Masks.  The “new normal” as an older gentleman said to me as he held the door open, both of us wearing masks.  Not crazy about the term, but it’s one way to describe it.  They’re hot, no matter whether you’re inside or outside and I try not to wipe the sweat around my eyes and nose with it while I’m wearing it, but it’s like living in Key West under that thing.

I don’t know exactly how they’re supposed to fit, but despite the size of my body, my face is pretty small and both masks I have are large enough that they cover my entire face except for my eyes and forehead.  I have to tip my head forward to look down at the ground – shifting my eyes downward just shows mask.

We did a bit of shopping today, happy to be doing something different, but things are not the same.  Signs on every door ask for masks.  Sanitizer is available by the gallon.  Certain doors are open and others are not.  All employees, no matter what the store or restaurant are wearing masks.  Someone coughs and a paranoia I’ve never felt rises within me.  It’s annoying and slightly embarrassing.  Walking through the store, I no longer see faces, just a sea of masks.

We shopped in a little mall in a slightly hoity toity part of Omaha and there was a well dressed, middle aged woman who walked by and into the restroom.  As she came back by after, what I noticed was her mask.  It made her look uncomfortable and her eyes looked sad.  Her eyes. Not wanting to have too many people in the restroom, I waited until she left.  As I looked up from washing my hands,  I noticed MY eyes.  Not bad.  It’s hard to tell what age a person is by their eyes.

These days, to look at a person, you HAVE to look at their eyes because there’s nothing else to see.  Looking at someone now becomes so personal.  A person can smile and you might never know it if the smile doesn’t show in their eyes.  I made it a point to try to make my eyes “smile” when saying something to a child today and I’m hoping it didn’t come off as creepy.  People used to be able to hide a lot when they smiled, even if they didn’t feel it.  Now they can’t because the eyes are the window to the soul.

If you take the time to really look, you can see the sadness, the frustration, the tiredness in those eyes.  Some look ahead with blank stares, some let you know that the person is thinking of something far away.  I walked up to my husband who had been waiting for me and I could tell he was in deep thought.  The eyes say it all.

Maybe the mask thing could be good.  It could force us all to make eye contact and have to read expressions, which could lead to some real conversations.  Something besides “how are you?” and “I’m fine”.  Maybe we won’t be distracted by someone’s features, the perfect nose, the big zit, the perfect smile or the uneven teeth.  First impressions could be completely different with “you have beautiful eyes” being the ultimate compliment.

The masks are a pain, I know and I don’t want to get into a big debate about the pros/cons of these things, but like everything else, I try to see what I can learn from something, even if I don’t like it or don’t think it pertains to me personally.  What I’m learning about masks have nothing at all to do with the purported facts and figures.  What I’m learning is that people can take an inanimate object and make it political, a source of ridicule, a symbol of fear, a source of income and a fashion statement, all at the same time.  It is one tiny thing that takes how we do the everyday and turn it upside down.  But if we’re not careful, we’ll miss the amazing thing that this silly mask can provide and that’s a way to really see people, eye to eye, through to their soul.

I have this plan.  I need to get rid of a plant in my bedroom.  It’s a fairly large plant, one I’ve had for years, a palm which clicks with the tropical vibe I’ve tried to cultivate.  But it’s too big and pretty much taking over the world, so I’m going to get rid of it.  Don’t throw it away you say, cut it back, you say!  Ah, but I tend to have a way with plants and they are all way too big right now.  And every thing I cut grows into another huge plant.  But I digress, so, moving that never ending plant leaves an empty space, so I’ll move another plant into it’s place, not as big.  Perfect.  But now there’s going to be an empty space in the bay window.

I was thinking of moving the chair and ottoman out of the office anyway.  Doug has pretty much taken over and it’s too crowded.  So I’ll move it into the bay window.  Then I can move one of the bookcases over into that spot.  That works.  So, now, all the spaces are filled.  Except the upholstery pattern on the chair and ottoman don’t match with ANYTHING in the room.  So now of course I’m going to have to buy new bedding, maybe new curtains and look at all the nick racks in the room to make sure they go together.  Which leads me into the master bath.

There is this fairly large beach scene print in the master bath.  I’m thinking it might look better in another frame and moved to the living room.  Which leaves an empty space on that wall.  Well, I’m going to have to coordinate with the new colors in the bedroom, so obviously I’ll have to change out the shower curtain and linens in the bathroom and new artwork will have to follow.  Then what to do with the stuff I take off the wall in the living room….

Do you see how my brain works?  You should have seen Doug’s face when I described the plan. Building the nest for me is just a huge game of dominoes.  One move obviously leads to what must follow next.  I don’t do this often, contrary to what I may have just lead you to believe, I don’t spend money freely.  After all, I bought new furniture in 1981, 2000 and 2019/20.  I make things last.  What I’ve just bought has to last until I die. Don’t laugh, I’m serious. But just like other things, like going on CD buying sprees in the ’80’s, I don’t buy often, but when I do, look out.  And I feel a binge about to happen.

It’s a creativity thing I think.  And a boredom thing.  My days tend to look a lot alike.  Not like I’m not doing different things, but I’m just sitting on my computer all day, every day.  I’ve covered my balcony in colorful flowers and plants, I’ve made the front of the apartment comfy and cozy, now it’s time to go down the hall and fix everything else.  It’s time for more color.

I have to be in the mood for it too, and whatever I buy has to be screaming.  It needs to be something I’m going to love for a while and I don’t mind paying more if it’s really “the thing”.  It took me at least two years to find MY Beetle.  Finding that thing that makes you feel at home sometimes takes time and sometimes what you THINK you were looking for, wasn’t what you ended up with.  I was thinking lavender or green, not yellow, but can you find a happier color than yellow?  It literally makes people smile, starts conversations on the road with the person next to me and causes families to “slug bug” each other.  What more could you want?

So, back to the retail rabbit hole.  I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for, but I’ll know it when I find it. It will begin tomorrow I think with cutting down the plant, maybe saving some palms to put in vases, and then the dominoes will begin to fall.

 

 

The front door opened as I parked in front of the house.  I could see two little boys running around the living room, ready to spend the day with me.  I walked in to hugs from both of them with one of them proclaiming that I was the “coolest grandma” because of the yellow bug I drive.  Do you want to see my coin collection?  Did you see my unicorn egg?  (I’m not kidding).  Coupon in hand for a treat at the bookstore, inhaler in the pocket and quick hugs to mom and we were off, the oldest getting shotgun and the younger choosing the best of the back seat.  The goal was breakfast, with an understanding that we were going to a particular restaurant.  And this is where the adventure really began.

“But I don’t LIKE that restaurant, the younger one said, to which his older brother asked, “well, what about that other breakfast place?”.  It’s closed.  “And what about that OTHER one?”  It’s too far away.  “OK”, the younger says, but then as we pull up in the parking lot he says again, “but I don’t LIKE this place”.  Oh, you’ll find something you like, I say with fullest confidence.  Then the kicking starts.  “Grandma, he’s kicking me under the table!”  “No I’m not!”.  “Yes he is!  He’s putting his foot on my leg!”  I find myself kicking into mom mode and then try to distract them with something else.

Sterling orders a double bacon cheeseburger with onion rings and fries with apple juice at 8:30 in the morning.  The one who wanted to go out to breakfast.  Payton, on the other hand, the one who didn’t want to eat at this restaurant orders the ultimate breakfast, three types of meat, eggs, hash browns and pancakes.  That’s a LOT of food I say and he says “I’ll eat it, grandma!” so I say fine, as any grandparent would do.

Plate upon plate of food shows up and after a bite of sausage, a bit of the yellow of the egg and bite in the middle of one pancake, he announces he doesn’t like it and says he TOLD me he didn’t like this place.  Which is true, he did, but I assumed, egotistically, that I was in control. HA!  Not so much.  Three boxes later the food all came home.

Next it was off to the book store, where the boys looked at books for a few minutes before heading to the Pokemon cards.  “How much can we spend, grandma?” is the question and then they try to talk me into the most expensive thing first before negotiating down.  This one I won.

I had a zoom meeting and left them in the capable hands of their Uncle David who took them shopping some more.  They ended up back at the book store where they attempted to get their uncle to buy more Pokemon cards.  He said he would buy one pack each, to which they replied “but grandma bought us three!!”.  He compromised with two.  Then back to the apartment where they quietly ran behind me during my zoom meeting and turned on the Cartoon Network.

NOW, Payton is hungry.  “Grandma, can we go to Sultan’s Kite?  I want a gyro with lots, and lots, and lots and lots of potatoes.  I mean LOTS.  Can I have LOTS of potatoes?  I promise I’ll eat them all.  Really.  I promise!” Well, of course – he’s my grandson!  Sterling was still full of breakfast double bacon cheeseburger and fries, so he opted not to eat again. One drive-thru trip later Payton was sitting at the table, leaning the chair back to watch cartoons while he stuffed his face with Greek potatoes.  Life doesn’t get any better than that, right?  He ate as much as he could before he climbed into grandpa’s recliner with a pillow and throw to snuggle while he watched Sponge Bob.

What to do now?  Who wants to play miniature golf?  “I do!” says the grandson full of potatoes.  The other one, not so much.  He’ll hang out with Uncle David and watch T.V. So again, I’m the cool grandma with the cool grandpa and we’re off to play miniature golf.  “How far is it?  Why is everyone looking at us?  I’ve been there before.  Did you know if you get the last hole you get a free game?”  We park and before we can even get out of the car, he’s almost to the window to pay and yells back at us “you’re so slow!”.  He asks for a green ball and grandpa accidentally gets him red instead.  No need to worry – second hole he chipped the ball and it ended up in the pond.  Grandpa saved the day by going to get another ball and this time it was green.

I should mention that this entire time, despite the fact that there were few people there and everyone was socially distanced, Payton wore his mask the entire time.  So by Hole 15, he was hot, sweaty and grumpy.  And he was dancing. I told him where to go, he handed me his stuff and ran.  A reminder that back in the day, I would have asked my boys if they had to go before we started.  I forgot.  Oh well.

We finished, headed back to the car with his refreshing drink and he got quiet.  “Can we go straight home now?”  Are you missing mom?  “Yes.  I want to go home.”  After we stopped by to pick up brother we dropped him at home where he proceeded to tell mom and dad all about his day.  Seems like grandma was still pretty cool.  Oh, and all that breakfast food?  Uncle Dave ate it for dinner tonight.

“Can we spend the night with you this weekend?”.  Well, we’ll have to ask mom and dad.  Regardless, it looks like grandma made it through the day and is apparently still cool.

So it occurred to me today that I have a little problem.  The title of my blog is A Music Teacher’s Midlife Musings.  Well, since I began writing four years ago things have changed a bit.  First of all, I’m pretty sure 60 is not considered mid-life but I’m not ready to go to the next category, so don’t go there.  And while I am still musing, as of this fall, I am no longer a classroom teacher.

Four years ago, my blog name described me.  In the last year or so I’ve begun to step away from just writing about teaching and kids, although the topic is still very important to me.  It just won’t be full of cute little personal anecdotes anymore I’m afraid, no more stories of kids swallowing foreign objects that they’ve found on my carpet during class.  Nope, I’ll have a cubicle which apparently I won’t be visiting  very often because I’ll be working with classroom teachers instead.  So perhaps my new blog title should be “A music teacher leader’s senior musings”?  No, that’s a bit too depressing.  Senior moments are all too real these days.

While not fitting my title is a bit disconcerting, if I’m not changing, I’m not growing, right?  Back in the old days it could have been a McDonald’s employee’s teenaged musings, followed by a college student’s young woman musings, then a mom’s 20 something musings, followed by a blur of 30’s while raising three boys musings, then my 40’s & 50’s music teacher’s midlife musings.  Things have significantly changed over the years, which is a good thing.  How has your blog title changed over the years? Has it changed the way you planned or is it completely different?  Did things get in the way or perhaps progress later than you hoped?

Today I was reflecting on my place in my world and I’m happy.  Not satisfied, but very happy.  I have had and am still having wonderful experiences upon which to muse.  Maybe later than some but life is not a race – each individual is just that – an individual.  And my story is not like anyone else’s.  Not everyone gets to marry their best friend, not everyone raises three young men who have turned out to be pretty great, not everyone gets to have a thirty year career doing something they love.  And through it all, despite the sometimes rocky road of life, the wrong turns taken and the mistakes made, life has turned out to be pretty good.

And no, I’m not satisfied and I think that’s a good thing.  There’s more to do and see and learn and experience.  I’ve just spent the last two days listening and learning and yes, on occasion participating and what I do know is that I’m not there yet, wherever “there” is.   There’s just so much more to do.  Yes, it’s sometimes uncomfortable and many times frustrating, but I can do this thing called change.  Just maybe not as fast as I used to.  I may be old school but as I told someone earlier this week, that just means I have a bigger bag of tricks.  I’ve experienced enough that when I experience it again, it’s nothing to sweat over.  Except maybe this pandemic thing – who saw that coming?  But then again, I’m old enough to know that God’s in control and I’m good with that.  Besides, I hear 60 is the new 40.  I can go with that.

I saw a clip of a woman on America’s Got Talent this morning.  73 years young, she began body building at age 59.  She has the body of a really in shape 20 year old.  Not sure it was talent, but it sure was inspiring.  She changed the direction of her life at a time when most people are thinking of slowing down.  Pretty amazing.  While I’m pretty sure I’m not going to begin picking up barbells any time soon, it does open my eyes to the fact that my life blog can be anything I choose it to be.

A music teacher’s midlife musings.  The title and age may change but the musings continue as the road to adventure awaits.

 

 

 

When I think of flowers, I certainly don’t thing of something powerful.  I think of beauty, color, delicacy, growth.  In the late spring, I go shopping, excited to find beautiful flowers to fill up the pots and boxes on my little balcony.  I love looking at them through my sliding door – that punch of color and texture – and I love sitting at our little table outside among the birds and flowers.  This year however, just like the rest of us, those beautiful flowers have been beat up more in the last month or so than they have in all the years I’ve been growing them.

Since they’ve been planted, they have been blown by 60-70 mph winds, hailed on, drenched in torrential rains and fried in near 100 degree temps, each more than once.  Welcome to Nebraska, right?  As a result, they have ended up in a variety of conditions.  Delicate petals were ripped apart, stems were bent, plants burnt to a crisp.  And yet, in whatever condition they are in, most have continued to grow, not in the way they began, but growing in spite of the obstacles, completely out of their control, hurled their way.

This afternoon was another one of those times.  Just two days ago, I had replaced some of the flowers that had burned away while we were out of town and today I watched the skies turn dark and felt the wind begin to blow and watched as those newly planted  flowers blew backwards.  I was waiting for the wind to just pull those flowers off of the railing, watching through the sliding glass door, but no – they stayed.  After the storm passed I pulled the flowers back up and within a half hour they looked as if nothing had happened.  Doesn’t that make you wonder if we too could bounce back that quickly? Why do some of them bounce back and why do others parish?  What can we learn from them?

It seems as though every day we wake up there is something else, from the serious to the ridiculous.  From Covid to murder hornets, to crazy weather to an unrest we haven’t seen in decades, I’m beginning to feel like those flowers, just beat to death and wondering when it will all be over.  Some are being hit harder than others, some have been hit longer than others and it shows.  On top of those things that are affecting all of us collectively, life still happens to us individually; families are unable to participate in traditional activities, relationships begin and end, people get sick, people die.  Everything is compounded by the fact that we feel powerless to do anything, much like those flowers seem when pounded by the elements.

And yet they bounce back.  Maybe if we’re planted deeply enough in our faith, if we’re fed and watered by someone who cares for us, we too can bounce back from this.   And though we may be bent or scarred, we’ll be stronger for it, still reaching upward towards the Son.

 

The little diner on the state highway has obviously seen better days, but it’s a go-to spot for many people, including my son and his friends, 24 hours a day.  The short order, no nonsense menu makes it a comfortable place for locals and travelers alike.  As my son and a friend were going through the line to place their orders, a couple of people sitting nearby looked straight at my son and without blinking an eye said out loud, “F…in’ Isis”.

As my son was relating this story to us, he laughed at the ignorance of the person saying it.  Yes, my son has big hair and a big beard, especially if he hasn’t been to a barber for awhile, but Isis?  Really?  Did this person make this assumption solely based on the beard?  Apparently.  And while my son found the story funny, the more I thought about it, the more it bothered me.  Who did this person think he was, judging my son the way he did and secondly, what if he had acted upon that judgement?  Fortunately, the man apparently was more bark than bite but it has caused me to think about the culture in this country where instant judgements are made just by looking at someone.

Of course, the more I thought about this, I realized that I too first judge people by how they look.  I immediately place them into certain categories, ranging from socio-economic, educational, country of origin – you get the idea, without knowing their story.  The sad part to admit is that while I would NEVER say something to a person’s face,  in my heart and mind, I am still judging based on nothing that has to do with them as a person.  Whether it’s something I was taught as a child or something I just do, the fact is that I, just like the obnoxious guy at the diner, tend to quickly judge people by how they look.

Why judging on the visual instead of something else?  It’s quick and easy, just the way our culture likes it.  We’re always in such a hurry that we seldom stop and take the time to sit down, talk and get to know people who are not in our usual social or work group on a deeper level.  Is it because we hesitate to reciprocate?  After all, getting to really know someone is an investment of time and we’re all just so busy!  But investments can reap great rewards if we’re willing to give up some of the time we’re so afraid of losing.

Then I go back to this person who misjudged  my son and it sounds an awful lot like fear and anger to me.  While we’ll never know why, something in this person’s past brought out this comment.  Was it brought on by his upbringing, the media, or a personal experience?  Was someone unkind or did someone scare him?  We’ll never know, but he left that diner with the same ignorance that he walked in with, to judge someone else at a later time.  While he words were abhorrent, again, I’m judging if I’m looking at this reaction and comment based on nothing more than a story.  Just labeling this person as stupid or placing a political value on someone is not helping – it only separates us further. It’s not until we understand the underlying ‘WHY’ that we’ll begin to make real change.  Otherwise, the confrontational behaviors will just continue.

I don’t have all the answers of course – I leave that up to people who are at a higher pay grade.  All I can do is keep listening, learning and taking the time to get to know people better before I make any kind of judgement call. This means doing some soul searching to see where I can change to do better in all areas of my life.  It means that kindness should be my first action and reaction to people.  And perhaps I should stop fussing about that big ole’ messy beard on my son’s face.  After all, it’s a part of the young man I love.

 

As each car paused, it became just a tiny bit harder to breathe.  A combination of pride and sadness, so hard to explain in my own mind and even harder to utter.  The procession, led by a police car with another that zipped ahead to stop traffic coming across the procession, moved slowly to the gravesite.  I had forgotten how in the south,  everyone on the opposite side of the road voluntarily comes to a respectful stop and allows the procession to travel unimpeded to that final resting place.  It is beautiful and sad at the same time.

There is nothing like funeral rituals for a loved one to bring so much into perspective.  It’s where you see the strengths and weaknesses of the families and friends involved, and it’s where you vividly see the impact one life can have on others.

My father-in-law worked hard and played hard, had high expectations for himself and others and yet he took time to mentor others in the things he loved and did well.   Opinionated, to say the least, he had no problem sharing his thoughts on all the subjects others sometimes try to avoid, but he certainly didn’t leave you out to dry if you disagreed with him.  He may not have understood your point of view or agreed with you, but it didn’t mean he didn’t love or care for you.

The impact he had was obvious as all of his kids, grandkids and great grandkids with their spouses all made the trek to pay their final respects.  It’s an odd time for sure as everyone was asked to wear a face mask, something I’m sure would have made him crazy.  The masks made for some funny stories as apparently some aunts made a rush for a visitor with big hugs, thinking she was someone else, and someone thought my husband was my dad which makes me think that maybe wearing my mask  wasn’t so bad.

The funny stories continued as secrets were shared, the one about the huge fish that got away made its way around a couple of times amid past trip stories and memories of times gone by too quickly.  Family and friends rallied around, providing tables and chairs to set up at a social distance in the back yard and more food than even this army of family could eat.  The next door neighbor dropped by with a ham and all the fixings for sandwiches, another sent homemade potato soup, another homemade danish for breakfast.  The phone keep ringing and the knocks on the door continued as people who knew my father-in-law wanted to show they cared, share comfort food (we are southerners after all) and share kind words about him.

An avid fisherman, it was no surprise that the spray of flowers on the casket had a fish in them and there was a picture of a fisherman in a boat on the inside, with a single lure placed by his side.  Specific dominoes were chosen by family members to place in the casket, each having their own personal meaning, but reflecting his love for the game, as well as his competitiveness.  As much as he hated losing, I think he appreciated a smart opponent. The service was full of people, the message of salvation simple, the promise of everlasting life lifted in word and song, the final goodbyes emotional.

A funeral is an awful reason to have to gather together, but it was wonderful to see friends and family.  My brother and a friend took time from their busy lives and drove up to see me and pay respects.  We all had the opportunity to catch up with family and friends we hadn’t seen in years and it was wonderful watching my kids catching up with their cousins.  For a while I just watched my sons with great pride, so adult, so kind, loving and thoughtful.  You just can’t ask for anything better than that.

And then there was Charline.  Charline is 86 years old and I met her over the phone the night before the visitation because I had been asked to sing and she was going to play piano.  As she informed me, her legs didn’t work so well anymore, but her fingers were just fine.  She asked what I was thinking about singing, we talked and said we would meet an hour before the funeral.  The afternoon of the funeral, in she walked, using a cane that she referred to as her “third leg” and she set up all her music on the piano, putting it in order for the pre-service, service and post service.  She had her stuff together, let me tell you.  On top of that, she’s probably one of the finest accompanists I’ve every had, following me to a tee, even looking up to me to watch my phrasing, just as musical as she could be.  And yes, her fingers moved just fine, just like she said they would.  What an opportunity to meet someone like Charline.  Just the person I needed to help me concentrate on the music and not on who the music was for, for just a little bit.

The image of so many strangers pulling over for the procession stays with me today.  It is just one of many reminders that simple kindness, love and respect go a long way in this world.  At a time when the whole world seems to be going sideways, even through the sadness, we were witness to the heaven this world could be if we all could just focus on kindness and respect driven by love.

In June of 2017, a little blog was born.  The intention was to share with readers what happens in the daily life of a teacher, sharing interactions with students and others, hopefully letting other educators know that I understood what they were going through and perhaps enlightening those outside of education as to what was happening in the contemporary classroom.  Nearly three years and a half a million words later, the stories have expanded, perhaps become a bit more personal, but still revolves, for the most part, around educating the whole child, specifically as it pertains to music.

People have asked what inspired me to begin writing in the first place.  Truth be told, if I hadn’t become a music teacher, I had seriously considered becoming an English teacher as I have always loved things like grammar, spelling and yes, diagraming sentences.  The experience I had in high school band changed my direction to music, but I’ve always had this love for books and words.  Words are powerful and I have found that by sharing my thoughts through the written word, I have on occasion been able to touch people, encouraging and inspiring, making them laugh and cry.  Like music, writing is an art form which can touch the heart, bringing people together.

I was reading some stats about blogging the other day, and found that most bloggers are between the ages of 25-44.  So I’m a little late to the game and certainly in the minority for my age, which is kind of a shame.  I know so many people with great age and wisdom who have marvelous stories to tell.  The kinds of stories full of hope in difficult situations, the kind that could encourage our younger counterparts to not be afraid but be strong and look forward to what can and will be, especially in light of what we’re experiencing now.

I also found out that based on current stats, my blogs are too short.  Despite the fact that I’ve written nearly a half million words, each blog averages only 740.  The current average blog number is twice that.  Would someone actually sit and read 1400 words in a sitting, specifically reading something that I have written?  I guess we’ll have to wait and see, especially as I get used to the idea of writing more words at a time.  I can remember being asked to write 500 word essays in school and thinking that was SO LONG.  Now I can pretty well pop out 500 words without thinking and have it within a formula I learned long ago.  So I need a challenge, and I received that challenge a couple of weeks ago.

I began meeting with a friend who has specific expertise in studying peoples’ strengths and I’m so excited because I always love learning something new. During our first meeting, she issued a challenge.  I tend to write how to’s or things I want people to think about in my blogs, pretty clinical stuff, so my challenge is to begin using all of the senses in my writings.  I feel like I tend to live in my head most of the time and I just spew those thoughts out in these blogs, but I don’t always share how I feel, or how I live these experiences through all of my senses.  That to me would be too vulnerable, as I tend to laugh and cry as I write these anyway.  I don’t write something unless it touches me,  but I tend to leave out the raw edges that started the thoughts to begin with.  After all, who wants to hear all of the gory details?

For those of us who choose to write, we tend to forget that there are always others who identify with what we’re writing about.  Although we write alone, we’re NOT alone.  In my relatively short time of writing, according to WordPress, I have had a total of 12,311 views by by 8457 visitors from 41 countries on 6 continents.  That’s not including readers on social media.  It takes a huge global community and makes it so much smaller, where we find we have so much more in common than not. This isn’t about me, it’s about all of us.  What we say matters to someone and words are powerful.  You never know when your words might make a difference in someone elses life.

So, now to take the challenge and begin elevating my writing.  We’ll see where this goes as I begin my fourth summer of writing.  Perhaps this can be a challenge to my friends out there who have thought about writing to begin their journey as well.  It’s scary as I have no idea how readers will react, and I’m always concerned with how I’m perceived, afraid to lose friends, afraid to hurt feelings or make someone angry by expressing something I really believe in.  Can I write in such a way that it is thought provoking and makes a difference?  I don’t want to be here another 20 years, look back and say I wish I had made a difference.  Here’s to the next half million words and may that make that difference I’m hoping for.

Back when I was a pre-teen, there was this game that I always wanted but never had called “Mystery Date”.  In the commercial for this game, which you young people can find on YouTube, one of the lines asks, “will your date be a dream?  Or a dud?”  I found myself thinking about this as I was waiting to be paired with someone I had never met in a breakout room during a virtual workshop I attended yesterday.  So the question was, would this person be a dream or a dud?

As the screen opened,  there was this lovely woman, about my age with beautiful silver hair, sunshine dotting the room and her face.  Not knowing the proper etiquette of zooming with someone you had never met, I think it was a little awkward at first for both of us, so I introduced myself and proceeded to follow the directions we were given by our hosts.  During our conversation, I found out she was from Helena Montana but just as she told me her name, a glitch occurred and I didn’t catch it all, so henceforth, she was Karen from Helena.

We had a total time of a half hour together, and there was a part of me that wondered what we could get out of this in such a short amount of time?  What could I possibly learn by going through this little exercise and listening to this woman I had never met before for the next 15 minutes?  So I began taking notes of little things.  Her name, where she lived, what she had done for a living and what she was doing now.  And then she told me her story, her “flaming curve ball” as our hosts were calling these.  It was not  unusual, but a universal story of someone who had been degraded by another human being, seemingly out of the blue.  The curve ball that happens, just when you think you’re doing everything to the best of your ability and someone looks you in the eye and tells you that you’re not enough.  We had heard several of these stories already that afternoon, but what I wanted to hear was how she had dealt with this curve ball and how she was doing now.

As we hit the 5 minutes mark, she said two things that I couldn’t write down fast enough.

“I wasn’t ready for the end and not ready for a change”

“If you don’t find the reason to leave, someone else will”

In the workshop, we had already talked about the idea that we are where we’re supposed to be, but it begs the question, is there a time when we should should have left a situation or made a change but we didn’t? Is it necessary for life to throw us that flaming curve ball for us to take the next step we were meant to take?  Does it take something uncomfortable or a person to say or do something unkind to make us take the necessary steps to get where we are really meant to be?

It was an “ah ha” and yet not so “ah ha” moment for me as I’ve gotten older, in that I’ve experienced several of these.  Sometimes I entered a situation with a feeling that it wasn’t where I was meant to be and I did it anyway, only to find out my feeling was right.  Sometimes it was because I was afraid to leave where I was or saw no where to go from where I was.  Sometimes it was something completely out of my control and it was only later that I saw that the situation didn’t happen TO me but FOR me as our hosts were talking to us about.

So as Karen was sharing her story, which was sadly cut short by the timer, she told me how she began to recognize patterns of this kind of thing happening in her life, how she had allowed people to treat her in these ways and how when she looked back, that there were always signs that she had refused to see or accept.  Now she had made the change and things were improving and that’s the other thing – improvement may not happen right away – as with everything it’s a process and a process can be messy.

Now as I look back on the last several years, where I had made a career choice and the choice, while it allowed me to learn different things,  was merely a springboard for where I was to go next.  I was forcing the change and not waiting for the right opportunity perhaps, but as life would have it, it takes the choices you make and rearranges things so that the outcome was where you needed to be all along.  It’s not easy, sometimes not very pretty, but change requires transformation with it’s necessary awkward stages.  I have been in those situations where it took someone being unkind for me to take steps to do something else in my life, sometimes with family or habits and in my career.  Sometimes you are happy with where you are but it takes the curve ball to take you where your full potential lies, to see how strong you really are.  As I listened to another Karen share her story yesterday, I saw where this woman has a whole set of strengths that she might not have used had it not been for the flaming curve ball that is Covid 19.  And in her journey, she gave the rest of us a gift of perspective and a chance to experience empathy that perhaps we might not have had the opportunity to experience otherwise.  I for one am grateful.

So my mystery date was certainly a dream and not a dud.  Karen from Helena was a quiet gem of wisdom, sharing her story so that others could learn and grow in the own stories.  Perhaps that is our lesson here.  As we experience our own flaming curve balls in life, whether it’s connected to this pandemic or not, are we bravely sharing our stories, the messy process of change, the lessons learned and what this experience is doing FOR  us and not TO us?

My thanks to Karen from Helena.

 

For my friends who kindly read my blogs and deal with my more repetitive musings, I will start by apologizing.  It’s just that I’ve never done this before.  Ok, maybe not never, (which would be double negative), as I have left offices before, before I began teaching.  But that wasn’t a room, MY room.  My home away from home.  The room where I knew every nook and cranny, the room I decorated and rearranged for the best possible engagement until the next year when I decided on a better arrangement.  MY room.

I’ve been checking out social media and teacher sites and there’s this heaviness to leaving our rooms this year.  You see, there is a routine to school, for both teachers and students.  You begin the year with a clean, beautifully decorated room with fresh ideas and renewed energy and STUDENTS.  You end the year, exhausted, needing a break and taking down and cleaning the room you’ve lived in for nine months while saying goodbye to your KIDS.  A lot like birth, now that I think about it. And at the end of this year, there were no kids.

It would be a lot like leaving home to go to college and there is nobody to send you off to your great adventure, or you get married and leave the church and there is nobody throwing rice (or birdseed, or blowing bubbles – you get the idea).  You’ve gone through the motions, you’ve done your job remotely to the best of your ability and – nothing.  No face to face goodbyes, no thank you hug, no “I’ll see you next year!”, no “I’ll miss you” with and from your kids.  You go to your classroom, you take everything off of the walls, you put everything away, you throw things away, you clean off the counters and you take one last look as you leave your home.

You see, a classroom isn’t just a place where a teacher works or teaches.  Of course, it is a place for learning, perhaps more aptly stated, a place where students learn to love learning. A classroom is a place where you give hugs to a student who needs them, or give a tissue to a child who cries or where you laugh hysterically with your kids when one of them does something unexpected.  It’s a place for losing teeth and picking scabs and blowing noses, where kids have accidents on the floor and puke in your trashcan. Sorry – I taught elementary school.  It’s where you tie shoes and bows on dresses and put barrettes back in their hair and bandaids on the blisters made by their fancy school shoes.    It’s where kids share news about new siblings and pets, and sometimes things like their dad left them that morning, or that someone hits them.  It’s a microcosm of life itself and it all happens in MY room.

The first time I walked into this final room, it was still under construction and almost finished.  The last room in the building to be finished because it was a big space and workers could store final projects in there.  You could smell the sawdust and the fresh paint.  I opened every box for every new instrument that entered my room and made the first decisions to place those instruments in spots on the newly hung shelves.  The desk and file cabinets and bookcase were shiny and new and I was the first to put things in drawers.  This week, I cleaned and organized all of those drawers for the new person this fall.  After all, this was my home and I want them to feel welcome.

The room became the place where I ate my lunch in silence for just a few minutes, took my shoes off during a (short) break, it was a place to change before a concert or catch a 5 minute cat nap with my head on the desk before the craziness began again.  It’s a place where you make music with your students, where you bring others in who want to learn how to teach your students.  It’s a place where every emotion comes to life; laughter and tears, joy and sorrow, anger and frustration.  A place to brainstorm and give encouragement, a place to create and collaborate, all within the four walls of MY room.  In the past four years at my last school, in my last classroom, there have been many emotions, some good, some not so good, but even so, much like any family, you never want to leave without making sure you say goodbye and this year, of all years, there will be no goodbye.

For those of you, my teacher colleagues who will return to your rooms in the fall, there is the hope that wonderful memories will be made again in your rooms, with students scurrying like little mice to stations, playing on instruments, singing and dancing.  However for some of my friends, those who are retiring or leaving their classroom for a new school or assignment, this will always be the year of little or no closure and with that lack of closure, the heaviness I’ve mentioned.  I’ve seen some very powerful images this week of teachers preparing their classrooms for the summer and the sorrow is palpable. This is not what we signed up for. I understand that because as I cleaned and left my room this week, completely excited for a new adventure,  I felt that sorrow, the reluctancy to leave my space forever.  It’s silly, right? After all, it’s just a room.