is how these events are. Who knows?

Buggy, a slick children's consignment and new goods shop on Beacon Ave. on Beacon Hill, hosted its first knitting lesson day. The two proprietors had two prospective knitters show up: Frank and a woman whose name I've forgotten. Frank was excited to learn to knit, especially since it should mean a finished knit cap at the end. The class lasted 3 hours and wasn't cheap, but the atmosphere was fun, and he got the hang of it (if not a lot of confidence). Little Bear and I looked through the consignment clothes, shoes, some new things, the toys, and played with the toys that were set out for that purpose. Really nice shop.

Lunch and el Quetzal (tasty) and a stop at Mount Baker Park, and we were done with our outings. A movie rental stop and home. Pretty tame for us.

The big issue that arose (and early) is how to help Little Bear become disciplined about getting places on time and listening to our guidance before we raise voices or she gets in trouble. How to pay attention to and not dismiss, disrespect, or take for granted those who love you. It's all become an issue in recent weeks. We're not batting 1,000 on this.

Miracles

A pause from the election chatter to ponder miracles, giving up, restoration, the unexpected.

This morning during the drudgery of cleaning the cat box in the basement, I noticed something small moving toward me, something coming from behind the ironing board and the cat litter bucket, something with a very sweet face and very bright eyes: our hamster Piknecon (pronounced pinecone). Startled and almost afraid to breathe, I picked her up and welcomed her back into the fold. How can a human heart fill with joy over the return of a missing hamster? But it does. I carried her upstairs to show Little Bear and Frank, who likewise could hardly believe their eyes. We took turns holding and stroking her. Then, I fetched her cage, which had been relegated to the basement but not changed since the day she went missing, September 10, 2008. I remember, because it was the day the Hadron Collider started up. Her disappearance had been bizarre: a completely closed cage, no signs of where she'd gone (droppings, blood trails if the cat had gotten her, etc.), no confessions from family of having left it open and later closed it.

Her appearance in that part of the basement, so far from where her cage had been upstairs in the living room is astonishing. Her survival after all this time is equally mysterious and astonishing.

Oddly enough, after 1 1/2 months away from us, she essentially came to my voice, did not fuss when I picked her up, and seemed very, very happy to be held and petted. She is resting in a pile of shavings in her cage. Home.

The cat has been exonerated, and her strange little dance around me, trying to get me to go to the basement (I thought to fill the food bowl or empty the litter box) has now been explained.

Welcome home, Piknecon!

Post-election

Yesterday, I sent emails to some family members asking what the election meant to them based on their life experiences. They have all agreed to sit and write it out so that I can archive it for future family members.

Today I'll share one of my memories, the one that popped to mind most prominently as Barack O'bama gave his speech Tuesday night. Vividly, the image of a young, black man, a boy actually, in my second grade class in Starkeville, Mississippi, in 1971, supplanted itself over the face of our new President. I don't remember the boys name, but I hope never to forget the image of him.

He had been made to stand beside his desk while our teacher, Mrs. Rice, berated him for his shabby clothes and told him and us never to wear clothes like that to school. She spoke of the disrespect his clothes showed, but his torn, denim shorts and hole-worn shoes without socks were not a disrespect to school. They were a disrespect to him, a human being with dignity and deserving of better. And his clothes were not the greatest disrespect in that classroom that day. Her words, her shaming behavior, her racism, her bullying were the greater offense. I remember looking at him and thinking how beautiful he was, standing there with a firm jaw and squared shoulders, a quiet, strong man-to-be, taking the lash of her tongue without lowering himself to her brutish level. He was taller than the rest of us and may have been older. He looked older than we. He did not say one word.

I sat in my seat, glaring at my teacher whom I had been taught to respect, but whom, I realized, did not deserve it.

Now, through the haze of history and memory, I do not remember if I spoke up to her aloud or only in my head. But I remember saying, "You shouldn't yell at him like that. He may not be able to afford better." Words, retorts, arguments burned into my brain in that moment. They have served me well since. There are times I think that day was a defining moment in my life, a time that said, "find your voice and speak out for those who can't speak for themselves. Never let an injustice go unanswered."

As I watched and listened to Barack O'bama Tuesday night, I remembered that proud boy in second grade and felt that somehow he had finally received justice.

Vote

The sabbatical ends today. I voted. It counted. Will my preferred candidates and measures win? Stay tuned.

Thank you 19th Amendment.

Silk Wrapped Dyed Easter Eggs

We wrapped the eggs in squares of silk; then white cotton, and twist-
tied them. Next we put them in an enameled pan, covered them with
water, and brought to a boil. As soon as it boiled, we lowered it to
simmer for 20 minutes. We took them out of the pot but left them in
the wrapping till they cooled. When we untied them this is what we got.

Quote of the Day

"I would rather do art than watch someone else do it." (my daughter in response to Frank saying, "I enjoy watching you do art.")

Holy Week Unholy Meltdown

We woke to a tantrum. Not mine. But I wonder how much my sleeplessness for the last couple of nights has affected my daughter, the one who threw the tantrum. She's not tantrum prone, and the chanting that went along with it was near primal.

The news Sunday of the Fed's bailing out Bear Stearns by loaning it money and taking mortgages (which is what got Bear Stearns into trouble to begin with) as collateral depressed the living daylights out of me.. well, after the giggling fit at the absurdity of the transaction passed, I got depressed. Bush's comments to the press that we're in handy-dandy shape bewildered and troubled. I live in a country run by cartoon ostriches. It's enough to keep people agitated, if not wide-awake. Maybe my wakefulness is a metaphor: STAY ALERT! Maybe it's due drinking Kefir and psyllium at bedtime. Come to think of it, drinking the Kefir may have been News motivated: get the c-r-a-p out wherever you can.

I had decided yesterday morning to avoid The News. Without my saying anything about this decision Frank said this morning -- after reciting more details of the Fed deal, "what are we supposed to do, turn off the News? We can't afford to. We have to stay alert." Sigh. If my leaders are ostriches, maybe I am, too? Maybe I need to look in a mirror and check for feathers and big lips. And maybe I need to hold my honey's hand while continuing to imbibe The News. How else am I to know when our house is worth less than it was when it was built in 1928?

At the end of last week, I went grocery shopping. The same elderly people were doing their careful checks of prices and coupons, but others were maneuvering a little more cautiously, too. Everyone I saw seemed to choose carefully between items, putting things back, choosing fewer items. Thanks to running out of several cleaning supplies at the same time, my cart was the most full at checkout, and I drew stares. I mean STARES. Avoiding eye contact, I paid, reminded myself that our school PTA gets eScrip credit for these purchases, and we'll get 10 cents off per gallon of gas, and left. Ostrich.

Frank reports that the bus seems more full these days. The email airfare super-saver deal to Paris this week topped $700. Not that we were planning to go, but it used to be three or four hundred and something to fly to Paris on a super-saver. This situation, however, is easily remedied: hit the delete key on the email. Ostrich.

So, how do we transfigure all these cartoon ostriches into vigilant Eagles?

I need a cup of coffee.

Glow - The scene through my window this morning

Lake Washington glows a soft warm yellow that radiates up and wraps the island hills.
The trees reflect as foggy spikes or poles for underwater piers.
A finger smudges the scene sketched in soft charcoal misty grays. If you listen, you can hear the finger stroke the paper.
Inner fire alight beneath milky Irish skin, expectant mother watching over, smiling upon, embracing in silent joy.

Constitutional Law - Free Speech / Church-State Issues

If you enjoy Constitutional issues, namely topics of free speech and the Establishment Clause, read this article in the New York Times.

Who knew painting a word on a church roof far from anywhere could cause such a stir? Fascinating.

CAGES

If you haven't seen the Pew Center research report detailing findings that America now incarcerates 1 in 100 of its citizens, then read it here.

My how we have fallen.

I look at our daughter's elementary school, Dearborn Park, here in the south end of Seattle and then at its polar-opposite, Lawton Elementary in the lovely, wealthy Queen Anne neighborhood of schools. Dearborn Park ranks on the emergency, needs help list of the school board. Lawton tops out on state testing and special programming beyond the basics. It also has the Spectrum program for gifted students. Dearborn Park is about 82% free lunch qualified and majority minority. Lawton is 0% free lunch qualified; 98+% white (its statistics shows an asterisk for all other racial categories and the asterisk means that the percentage doesn't make up enough of the student body to register as an entire percentage point).

I see the EPA sponsored Mercer Island study results, in which the University of Washington tested for of levels of pesticides in children eating organic v. regular grocery store fare. The study showed that when the children ate regular grocery store fare, pesticides showed up in their bodies, but when they ate organic, no pesticides showed up. Then, I hear a hard-working, middle-class, concerned mother say that with the rising cost of groceries, rent, and oil, she doesn't have a choice but to eat standard fare; she can't feed her family organic, though she'd like to.

I hear Republican candidates say "use less healthcare to make the costs go down" and Democrats say "make everyone buy health care and punish them if they don't, or make some people buy it and hope the others do".

I hear the family case worker at our school ask me on behalf of unnamed students' families if I can give something to help. This week's urgent need is not food, but clothing and basics.

I receive the prayer chain request to pray for a parishioner's child who witnessed a friend get shot.

I look at the payday loan companies in our neighborhood and at our end of town and the casinos and bars versus the coffee shops and quality clothing stores, salons, and emergency clinics in wealthier parts of town. One of the blighted areas of the south end is Skyway. Why doesn't Starbucks or Ladro open a coffee shop in Skyway? Why doesn't PCC open a grocery store there? Where are the useful shops with convenient walking between them? Where are the green spaces and planter boxes to make it pretty and proud?

Then I see the Pew report and I want to scream: "WE ARE ALL IN CAGES!"

My God, have we lost all sense of self and selflessness? Have we lost all sense of the bond of humanity? Have we become so inured to inhumanity, separatism, elitism, degradation of others, privilege, injustice, and selfishness that we can really and truly recreate England of 200 or so years ago with its workhouses, debtors prisons, indentured servitude, prison colonies, slave ships, and blood-class system? Our country was spawned as a reaction, even an antidote, to that hateful, vile system.

Why indeed should we educate our children well, if a decent, thorough education might tell them such history? They might actually wake up and realize that the same is happening and learn its eventual outcome: downfall of a potentially great society and one which many claim to be the great democratic experiment and success.

How successful a democracy are we if we are disenfranchising 1 in 100 people at an ever increasing rate?

Why should we educate our children equally, if we are planning to use 1/100th or more of them as veal? Our children are not oblivious. They are not incapable of learning. They learn very well from our actions. The reason the expectation of college attendance and a successful career is not pandemic in the poor schools is because we have educated these children well that they won't need college and financial success where they are going.

Ten years ago when I moved to Seattle, I watched two consecutive news stories: a report about destroying a homeless encampment in Seattle despite a dearth of shelter beds and food and a report about the Redmond Rabbit Coalition raising $60,000 to transport feral rabbits who were chewing through electrical wires in that city's downtown to a special rabbit sanctuary. I couldn't figure why they didn't cook the rabbits to feed those hungry people who were going without food and shelter and help the people to a sanctuary. This memory floods back whenever issues of inequity and injustice come up.

I fear I am becoming a socialist. I am not yet there, but the thoughts stir. I am not ready to let go the rope of democratic hope.

A few weeks ago, I read an article on the difference in fundraising between poor schools and wealthy schools. Its thoughtfulness lingers, returning on that lazy susan stream of mindfulness whenever I face the challenges at our own school. That article is here.

Mulling this article yet again after reading the Pew Report, it struck me that all the general funds granted to Principals and all the funds raised by all the PTAs in town should be combined distributed in such a way that every child in the district's basic needs are met, and when all the students in all the schools are receiving exactly the same daily experience in school, the next wave of funds could be used to give the specialty items and programs to each and every school equally. After all, Dearborn Park would like marimabas and orchestras and after-school activities (chess, opera, piano lessons, foreign language, knitting, sports, yoga...) with equal transportation and care opportunities as Lawton.

It's not enough this crazed equalization of education plan. I know that. It will not answer all the problems we have created and face now and in the future. But it is something, if only a lightening rod.

Clearly, if we are willing to plop 1/100th of our population in a cage, we have serious challenges that require an entire social overhaul. Now is the time for thinkers, brave prophets, researchers, and doers to find a way other than revolution out of the quagmire we have created and labeled "homeland".

More Images of our Friday Jaunt

Quilting Blocks and Conservatory

Shell Roundup at Pt. Robinson

Vashon Island - day trip

May I suggest a daytrip for Seattlites?

Begin by taking the ferry from W. Seattle to Vashon Island. We ambled over last Friday, the last day of Mid-Winter Break. The little town of Vashon has many sweet spots to grab a meal, coffee, or picnic fixins. From there, you have options: beaches, farms, playground, cinema, galleries, library, an outdoor pool in summer, teepee camping in warmer weather.

It was too early for the spring lambs when we went, so we headed to that vestige of Vashon called Maury Island. Allegedly it is a separate entity, but as it is physically attached, although by a narrow slip of land tissue, it is a wonder that each segment is considered an "island". On Maury is Pt. Robinson Lighthouse and park. It hosts a narrow stretch of beach with sightlines from Seattle to Tacoma and in the distance, Mt. Rainier. The sand is a coarse, light brown adorned with small blue seashells and white seashells ranging from ring-setting size to salad plates.

Being the Pacific Northwest in February, even on one of those rare sunny, mild days that bridges life from early Fall to Spring, a beach trip calls for hats, wading boots, and sweaters. That this is beach gear didn't strike me as odd until my mother in Georgia commented on the fact when I emailed her a photo. When you grow up in the South, beach means powder-soft, white sand and hot sun, bare feet and bathing suits. Funny how I've grown to enjoy these bundled up tidepool adventures as much as the bare-footed, sandy-bottomed kind.

After shell hunting and listening to a seal sing to the heart of the world, head over to the south end of Vashon for the ferry to Tacoma. (You'll have to retrace your path over the connective tissue between Vashon and Maury before heading south to the ferry.) This ferry is free. Ride to Pt. Defiance, see the zoo if you're up to it; then wander downtown for art: the Tacoma Art Museum, Museum of Glass, and Washington State History Museum. All three cluster in the rehabbed brickwork of old downtown. The TAM presently hosts an exibit of Renoir prints that's worth seeing, and its art room for patrons to try their hand at creating the types of art exhibited in the museum is well set up. I wanted to try printing techniques, since we'd just seen the Renoir, but my daughter was tired and more interested in the quilting blocks, so we made quilt designs. After Frank joined us, we took paper and pastels and drew images of our day or from our imaginations.

After such a long day, it's time to eat! In the museum district lie an array of cafes, restaurants, and shops. Take your pick. Or head into another part of the downtown area to find other pearls. We retraced our steps to a park being renovated up the hill near the Church of Christian Sciences (the name was similar to this). Someday this park will not doubt stun us with its beauty and usefulness. It is still in construction phase, but boasts a large central path for strolling, smaller paths throughout the trees, a playground area, and a conservatory on top of the hill. We also wandered around a bit looking at gorgeous old churches and architecture, which this part of Tacoma boasts in abundance. Then, we meandered home up I-5 to sleep.

Trust me, 6 year old and adult-somethings will enjoy the trip. The costs could be small or large, depending on whether you drive, take public transportation (combined with biking, this could be exhilarating), pack food to take along throughout the day, or eat in restaurants, and how many pay sites you visit. Third Thursdays are free at the museums. Wednesdays the three museums hosts a one ticket entrance fee for all three (less than the cost of all three purchased individually on another day).

TAM (admissions info)
Museum of Glass (admissions info)
Washington State History Museum (admissions info)
Point Defiance Zoo

Mid-Winter Break

My daughter is home with me this week, and that is glorious most of the time. The fits and starts, the rainbow imagination, the compelled play.

The sun, supposed to disappear two days ago unbeknownst to the sun, has shined and warmed.

But today I walk in sadness, occasionally wondering that my legs stand, bend, walk, carry. My heart, full of the waters of weeping, brims full, threatening to burst, but leaking instead into my body, filling me up from the soul. On occasion I've cried. But mostly I sit until I think of something to do so that I can move again and look purposeful for my little girl and not drown.

I only have one child, and for her I am more than grateful, but today it seems not enough. Tomorrow the state of things may seem bountiful or even too much, but today I feel barren.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Precinct 37 Caucus

The Dems turn out! So many people showed up to vote today in the bluest precinct in the state. Babies to old people with walkers. Black, white, brown. Asian, Mexican, African-American, Caucasian. We ALL showed up today.

We don't have the final delegate tally today. Two people in our group signed in and failed to vote for anyone and left. This was a failure to explain clearly where to cast your initial vote on the sign in sheet or to make sure that all the people present understood what was said. It served as a lesson to all of us to get answers and listen and wait.

This year's caucus differed from 4 years ago in several ways: significantly higher turnout, especially among minorities and the elderly; there were only 2 candidates instead of an entire field; none of the voters present came forward with talking points for either of the candidates, so there was no depth of discussion to sway anyone from one side to the other. Last time we separated into tables and had discussions and swayed folks before the second vote. This time three people gave brief insubstantial opinions about candidate generalities and no one offered depth of information about specific agenda points (e.g., education, the war, healthcare). There may have been someone there with the information, but none came forward. This division bothered me as it smacked of an inability or even a lack of desire to talk with one another. Was it apathy? How opposite the passion in the room. Perhaps I misunderstood. I was truly hoping someone would answer some questions. Isn't a major Democratic point this year the need to unify and talk with one another, to come together? If our group was representative, there was a desire for change, but not a desire to talk, come together, or unify. It wasn't nasty. Not at all. There was a kindness and joy in the room, but with an intense vibration underneath. I think, perhaps, what I witnessed was more of a live and let live attitude.

There was excitement on each side for her/his candidate. THIS was different from last time and was in itself exciting. People were (unlike last time) leaping up to volunteer to be delegates, despite the time commitment and obligation. THIS was huge. This is change in itself. There were a lot of young adults staying the whole time, smiling, thrilled to see democracy in action, relishing the process. THIS is huge.

Our group sent 6 delegates for Obama and 2 for Clinton. I do not know the overall tally for the 37th. It will be posted later.

Final thoughts: As a party, we must break the crust of "live and let live" and unite through dialogue behind a person. We have embraced our potential as voting Americans, as diverse people with a united agenda. Let's make it official and truly unite. Our country needs to move forward with another cosmic shift.

2008 Caucus Day Pancakes

(2008 / HC = Hilary Clinton / BO = Barak Obama)

Last performance

Here is the crew at John Stanford Elementary for the final New Year's
performance of the week. Go Dragon's!

Candi-date

Well, until today the presidential candidates have pretty much ignored us Northwesterners out here in the political boondocks. But we Washingtonians are feeling like somebody's darling right now. We've seen our first t.v. ads for this year's campaign. Clinton, Obama, McCain, and Huckabee's wife are all coming to town today or tomorrow. Adults are being courted, wooed, and trained to present their candidate's case to their precincts.

We caucus on Saturday. On Sunday, we'll probably feel like we were picked up in a bar and left on the side of the road with our socks inside out, as they'll all leave and take their t.v. ads with them, leaving nothing but the signs sticking in people's yards like someone else's dirty laundry.

Elections are fickle. But I do wish they'd take their laundry when they go.

Lenten Readings

Today's (Yesterday's -- Ash Wednesday's) readings: Joel 2:12-18; 2 Corinthians 5:20—6:2; Matthew 6:1-6, 16-18

What jumps out at me from the first reading are "return to me with your whole heart" and "For gracious and merciful is he, slow to anger, rich in kindness, and relenting in punishment."

What is a whole heart? The image I have is a literal interpretation of the colloquialism "heart in hand". But the heart in my image is broken, or in pieces, or hurting, or sick. I am having a hard time with the concept of a whole heart.

"Gracious and merciful..." The contrast of the God the prophet describes as gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and relenting in punishment with the actions called for by the people of gathering to plead for God's mercy and relenting confounds me. IS this God what is described at first or at second? Is this God relenting only when the people cast themselves down in fear, pleading for their lives? Has the anger been building for some time (as in, slow to anger but really boils when he gets there)? How much graciousness has this God shown these people already, is he at the end of his rope? I guess what I'm asking is, what are the terms of this relationship?

I'm not trying to be facetious. The prophet does confuse me. But more than that, I find myself asking myself how I think of God. What cultural portrayals of God did I grow up with and therefore use to paint God and all interactions with God? Is "my" God gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and relenting in punishment. Or is my God to be appeased in some appallingly degrading way in order to somehow gain an unlikely bit of mercy and relenting? Do I tell God everything like an approachable parent, or do I conceal in fear and then throw myself down in pleading, suspecting that punishment is sure unless an ego is appeased, because I know that I do not deserve the reprieve in any event? In other words, is this a healthy relationship or a bitter, biased, unhealthy one?

And what about my own graciousness, mercy, anger, and relenting?

Lenten Reflections -- this is what our church calls our activity during this time of year. I suppose it is an echo of looking through "a glass darkly".

Lent

Ash Wednesday, an ominous title, reminds us that we come from ashes and will return to ashes, or so many religious leaders tell us.

This day could also remind us that we all have dirt on our hands and so might bear that in mind when bearing with each other.

Or we might ponder the work of our hands and how our work feeds the fires that warm our families, friends, neighbors, world. How our work provides heat for cooking to feed the world.

Maybe the ashes remind us of our connection to all of creation, even to the very soil on which the ashes fall or the trees whence ashes come. This could lead us to stewardship of the earth and to reflect on the price we pay when we fail through hubris to recognize this critical connection.

And if we reflect today on our work, we realize that we can choose to work harmoniously or acrimoniously, but we do need to work. There is much to be done, but our work could take on the nature of the child's work -- which most of us call play -- as children are not averse to getting dirty, and can even find joy in doing so.

I will ponder the joy of unity with others and all things and the joy that comes from playing in the dirt (the physical soil or the mental and emotional dirt of community) in order to nurture this unity. How do I nurture not only the joy of unity, but the joy of the work in myself and others?

Finale

Best Free Entertainment in Town

Well, obviously the disclaimer reads: my child danced in the show. So here's the review:

If you're wondering what children can do to learn social studies, why not look to the arts? At Dearborn Park Elementary School in Seattle's Beacon Hill neighborhood, the music and dance teacher, Helen Zhou (a/k/a "Miss Jo"), teaches the children songs and dances from different countries, cultures, and religions. The children learn about these different countries and peoples through artistic expression.

Before you think, "oh, isn't that quaint", check out some of the costumes and props (like the dragon below) that the teacher makes to go along with the learning experience. These are top notch artistic endeavors. And doing an intricate Chinese Fan Dance while snapping a couple of fans in and out in sync with other dancers takes a fair amount of skill and concentration if you watch closely.

The kids (and their teacher) amazed us all again with the high quality of their performance. Watching the big kids help the little ones backstage and afterward made my heart thump a little happy dance of its own.

This year the children performed native dances from China, Taiwan, Tibet, and Japan. (I may have missed a country, but think that's the list.) Over the next three days our little crew will perform at 3 other local elementary schools. We have reason to be proud. The schools they will visit will benefit from the cultural experience as well.

Dragon at Dearborn

Happy Chinese New Year

It is chaos and creativity at Dearborn Park Elementary today. The
school prepares to perform dances and songs for the holiday.
Costumes, energy, and lots of time and talent. The anticipation
overwhelms the space and little bodies. I can't wait either.

Un-Math Night

We went to Math Night at the school last night. It was the school's way of trying to teach the parent's the "Everyday Math" support curriculum through games. As a non-fan of the Everyday Math curriculum, my attendance was to support my daughter. At home we are (or will be) teaching standard math, that well-worn program we all grew up with: long division, addition and subtraction tables, etc. So I take all their "pitches" with an in-one-ear-and-out-the-other approach...

When my daughter's teacher said they were teaching Kindergarteners and elementary school kids to use calculators last Monday, I inquired more deeply. Why in the world would anyone teach a child to use a calculator to do the work of her brain? The answer I got assuaged my fears temporarily (I decided to take a "let me see exactly what you're doing" approach). The teacher told me that I could be present for the 2 calculator lessons and that I would be told when those lessons were. Pooh came home Monday and said they'd had a lesson in calculators that day... I had not been told that the lesson
would be on Monday, as I was told I would be. Note: I had also been told that the lesson would be nothing more than further work learning numbers; not really a matter of doing their math work on a calculator (e.g., adding on it). Again, my daughter told me that they spent the lesson doing all their addition and subtraction problems on a calculator. After going through the roof, I decided I'm going to have to approach the matter more directly. I had also been told the curriculum had been adopted district wide for "consistency", yet just found out a school at the north end of town uses a standard math curriculum (Saxon), and not surprisingly, very successfully. That school has seen a nice rise in test scores among its students over the scores of the previous modern math taught students. This, too, requires more investigation: why can this school do something outside the district's policy?

Alas, the best part of last night's math night was that Pooh was too sick with her cold to concentrate or finish the math games. We left after the first round. She didn't want to, but her little eyes were so droopy and her breathing so drippy and stuffy. We came home, did some math tables (ha!) and went to bed.

It continues to blow my mind that administrative educators can tell us that standard math left too many children behind so they have to use the new math curricula, when the proof of failing test scores shows the new curricula are leaving ALL children behind. And when they say that standard math didn't teach us mathematical thinking, I look in the mirror and ask, "well, you who took umpteen higher and advanced math, science, and logic classes and did well in them, how in the world did you do it with all that standard math not teaching you to think?" PLEASE! Didn't it every occur to these administrators that perhaps it wasn't the curriculum but the approach to teaching it that left some kids behind? Maybe there was prejudice, economic disparity, cultural differences, and other factors that led to the disparity? Are the children of those children who didn't understand standard math being helped any more by the new curricula? Are these issues too touchy, incomprehensible, difficult, or improbable to remedy? And will math reform or any true education reform every come about without these (and their partner issues) being dealt with?

And perhaps someone will tell me why it matters more that our districts curriculum supervisor be able to walk into any school in Seattle and see the same lesson being taught on the same day (her words) than that the teachers be able to teach the students in front of them the way she or he sees those children need to be taught so that they can learn?

Aaaaa. It makes me crazy.

MLK March

Seattle, Wa January 21,2008

The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day

My daughter and I joined the throng of marchers at Franklin High School in Seattle today for the annual Martin Luther King Day march and rally. The temperature settled a little above freezing, so we bundled up and walked amid the sea of easy-going, happy spirits.

Picture a face representing nearly every national-origin, racial, gender, age, economic, and ethnic make-up in Seattle, and you would have our group. Some bore signs denouncing the war; others signs calling for Peace. We read signs for immigration reform, socialism, organized labor, women's rights, presidential candidates, civic and social groups, an end to racism/poverty/ injustice, for freeing prisoners and fewer prisons. We heard chants of "Si, se puede", "What do we want? Peace! When do we want it? Now!", and the singing of freedom march songs. We heard three men discuss being pass around the California penal system. We heard a young white man trying to get the interest of three young African-American women who were not interested. We saw all sorts of families. We were helped by the afore-mentioned group of three young African-American women when my daughter stumbled getting off my shoulders to walk a bit. We got to say "thanks" and joke around a little. We heard a middle-aged African American woman lecture several young African-American men to get involved, to continue the fight. We heard a man named Muhammed give the invocation at the start of the march.

As we walked and listened and talked with others, I had the chance to tell my daughter why we march. I got to tell her about the marches of my childhood. I got to tell her how far we've come and that we still have work to do to get farther along. She asked me why some white people a long time ago wouldn't let black people do some things. I answered. From time to time I noticed others listening to us as we listened to them. I heard her express exasperation at the ignorance and nonsense of anyone ever thinking they were better than another because of anything, especially something they couldn't control like skin color, something they were given as a gift of creation. I heard my own voice from when I was a child expressing that same exasperation to my mother when I realized that my black friend couldn't have certain things because some white people, the same color as I, had said "no."

Unlike myself as a child, though, I heard my daughter try to understand where she and her parents fit into the scheme of things: a white mother, a brown Hispanic father, and their child. What am I, Mama? What did she feel hearing that her mother was part of the race that had (and still does) hurt so many? What did she feel knowing she comes from this race, too, and from one of those that has been and still is hurt by the majority in this country? I have told her about what our family has done right and wrong, and I have told her that we all have a choice how we will act.

She asked when we will stop marching as a people, and I told her, "when we all treat each other truly as we want to be treated." She asked what we would do then, and I said, "we will live in peace, and everyone will share everything, and some of the things we think we cannot change or overcome now will be a distant memory of accomplishments." And then I told her, "on that day, sweetie, God will be all in all."

We held out for most of the march, but Little Bear got weary and hungry near the end, so we took a short cut to the rally point and then headed off for lunch.

Resident Rabbit

People talk about the power of positive thinking. How about simply: the power of thinking. Wishing and hoping doesn't hurt, making a thorough case for your point or desire can be pretty effective. But my daughter takes the cake.

She has asked me every day for a week for a pet rabbit. When I've said "no," she's said she wants the Easter Bunny to leave one in her Easter Basket on Easter Morning, assuming this is an end-run around Mama.

We have an indoor cat. A House Rabbit sounds tenuous and possibly imprudent under the circumstances. It will take a bit of research and quizzing the experts before such a commitment. A fish with a covered tank or a caged hamster sound safer.

But back to the power of thinking.

When we came home this evening, we were greeted in the back yard by a very fat, brown, presumably wild rabbit. The three of us looked as fascinated and startled as s/he. She watched us for a few moments; then dashed under the low deck. We got some carrots and left them around the place where she disappeared and a couple of other places as well. She has since re-emerged and hopped around the yard nibbling grass and carrots.

How in the world my dear, dear child conjured a live rabbit in the back yard by wishing, I don't propose to know, but it has sprinkled our weekend with the fantastical fairy dust of possibility.

Movie Vegetarian

A couple of friends and I got together for our "Women's Night Out" yesterday. We witnessed Sweeney Todd's musical mayhem and followed it with a marathon of catching up.

Movie Review: Sweeney Todd

The movie's production values were high, the singing surprisingly adaptable, the plot demented with a slathering of humor, the blood blessedly obviously fake, but the gore and viciousness too much for me. Nausea rose a bit high. If I hadn't eliminated meat from my diet last week, I would have after last night.

There was a time I watched slasher flicks and horror movies. That time passed about 15 years ago. The brutality of them became too real and too painful. People laughing and cheering as a villain massacred a victim made me ill. Sweeney stands on a higher step than those films, in that it's point isn't the demented violence, or even the desire to manipulate an audience with fear. Sweeney points to the unspoken, polite, socially-condoned and legally enforced violence which society's can inflict. The story paints violence from oppression as the equivalent of slitting the throats of and eating a society's people. In this way a society kills and eats itself. As in the movie, societies often consume the isolated and strangers among them, and likewise, most of us never notice they're missing. There are other themes that can be drawn, but this will do for now.

As for the cockroaches, well, I'll have nightmares for a while.

Evening Review: lovely. Being in the presence of two people I relate well to, whom I trust, admire, and adore, revitalized me, even as I flopped into bed for a few hours sleep before sunrise. The feeling is something akin to hope.

Wisdom of a Six Year Old

My daughter shared a gem of wisdom with me this morning. She said,

"everything is good to use except weapons and hurtful words. A hurtful word is a weapon, and a weapon is a hurtful word."

She spent her dressing time making up and singing a song about stopping the war. She turned six about a week ago. She goes to a school with a large immigrant population. Our priest is from Kenya and happens to be visiting in Kenya right now, helping those in need during the current turmoil. She hears and sees the results of displacement and hurt. And God has blessed her with a shrewd mind, caring heart, and gifts of music, words, and art.

How do I create a haven of peace and compassion in my heart, mind, and body, a disciplined tongue, so that the Spirit of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control infect our immediate world and spread faster and more thoroughly than disease, poverty, dissension, confusion, chaos, lies, fear, hatred, ambivalence, isolation, and mistrust?

Today, I will ponder the wisdom of my child. I will curb my tongue, question thoughts that would rise as bile on my lips, try to see the other side of issues, to understand others, and keep my body at peace so that it does not become a weapon, nor wield one against others or myself.

One thought that flits through my head as I ponder the universal wisdom of my child is, "if life is a continual journey toward God, then why do children find it easier to see Truth and enter into God's presence than adults?" The child's simplicity and holiness awes me and leads me closer to God. It is why I still work as a catechist at our church. I sometimes think my role as catechist is as humble follower of the child. Other times I think it is to encourage them to know that they are in Truth. Perhaps it is as simple as custodian of a quiet, sacred space to nurture these beautiful beings communing with God. They don't need me to tell them they know God; they know that they know God.

And these thoughts confirm again for me that coming to God is more than magic words or moments. It is constantly reminding the self of the humbling power of Grace: we begin in God, from God, and for God.

There Is Nothing Like a Date

Saturday night we celebrated a wedding. It was different from many, trading a sometimes somber seriousness for light and loving. What made it more celebratory was that is was a date, a real date, for us. We had a late lunch that day at a restaurant called "Purple". Frank's criterion: the restaurant must not have a children's menu. It didn't. The food was delicious. The wedding took place at a venue that did not allow minors.

We love our daughter, and we do so even more when we get some time away every once in a while. ;)

Excuses

Why do we think up excuses? I'm not going to go too deep into this question. It comes to mind because I was sorting through Christmas cards and letters and re-read my parents' brief letter in which they told everyone that they'd been to Seattle this summer to see my niece graduate high school. This bit of text struck a sour note.

At first I thought it hit me wrong because they'd failed to mention my daughter's "big event" (preschool graduation) that had occurred the day before my niece's event (high school graduation). Most people might not consider "graduation" from preschool much of a deal, and my family did not, as no one gave it a thought or showed up for it except my husband and me. My daughter thought it was a very big deal. She felt she had learned a lot. She felt she had been through a lot. She felt great kinship with her much older cousin because they were both graduating on the same weekend. She felt confused when no one came to her ceremony and everyone went to the other. She took it personally, and yet with more grace than her father and I did.

Do I think people should travel thousands of miles to go to family members' preschool graduations? No. I don't think they have to travel anywhere for anyone's. Acknowledging the achievement is fine. Acknowledging the importance of the individual (and so the event to the individual) is crucial. (Note of confession: I vehemently struggled to avoid both my college and law school graduations, but it was extremely important to my parents, so I relented.)

I don't think my extended family understood the importance of this little preschool to my immediate family. The people who run this school are persons of color. The families attending are mostly of color or mixed race; they run the economic and educational gamut. And this school thrives with more love pumping through its veins than some families. The children succeed. They have strong self-esteem. They are motivated and a joy to be around. Many of them are ready for 1st Grade when they leave; not just Kindergarten... and they haven't been plugged into chairs with lectures all day. They've played and learned and their play is learning and their learning is play. It is a wonderful place. It is a healthy, vibrant community. It was the place to which my daughter transitioned from my 24-hour care when she was almost 4 years old. It was the place that helped us teach her that the world was safe and loving and exciting and that she was okay with or without Mama's constant physical presence.

Our only child, who had been afraid of rambunctious play at the parks around town and would stop playing if the other children got into that play mode, who sometimes had a hard time making friends at public events, learned how to navigate the world of social interaction. We go to a park now and she finds someone to play with. Rambunctious play goes on around her and she navigates that, too. The presence of boys does not send her to the sidelines of play. She is comfortable with persons of different races, genders, cultures, and languages. She is comfortable with her own mixed-race family. Sure, she picked up the subjects the school taught with the ease of a champion learner, but it was the social skills more than anything for which we are grateful. I had trouble with shyness growing up. There is a part of me that is exuberantly outgoing around those I know and feel comfortable with and a part that has no idea how to get to know other people and get to a point of comfort with them. Maybe my daughter will struggle, too, but at least she has some tools to work with that I didn't have to give her.

Preschool graduation is a momentous occasion to the children involved. Others recognize that the children have achieved and honor that achievement. We can't know what all those achievements are, but some, like those mentioned above, are obvious. And we can't know everything the child thinks s/he achieved. For a parent to recognize that a child has transitioned to a place of comfort on her own two feet, through a major transition, is to respect that child and reinforce that child's confidence that her judgment is correct: I have achieved and I can achieve. All achievement is not measured by how much of a product you've completed to code in an 8-hour day or on how many tests you've scored a passing grade. Why, after all, do we celebrate 50th wedding anniversaries? Not because the couple had X number of children or made X number of dollars together.

Sometimes don't we celebrate so we can celebrate each other with each other? Sometimes don't we celebrate that we are with each other?

Which brings me back to what I think bothered me about the Christmas letter. Everything isn't about achievement, practicality, frugality, or a valid purpose. We don't need excuses to take trips to see each other or to celebrate each other.

I can only guess what it was like growing up in the Great Depression. I listen to every story I can from those who did. I read. I imagine. But I did not do it. My husband comes closer to understanding than I, because he didn't grow up with as much as I. When he describes his upbringing, it sounds more like my mother's than mine.

My parents have been frugal people as long as I've known them. Every expense has been scrutinized and weighed. Sometimes potential expenditures were rolled around on a lightly floured surface and folded into themselves until the worry was kneaded through. My parents took good care of us and set themselves up for a decent retirement. They are generous, loving, and gracious people. They taught me much in this way. And there is this part of them, and therefore me, that is sooooo Scots-Irish, so prudently Protestant, so thrifty and sensible that it is as if their brains wore nurse's shoes.

What bothered me about the Christmas letter was that the words essentially said, "we owe you all a sensible explanation for this trip. We need an excuse for this frivolity. It can't be about us. It must be about someone else to be legitimate and not selfish." My parents don't need an excuse to visit, to travel, to love on us or themselves. They don't have to be practical in all things. They don't need anyone's approval or blessing.

It's the same reason my family didn't show for the preschool graduation. The event was not sensible because a child's seemingly small accomplishments don't register on the general, practical, work-ethic adult mind as meritorious. Maybe the children's accomplishments are greater than any of our adult accomplishments. And maybe it is time to set aside the accomplishment scale, the critical eye, and release each other from these bonds of expected scrutiny. Maybe we could not only stop fishing around for the plank in our neighbor's eye, but also stop digging about for the splinter in our own, realizing that maybe there is no splinter, that our eyes are bloodshot and hurt from the strain of scrutiny and simply need a rest.

Breasts

I have a pair of which I am fond. They go everywhere with me. When I am afraid, they proceed me into the scary place. They have been with me since before birth. When my daughter was born, they helped feed her, even when I was too tired to think. This fondness for these breasts is more a qualitative than a quantitative affection, but sincere.

Someone I know has breast cancer. She found out recently. Now I know. It's thrown me for a loop, so I can imagine what it's done to her.

Today has been a day of prayer.

Back To School

Little Bear started back to school yesterday post Christmas break. Her comment in the morning when she dressed and stood waiting at the back door with enormous enthusiasm about the return to school was, "I need a break from Break."

Upon returning from school she said, "I want to read." I thought she meant she wanted us to read books together. She meant, "I want to have the ability to read on my own." It held a ring of frustration, so we worked on reading. My frustration reared its head as I felt I was missing some tools to help her unlock the mystery of reading. So today, complete with a serious bout of vertigo, I sought resources. It looks like I need to learn how to read so that I can teach her. I am missing some tools. What I read made sense (perhaps because my head is still mysteriously spinning). The concepts of "sight words" and a language with more exceptions than rules has bothered me. It bothered me as a child. It makes language learning feel more difficult than it need be.

In High School, I was lucky enough to have an excellent Spanish teacher, Mrs. Zimbrick. One day, exasperated with the class' general ignorance of English Grammar and structure, she stopped teaching Spanish and taught us English from a structural standpoint. I'd always been good in English, but her lesson that day threw the switch on the ballpark floodlights in my head and led me to learn two new languages.

This sounds like a digression, but it isn't. In teaching Little Bear to read, I've felt that same frustration of not having the key to help her open the subject fully... Not grasping the underpinnings that (once understood) make the layers of details of your subject fall into place and the world sought open and accessible.

So we begin the process of teaching the mother to teach the child. To all you homeschoolers out there, I tip my hat.

Plastic Sippy Cups and A Mother's Guilt

You probably all know about the plastic sippy cup broo-ha-ha going on in the plastic cup/utensil industry. I've had a late start looking into this, as it slipped my notice till recently.

My husband put me on to Google Reader and RSS feeds this weekend (yes, I'll soon plug an RSS feed into my blog and probably revamp the blog as well). So having noticed a blip of news about plastic baby bottles, I used my now set up Google Reader and Google itself to delve into the world of PLASTIC, specifically BPA's.

The good news is we have more space in the china cabinet (china being a flexible word, as in, there was some plastic in there.) The bad news is we have used the Avent Sippy Cups for our daughter since toddler-hood. Now that freaky part of my nature that gets all Medea-hysterical (but anti-Medea mothering) has sent up a wail of protest against all things that threaten my child, including my own ignorant actions. The Bapto-Catholic guilt rends the cloth of my soul and pulls the clouds down upon the sky.

Okay, the drama is over. I'm pissed. Enjoy the blip of language. Relish it. I'm enjoying the anger at whoever is in charge of consumer product review in this country. The agency upon agency upon agency that seems to have turned a blind eye to the dangers of Phthalates, Bisphenol A (BPA), and Polybrominated diphenol ethers (PBDEs).

Now the anger turns inward, as it must with "I'm Not A Perfect Mother Guilt" ("oh, you knew plastic was evil, you so-called Mother, you!" Guilt-me says. "But not THAT evil!" I answer. "Oh, yes you did, spawn of the oil industry," Guilt-me retorts. "Spawn of the what?" I ask.) Enough! Enough!

Flush with information on Good Plastic Bad Plastic, I sorted our flexible china. Then, I got out an equally (?) evil plastic grocery bag and tossed the Bad Plastic into it. Ding dong the plastic sippies are gone, the hiking water bottles are gone, certain bowls, cups, lids, and straws are gone.

I said to myself, "Kick the dust off your feet and go ON!"

For those of you who were more behind than I on this matter, check here for useful information on the BPA plastics issue, which manufacturers and products are safe and which are not. The site says that the recycle numbers 1, 2, 4, and "most" 5's are okay. (Unfortunately, they don't say which 5's are okay and which aren't, but do not recommend tossing them. Hmmm.) They say 3's and 6's are the DEVIL and 7 probably is.

If you want to terrify yourself, follow their link to del.icio.us. It's better than watching a horror movie, alone, on a stormy night when the phone lines are down.

For those of you who want to worry about more plastics than just the BPA's, try this lovely look at a toxics review from Alaska.

Bon appetite. But with a glass or a lead-free, china cup, please.

Miracles

In reflecting daily upon the Christmas story, I paused to ponder my
favorite crucifix in our home. This is a bit of stray tree root we
found on the beach in Mexico last year one morning right before we
needed a miracle and received one.

I've needed to reflect upon the fact of miracles.

Birthday Fun!

Turning Six

Our daughter turned 6 years old today. Officially, the celebration began yesterday (as the day labor began 6 years ago).

Yesterday, she and I girded ourselves against the mild cold and wet, walked to the bus stop and rode to Westlake Center for hot drinks, window shopping, and a Monorail Ride to the Seattle Center. We sat up front with the Conductor on the Monorail, which is always fun.

When her feet hit the ice and slipped, her excitement wavered, but her faith in me did not. She immediately turned trusting eyes to me, expecting me to hold her hand and lead her confidently around the ice. With such confidence firmly placed in my ability, I stepped onto the ice, slipped ungracefully, recalled that it had been... oh, at least a decade and probably longer... that I'd been on ice skates, and stepped back off to reassess how to teach her when I needed to reteach myself. That's when I saw the walkers for the children to use as they learned. What a brilliant idea!

We got a walker for her, and I skated behind her holding onto the arms of the walker, guiding her as she figured out the feel of one foot in front of the other on ice. I remembered how to do it as she learned how to do it for the first time. After a few runs like this, we set the walker against the wall and had her skate to me about 4 feet away against the wall and back to the walker. Then, she skated alone with the walker; then to me without the walker for up to 10 feet. And at last, we stacked the walker with all the others outside the rink and stepped onto the ice to skate together, hand in hand, for the rest of the evening. We skated for 2 1/2-3 hours. Mercifully, I had extra children's socks packed... not for her, but to tuck into my skates to protect my bony ankles. She said her feet felt fine. It extended our skate time by at least an hour.

So our great adventure began the birthday weekend.

Today, we've celebrated by being slugs, her choice. Art projects, stories, a movie, a fire in the fireplace, a football game. With a birthday so close after Christmas and New Year's, I guess she was "peopled" and "evented" out. Perhaps later this year she'll want an UnBirthday party with friends and relatives. This year on her birthday, though, she wanted her parents and some peace and quiet.

Fire

I'm tired of juggling egos
Little balls of fire that burn my hands
Sometimes I drop mine
but always keep the others' flying
I want to pick mine up and drop the others
Walk across them like a bed of coals and out the door.
If you want one,
they're in the room where I left them.

String Ends and New Socks in an Old House

New Year's Eve

2007 ended in an unconventional and portentous way. First thing Monday, the cat was nowhere to be found. After her pink-eye episode of Saturday, I was worried. What if it were more than pink-eye after all? I searched off and on for about 2 hours. No cat. As I stepped out of the shower, my daughter shouted, "Mama, mama, come quick! Shadow has a string stuck to her bottom!"

I hope you're not eating while reading this. If you are, come back later when you're finished.

After toweling off and dressing, I opened the bathroom door and saw the cat scamper first one way and then another, a glimpse of red trailing her. Oh, brother. She really did have yarn stuck to her bottom. I stopped her and reached down to pull off the yarn.

Here was the problem. I couldn't pull off the yarn. The foot long stretch of red yarn wasn't stuck to her. It was exiting her.

I called my daughter to get a tissue, which she did. She then wisely stood back a good 5 feet in a mixture of horror, curiosity, and humor. I held poor Shadow and assisted her with the emission of the remaining foot of red yarn. Neither of us ever planned such an intimately gross experience, and hopefully, Shadow, having ended the year with the kittenish foolishness of slurping yarn will lead us all into a far wiser and intelligent 2008.

So, how is this portentous? In our house, it seems the best day to do something incredibly un-smart is New Year's Eve Day. Go out with a bang. The idea is that anything that goes wrong on New Year's Eve Day accentuates the brilliance of going forward. "We got that out of our system. We got that behind us. Next year has to be better." (No, the puns weren't originally intended, but they work really well.)

New Year's Day 2008

Lying in bed early New Year's Day I realized that I have lived in our house longer than I have lived in any other living space in my entire life. I have now lived in Washington State longer than all the other 6 I've lived in, except Mississippi. This revelation has set off a domino chain of thoughts to be followed, prodded, and explored. It also seems portentous for the year.

One thread of thought reads: how is it the nomadic child grew up to stay in one place? How do I stay in one place longer? Can I stay in one place? Did this realization bring on the wanderlust or was it already there? Where do I want to go? Do I want to go? Can I go and stay at the same time?

I think I need to write more, to open up that treasure chest of stories lying in a drawer, in journals, in notebooks, and in the back of my mind. Perhaps that is travel of the going and staying kind. Perhaps it is the tip of an iceberg that floats me away physically and mentally and brings me home.