On My Grandma Prince, Part One: Breaking Snowglobes

My Grandma Prince was one of those people for whom these little things meant something larger.

Walks. Anywhere.

Pictures of babies, cut out of magazines.

Seashells on a beach.

Tiny teacups and trinkets.

Song lyrics taped onto cupboard doors.

Dandelions in mini vases on the window sill.

Seemingly insignificant, unimportant, or overlooked by most people, these things were daily bits of happy for her.

Now that I'm older, I realize how much joy she was able to find in her simple, daily life. Her constant collection of the little things kept her present.

Much of my life has been lived to check off boxes. At some point, I decided that a well-adjusted, successful person must do the following things:

 1). Graduate college/Choose a career
 2). Get married
 3). Buy a house
 4). Travel to Europe
 5). Upgrade to a bigger house in anticipation for the children that will inevitably follow
 6). Have children
 7). Watch the children grow up
 8). Retire
 9). Downgrade to a smaller house, near the water
10). Live out the golden years and play with grandbabies

I made it through number 5.

But it was a snow-globe sort of life.

Pretty, sparkly on the outside.

No life inside.

I wasn't happy, yet with the above enumerated standard applied, I should have been.

So here is where I say that a "thank you" and "I'm sorry" to my Grandma:

Thank you, Grandma Prince, for your beautiful example of how life should be lived.

I'm sorry that it took me so many years to apply it to my own life.

{chalk advert in front of Cumberland Brewerly}

I am going to slow down.

                                                           {I haven't tried one. Yet.}

Be present.

 {a door to nowhere between Ramsis' and Carmichael's Book Store} 

Take notice.

{The yellow sign juxtaposed against the gray wall} 

And remember that what's valuable in life cannot be discovered on a checklist.

On Bravery: Guest Post by Paul Kingston

Happy Friday! I am so excited to share this post by my friend and colleague, Paul Kingston. His personal story of bravery is inspiring, and as a bonus, his writing is ridiculously publishable, should-be-making-millions FANTASTIC (puts this sista to SHAME). Enjoy!

*****



I’ve always been a bit of a daredevil.  My idea of fun as a 5-year-old, I’m told, was to find the biggest cliff or drop-off around, perch on its edge, and look naughtily back to my Mom – who was wondering where little Paul wandered off to.  (Incidentally, my Mom took a first-aid class because of me).

More painful to my Mom was my tendency to drag my sisters into the adventure.  One summer at Acadia National Park in Maine, my family was visiting the famed “Thunder Hole”, where the tide comes crashing in like the apocalypse.  I decided to lead my sisters away from the railed-in viewing area and climb atop the slippery rock-face above the thundering water.  This will give you a picture of my madness.

{Thunder Hole, Acadia National Park}

I encouraged my sisters to shimmy on our stomachs to the edge and lean over.  Any slip and we were gone.  The vacationers below were freaking out, and the rising panic underneath me spurred our reluctant retreat.  But let me tell you – the whoopee pies sure did taste sweeter that afternoon.

Now, I have moments of recklessness like this – an attempted Lynnhaven Inlet swim crossing last year came very close to making the top story on the local news – but these are the excesses of a spirit that seeks adventure and purpose.  In 2007, when I was 100 yards out in the ocean, underwater, holding a little girl’s head up so she could get a few breaths as we both got pushed further away from the shore by a riptide, I was scared – but I knew that I had to be there.  When the moment calls, you answer.

Some of my best decisions in life have been spur-of-the-moment, “feeling” calls.  This is ironic because in almost all things I am scrupulously deliberate.

After living in the Boston area my whole life, while working in the computer lab at my grad school I saw a job fair posting for Norfolk, VA.  I had never been there, but something made me book a flight that day.  I flew down alone, stayed in a hotel room, and eventually accepted a job without knowing a single person in the area. 

That summer, I had made a pact with my best friend from Massachusetts: he would come to VA with me, and at least stay a year to see how he liked it.  Unfortunately, he was gone by November, felled by homesickness.  All alone again, I leaned on my new friends in Norfolk – and they were lifesavers.

Most adventures and brave decisions feature a tough moment of loneliness.  At the Oceanfront, it was the moment when I couldn’t hear the people on shore anymore – just the relentless surf pushing me away.  On the November day my friend moved back, it was the stifling silence in the apartment after he drove away. 

Yet I’ve experienced incredible support and love during these adventures.  People reach out to help when someone is striving or struggling.  In the ocean, the little rescue party became a flotilla of surfers and swimmers kicking hard against the tide to save the girl’s life.  Suddenly solo in Norfolk, I gained the friendship of several amazing colleagues who beamed light against the encroaching darkness of my habitual brooding.

Brave decisions initially expose us.  They thrust us out of sheltered areas and into the storm.  I could say I learned things about myself from these experiences, but the truth is I learned more about other people: how wonderful, protective, loving, and daring others will become when they witness someone put it on the line. 

God bless all my Virginia friends; I love you.

{Paul Kingston (right), at Fenway Park}





On My Sister, Part Two: The Mirror in Which Two Are Seen as One

My sister came home from work one day this week to find me on her couch, smack in the middle of a cry. The heaving, guttural, Oprah-ugly kind of cry.

"Kelly? Why are you crying?"

Her voice is affected, ribboned with concern. 

"It's the change. All the change. I can't do it. I can't do it. I just can't do it."
(One of my idiosyncrasies is that when I am experiencing any sort of heightened emotion I repeat key phrases three times.)

Earlier that day, I officially accepted a job offer. It's an instructional leadership position for which I applied months ago. A job I had no expectation of actually getting. 

And when I was offered the job (after applying two years in a row), I was of course, surprised.  But I wasn't sure I wanted it anymore. Not right now. Not with all of my worldly possessions in a 10X10 storage unit. Not while I am spending the summer in Louisville. Not with the upheaval that is my private life.

Because I love teaching. And for ten years, I've been at the same school, and for seven years been in the same classroom, room 206.

All of my adult working life, from 22 to 32 - those formative years that took me from girl to woman, have been spent in that school. 

It's the place I grew up. (Making a hell of a lot of mistakes along the way.)

It's the place where I met my best friends and cultivated my deepest friendships: Sara, Jessica, Regina, and Lori. Teachers and kindred spirits.

It's the place where, strangely, I feel in control and most like my real, true self.
It's the place where, despite whatever is happening in my personal life, I find meaning and purpose.

So the idea of change, even if it's a "good on paper" opportunity, makes me break down. 

For all of the bravery I'm trying to muster this summer, I'm terrified. 

To fail, maybe even to succeed.

But mostly to lose what's been the absolute constant in my life.

I only know teaching. I don't know anything else.

My relationships with my students are better than most relationships I have with adults, quite frankly. And that's not necessarily a good thing. But it's true. Because I've spent more time on teaching than on any other area in my life.

Despite all that, I said yes to the job because there's something deep within that compels me to take it. Even though I'm scared shitless. Even though I might be a whopping failure and disappoint the principal of the school who pursued and hired me despite the fact that I'm probably not even qualified for the position.

Because I realize I can't keep making choices that make me feel safe. Not if I really want to grow as a human.

So that's why I am crying. Because I feel like I'm on a precipice.

I tearfully try explain most of this to my sister, but she already knows.

So this is what she does: she get me off the couch, puffy-faced and still whimpering, to go buy a bottle of wine.

And on the way out to the car, this is what she says:
"I'm your constant, Kelly. Don't cry. It will be okay, and if it doesn't work out and you hate it, you can move here, and I will support you and you will be *Larry's house-mom and we can live together for forever."

I nod. Sniff. A baby cry.

I feel immediately better.

{My sister, card shark, on a rainy vacation day in the Outer Banks}

When my sister first went away to college, I wrote out a couple of stanzas from Adrienne Rich's poem, "The Mirror in Which Two Are Seen As One" and gave it to her. She still has it, ten or eleven years later, leaned against the back of one of her book shelves.

She is the one you call sister
you blaze like lightning about the room
flicker around her like fire
dazzle yourself in her wide eyes
listing her unfelt needs
thrusting the tenets of your life
into her hands

She moves through a world of India print
her body dappled
with softness, the paisley swells at her hip
walking the street in her cotton shift
buying fresh figs because you love them
photographing the ghetto because you took her there

Why are you crying dry up your tears

we are sisters
words fail you in the stare of her hunger
you hand her another book
scored by your pencil
you hand her a record
of two flutes in India reciting

{And us, at Molly Malone's Quiz Night earlier this week}

Katie, the one who I call sister.

The one who overlooks the fact that I'm a fledgling and a coward, swaddles me with love and acceptance, buys me a bottle of wine, rents us a Harry Potter movie, and makes the whole world seem a bit less daunting.

Sisters - "the mirror in which two are seen as one."

(Note to readers who may be unfamiliar: Larry is my sister's attention-whore of a cockapoo, named after the University of Louisville basketball player, Larry O'Bannon.)

On Being a Classroom Teacher, Part One: My Crayon Skies

I bought another piece of art from my new friend, Daniel, a recovering alcoholic about whom I wrote in a previous post.

.

{Crayon Skies}

A fist full of Crayolas pressed hard.

A waxy cacophony of swirls and zigzags. 

With colors that stick but don't blend. 

Filling space until it transforms.

Daniel's expression of recovery got me thinking about my own "crayon sky" - the beautiful dissonance that has been my teaching career over the last ten years. 

Teaching has been, and probably always will be, my one great love.

This is what I know for sure: Over the last ten years, I benefited much, much more from knowing my students than they benefited from knowing me.

Even though I got damn good at creating engaging activities. Even though I implemented BEST practices and utilized backward design.

When I first started teaching, I thought (like every naive new teacher) that I would be the one to affect change - that I would inspire, move, alter and ultimately impress my students with wit and intellect.

My early lessons were poorly received and returned with hearty "fuck you."

Sometimes, they'd even say that. Especially at the beginning. And I deserved it.

What I slowly learned with each class I had was that it wasn't/isn't/shouldn't be about me.

Not life.

Nor teaching.

So this is what happened: I began to let my students in.

Their brokenness.

Their damaged hearts.

Their chaotic, discordant lives.

Their sense of humor.

Their candor.

And for the last ten years, their color, brilliantly inconsistent and beautifully variant, has filled my own empty spaces.

Transforming me.

{My Favorite Class Ever: Second Block Honors 9, 2008}

My crayon skies.

On Typos, Part Two: An Explanation

I was told by someone (whose opinion I respect highly) that my first post regarding my experience with religion was merely a "telegraphing" on the subject - that I essentially failed to provide anything substantive in terms of what really happened.

I agree.

I have no defense. Just a weak explanation for my cowardice.


Unfortunately, the events of the past have not been properly sorted or compartmentalized in a way that separates the experience from the destruction caused.

You see, it isn't in the past. It's part of my emotional and spiritual atmosphere.

Its omnipresence lingers with a "yellow smell."


So this is the best I can do right now.

Because I'm not healed enough or brave enough.

So my writing about it will be like lifting a layer of film.

Tipping it toward the light.  

Which, admittedly,  might be artificial. Or tainted.  Or dull.

Then examining it through whatever fractured understanding I might have culled over the years.

It's a telegraphing, sure.

But it's a damn start.

Louisville Love: My Week in Pictures

This week has seen a bit of a change as my sister has been working second shift in the chemical lab. Though the schedule has proved frustrating for her,  we've been able to spend the mornings together.

{Morning Coffee at Quills}

My nights this week have been refreshingly low-key (drinking wine and watching the Olympics), but here are some highlights from last weekend.

 

In the category of "Impossibly Ridiculous Slash Awesome":

 

{Saturday night at Drake's}

 

 

{"Whiskey by the Drink" at the Silver Dollar}

 

 

Here's to another good weekend!

 

 

Celebrating Bravery: Guest Blogger, Sarah Carter

Happy Friday!

Today's guest post about bravery is from one of the most quirky, creative, whip-smart, kick-ass ladies I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. She's a dear friend and a former colleague, and her act of bravery - moving to Nashville, TN to play music - is quite inspiring. Enjoy!

******

I'm pretty sure I have more than one cavity.  I haven't had my teeth cleaned in two years, nor been to the doctor, and I've been paying a ridiculous amount for my monthly allergy medicine due to my crappy insurance. 

These are the jobs I've had in the past two years: barista, nanny, warehouse worker, book lister, long-term substitute, short-term substitute, teaching fellow, farm worker, children's farm curriculum coordinator, and finally legitimate, private school teacher.  

Why am I starting out this essay about bravery with these unsavory details?  Because even in spite of this craziness, it has been totally worth it to make the very small geographical change that I did, if for no reason except that I might never wake up at 40 thinking I never really gave things a shot.

My name is Sarah Carter, and Kelly and I taught together for 3 years.  Without her encouragement I probably wouldn't still be a teacher, or have moved to Nashville, or tried to go for whatever it is I'm going for (which seems to change daily).  Knowing this, the move didn't really seem like bravery, but more like divine intervention or a last resort. 

After 3 years teaching in Norfolk, I was trying to figure out why I was unhappy, blaming it on my unfulfilled desire to study writing.  After one frank conversation with Kelly, she helped me put my whole life in perspective:

"Do you really want to do that?" she asked.

"You don't wanna do that.  Go to Nashville and be a waitress and play music." 

So that's what I did.  

 

 {Sarah Carter}

I didn't really come to Nashville thinking I would "make it," but wanting to play more music.  The way this happened was I got so tweaked out about how incredible all the musicians I know here are, so I quit playing shows for a bit.  The only thing I played was gospel music at a nursing home. 

Cowardice?  Maybe.  But it did help me answer why I love to play music (again).

Singing music makes people strong.  Hearing music soothes people's nerves.  This helped give nursing home residents and me a purpose. 

I also got weekly hugs, and learned that if someone is wheeling in to pinch you in a blaze of dementia, you can slide out your foot or instrument case out to stop their wheel before they can reach you.

In the beginning, I  wasn’t sure if I would want to be a full-time musician if I could, but now I know that.  I don't love sleeping on the questionably clean floors of strangers and waiting for an a ailing van to break down in the middle-of-nowhere Wisconsin like a lot of traveling musicians.

I also know that some music is for small-scale community building, and that I don't need to feel guilty if what I want to play falls into that category.

Trying something new and brave to you doesn't necessarily mean you'll be able to maintain your goal weight. 

Sometimes you need to drink Coors Lite tallboys while you're waiting around for your epiphany. 

Sometimes trying something new means you need to realize that there's a whole section of the population who don't adhere to your general persuasion about the way humans should smell. 

Sometimes trying something new means you need to get your ass up and iron your shirt for an interview, or just get your ass up and pray and believe that change is possible despite your desperate (for the western world) situation.   

 In conclusion, do it.  Do what you're wanting to do or waiting for the right time to do.  Don't feel bad for being cautious or informed about your big deal, but be prepared. 

You can live without a lot of the stuff that you think you can't. 

Dried beans are $1.50 and if you add in a can of diced chiles, and one or two sweet potatoes, you have burrito stuffing for half a week. 

 In The Artist's Way Julia Cameron talks a lot about the idea of how by stepping out in an act of creative faith, many times God will meet you half way as you'll realize everything you need is all around you, just not looking the way you expected or answering to the name you call it.