Tag: blog challenge

fleeting

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“Sunday funday” only exists in mythical terms in my life. I see pictures on social media of other people indulging in nothing but joyful, relaxing end of the weekend activities, so I know this must be an actual thing that happens. Yet, my Sundays begin early with waking up before the rest of the household so that I can grade/plan/administrate stuff, and they end with literally four hours of meal prep for the week. This mostly self-induced conundrum emanates from a desire to over-prepare for a week that will be over-full. Inevitably, my weeks are all overwhelming these days, so Sunday has assumed the sacrificial role of weekday timesaver. I work all the hours on Sunday hoping that I will walk into my week feeling ready, confident and at peace. I honestly am not sure I could dive headlong into frivolity while harboring knowledge that I should be working in some way either for family or school anyway.  Yet, the truth I discover every Monday morning is that there is no amount of boxes I can check off on Sunday that will allow me to glide through the next day without encountering at least a bump in the road and sometimes a full on New Orleans style pot hole.

So why maintain the dedication to the chores if things will still go wrong? Why not just seek felicitous distraction and figure out the rest some other time? I ask myself this every week.

The truth is that I really like preparing in the quiet of the morning and cooking for all those hours because both give me some weird sense of motherly/wifely accomplishment. That time spent in the kitchen, for example, enables my family to eat real food all week long and for me to have healthy lunches and snacks as well. When left to weeknights alone, vegetables will not get roasted and pizza will likely be ordered. Our lives are too chaotic not to give in to the fatigue on a night where I have been at work for 12 hours and kids still have homework to complete. I’m not sure if my family appreciates my sequestration to the kitchen (I really thought I made that word up, by the way…turns out to be a real one!) on Sunday itself, but the rest of the week, I know they appreciate the meals. And so, I remain dedicated.

I figure that one of these days, these young men who currently take up so much of my time and rely on me for meals will not live at home anymore and I will not need to spend so much time on Sundays cooking. I figure that one of these days I will actually enjoy Sunday funday because my responsibilities will look a bit different, but I know it will be with a pang of how I used to fill that time. It will be with nostalgia for my young family feeling the growing pains of one busy kid on the cusp of teenagerdom ( I did make that one up) and another not far behind him in age, all the while I attempt to run a high school and my husband, his office.

It is hard to stop in a moment and be grateful for a stage of life that feels all at once like a blur and like trudging through wet sand…but today, as I watched my kids patiently entertain each other in the creation of an indoor golf course while I cooked, I could not help but hold the moments a little more dearly.

(Day Six!)

ominous beauty

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The lavender morning sky betrays the tenderness of the sunrise and the wind whispers of dangerous weather not so far off. Its beauty all at once admired and unsettling.

Thunderstorms and my inability to have any control over them have hastened my heart rate and knotted my stomach since I was a child. Certainly, anxiety over bad weather isn’t terribly uncommon-especially in kids-but growing up in Southeast Louisiana, where afternoon thundershowers populate summer days and hurricane season seems to be ever extending its stay, should have presented me with plenty of opportunities to face it and to manage a peaceful coexistence.

And yet, even though I can control and mask my anxious reaction to impending severe weather far better than I used to, the not knowing and the unpredictability still unsettles me.

My oldest son (who somehow inherited only my anxiety and is otherwise 100% a replica of his father) has yet to learn to mask his weather worry in any sort of meaningful way and so instead of waking him to appreciate the beauty of this early morning sky, he remains snuggled safely unaware in his bed in an effort to shrink the window of his worry.

Growing up, my dad always felt far differently about these events than I did. When a thunderstorm brewed and I wanted to hide my eyes from any evidence of it, he would lift every shade in the house, welcoming the brilliance of the illuminated sky. On summer vacations at the beach, he would wish for an evening thunderstorm to arrive and when that wish was granted would steady his camera on the tripod in an effort to capture the fleeting electrical display as it webbed through the dark expanse above the waves.

In the grand list of all the things I love about my dad, this is certainly one of them. However, in those moments years ago, his joy in the thing that terrified me, also perplexed and probably frustrated me, and I’m sure in an anxious moment (or many) I said some things about it that weren’t so friendly.

It’s confounding to me because I typically welcome the unknown as an opportunity to learn, to grow. I teach teenagers for goodness’ sake! There are no creatures in the world more unpredictable than they are and so many people misunderstand that and question my choice to spend my days with them–and yet my kids, my students, teach me something about myself and this world everyday. They push me to be a better human and I cannot imagine my life without those 143 young people.

But I guess when I think about my urge to run and hide from the force that is ominous weather as opposed to my dad’s desire to witness its power as beauty unbound, it feels sort of like the difference between hiding from acceptance of the truth of anything/anyone we don’t fully understand and opening ourselves to envision the potential beauty rather than the seeming disaster. Ironically, when it comes to my dad and I, I’m the optimistic one and he’s the cynical one.

Funny how those one word titles don’t encompass the whole. Bet that happens a lot in this life.

(Day five courtesy of my dog waking me up too early which allowed me to witness the early morning sky)

roots in the rocks

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Just before Christmas, I received a pretty unassuming gift from a student. It was a large glass vase, filled about halfway with rocks, and with bulbs nestled just on top of those rocks. My only guidance was this: keep the water level to the top of the rocks/base of the bulbs and something magical will happen. This gift and the feeling of curiosity it imbued reminded me of when I was a kid–I was always struck by the promise of those pill sized, gelatin coated sponges that when soaked in warm water for a period of time would reveal some mystery animal. I loved those things and the seeming impossibility that contained in such a small, compact package was a reality far cooler than its exterior and a truth that was also entirely unpredictable.

That same sense of wonder struck me with this vase of bulbs. What on earth would they grow to be?

For anyone who really knows me, the gift of a plant, while a lovely gesture, is not a kind one…to the plant, that is. They sort of wilt in my presence or at the thought that I might be their caregiver. I mean, human beings in need of love and attention are my specialty. Cultivating horticulture, though…well, apparently God felt it was better that I just appreciate the beauty of nature rather than prune it.

Needless to say, despite what seemed like easy directions to maintain these bulbs, I was relatively certain that I would fumble the whole process. It would be added to the litany of all the plants Amy has killed and become fuel for fun at my expense. Yet, I was determined not to lose sight of my responsibility or to spoil the surprise to come.

And then Christmas break arrived.

I was leaving work on Friday and my hands were full and I didn’t want to drop the vase…so I left it in my office with the intent of returning for it the next day. Well, the next day (the next several days) filled themselves with all the chaos of family and holiday cheer and I not only didn’t go back, but I forgot the bulbs even existed…until New Year’s Day when my failure as a caregiver dawned on me and the guilt settled in. I just knew I would walk into my office the next day to discover the carnage of dried out or rotten bulbs. Disappointment over missing the surprise of what they held inside weighed heavy. But as I approached my office the next morning, staring at me through the window was this gorgeous sight:

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Well, as I took in this wonder, I realized that those glorious green stalks standing tall with pride as they held up their prize–flowers impatiently waiting to burst through their leafy cocoons–were not in any way my accomplishment. They were in fact, simply a wonder and a truth of nature that didn’t require much from me and probably appreciated my absence as they did their thing!

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As these flowers broke through and illuminated my office with fragrance and beauty, I considered what other transformations I might be missing in this world because I am simply not paying attention. Because, while it was jaw-dropping to encounter these fully grown stalks, how much cooler would it have been to have been there the whole time? How much more meaningful would it have been to have witnessed with admiration the changes from the seemingly impossible beginnings? I think that, just as I did with these bulbs, we often overlook people and ideas in this fast paced world of immediate gratification. If something or someone isn’t immediately what we hope for them to be, we sort of walk away instead of investing ourselves…instead of nurturing what might be possible and lending support and guidance until the transformation takes place. There is goodness in all of us waiting to burst through the cocoon, you know, if only we pause in time to recognize it before we miss it completely.

Something else struck me in this week of watching the continuing transformation…

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The roots of these flowers didn’t dig into rich, humid soil; they existed amongst the rocks. Growing everyday and winding in and out of the spaces between to receive what they needed from the water. It seemed to me to be the best kind of perseverance…the kind it takes to transform ourselves, even when everyone else has walked away but we know there is something inside of us worth the effort. The perseverance to keep going and to keep trying when everything around us is difficult and a bit treacherous (so tempting here to say “rocky” but I fear this whole English teacher analogy has gone too far already to start inserting puns now…). The perseverance it takes to grow and to let brilliance burst forth commanding attention and proving to the world that they should never have walked away in the first place. That they should have been standing at attention because you never quit…because you knew your worth within even when they were blinded.

There is joy in the victory of that perseverance. And not just for the victor, but for all who extended support along the way. For all who paused and recognized value beyond the obvious.

I tell my students on the daily that we will always make time for what we feel is important. There is no harm in adjusting that compass of importance to point towards people and things that might require a bit more attention, a bit more investment. The goodness to come will be worth the effort.

 

(Day 4…done early on a Friday!)

silence

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“We do not hear silence; rather, it is that by which we hear”

–excerpted from Richard Rohr’s Daily Meditation, 1/8/20

The noise of this world–in its swirling constancy–exhausts me. Even before my ear decided to delve into the creativity of generating its own cacophonous mix tape, I required regular retreat into silence. It’s not that I don’t enjoy communication: talking, texting, social media-ing. And my need for silence is not a denial of my love for music and podcasts and TV and film. Nor does it refute that the sounds of the voices of the people that I care about possess the potential to strike a chord of joy in heart.

But the noise that surrounds us isn’t always so pleasant just as the world isn’t always so easy.

And there just comes a point when I lose myself in the density of the fog, in the low hanging sound cloud.

What I have come to learn of myself is that in order for me to feel at peace or able to act productively, I need space from the demand placed by others to listen, to respond, to engage. I need restorative time to slow my breath and only be required to exist in stillness. I need to withdraw a bit. I need to recognize that there is an introvert’s shadow cast by my extrovert’s demeanor and ignoring it doesn’t make it disappear. Ignoring it just means I am not honoring my whole self.

I think my need for “the bliss of solitude” can deceptively appear selfish and dismissive of others. But taking time away for self-care, in being still and silent, I am able to nurture myself and then able to clarify my understanding of and my attitude toward the events of the day–events both personal and of the world. I am able to strip away the excess of noise and to center myself which is the only way I am ever able to see or hear the truth of the people and situations around me. And if I am doing anything in this world, I want to be able to truly see others for their reality rather than through my assumptions.

In “Today”, Mary Oliver wrote, “Stillness. One of the doors/into the temple.” and I get that in such a real way. Being still in the silence leads to the sacred, frees the spirit, opens the mind, ignites the heart.

If only we invite it into our space, play by its rules and pause.

(Day Three of the 2020 King Cake Blogging Challenge–king cake is showing up in more places–the struggle is for real, y’all!)

 

 

 

Threshold

Amy Clark2 Comments

When I was in 7th grade, my family moved into a house that possessed a singular identifiable feature. This little house stood in a row of other little houses that looked blandly alike. Yet this gem announced its presence just a bit differently than the others and gained small scale recognition and notoriety simply because it wore its difference proudly.

A door. A commonplace item. An entry point. A way in…should it be opened to you.

In the days before Siri would announce that a destination had been reached, everyone who came to visit us knew to look for this unique detail. At the front of the house, tucked at the end of a small front porch, stood a large red door…with a silver doorknob decorating the center of it. It was one thing to live in a house with a giant, solid red door…but the doorknob in the middle added another level of oddity to it that my 12 year old self wasn’t so certain of. In order to open the door from the inside required a certain secret knowledge and deft ability to turn the knob and pull sturdily on the handle simultaneously.

A door. A commonplace item. An entry point. A way in…should it be opened to you.

I am pretty sure I was embarrassed by this door for more than a little while. Pretty sure that I wished we had a door like everyone else…and that our house didn’t stand out in this way. I didn’t need it to be pretty or fancy–just “normal”. But at some point along the way, all of this angsty humiliation shifted and I came to treasure its presence. Came to love that thing that allowed our house to stand out a bit from the rest. Came to own the uniqueness as a gift rather than an embarrassment. Came to identify that door with what it opened into–a house full of warmth, family, joy and love.

A door. A commonplace item. An entry point. A way in…should it be opened to you.

Writing this blog during this 59 day challenge required more stamina than I realized it would and also required me to open myself a bit more than initially felt comfortable. I am very much at ease being vulnerable, admitting fault, telling stories…and, yet, somehow having to tell them more quickly than I wanted because I had to meet the deadline of the daily post made me question the decision and waver on whether to continue. I preferred to refine my writing and to take time to have it reflect the truth of what I am capable of crafting. But at some point, I had to release that ambition and frustration and accept that the importance of the task resided in the act of writing each day…in the sharing of it with an unknown audience regardless of how I felt about it…in the building of my confidence…in the ownership of a writer’s identity…in the recognition that sharing this gift is not a reflection of ego but a desire of the soul. The importance resided in opening the door that so clearly identifies as my passion without fear of what is on the other side…resided in the ritual of walking through it daily and coming to treasure it as a homecoming.

A door. A commonplace item. An entry point. A way in…should you accept the invitation 

“Doors” by Carl Sandburg

(Day 59–Mardi Gras Day–King Cake day!!!–The blog will continue of course…just maybe once a week:) If you’ve kept up with me, you have no idea of my gratitude!! If you’ve stopped to say something encouraging along the way, words can’t express how that helped me to continue writing. I sort of can’t believe I’ve finally written the last one!)

 

magical

Amy Clark1 Comment

It’s Mardi Gras weekend and the city is alive and humming with visitors who might walk away understanding what Mardi Gras really is or who might walk away with nothing more than a headache, some plastic beads, five extra pounds and a few fun memories. Mardi Gras, for those who live in New Orleans and the surrounds suburbs and cities, presents a much richer heritage and tradition than simply consuming large quantities of alcohol. The intoxication from this season is far more varied than if it solely emanated from the obvious source. And I would venture to say that the people of this city could attest to the veracity of this with reflections upon traditions of family and friends, the attachment to community and place that this season forges, the food…so much food…, the stories of Mardi Gras past, the music, and more. Sure revelry plays a role, I’m not sanctifying the holiday or anything. It’s just that, as with anything, Mardi Gras is more than its label–it’s layered, textured, vibrant.

My family’s Mardi Gras traditions when I was growing up fostered some of my favorite childhood memories. Beyond the stress of where to park and where to find a bathroom when you needed one, there was family, there was joy, there was delight, there was Andy Gibb, whose face was emblazoned on a pink t-shirt I wore religiously as a little kid, riding on a float right in front of me. There was the Monday night parade, Hercules, that passed by my grandmother’s house where my family gathered pre-parade–cousins, siblings, aunts, uncles…all of us–to eat Mimi’s meatballs and spaghetti and garlic bread that was so toasty I would accidentally inhale the powdery crumbs and choke a bit before going back for more. Homework would get finished at the table before we could go out to the parade and inevitably, Vanna White was turning letters on the television. There were the death defying moments of riding on my dad’s shoulder’s to garner more throws only to have him swoop down to pick up a doubloon (his favorite-a prized commodity)–he knew I wasn’t going to fall…I, on the other hand, remained less than confident. There were the costumes and the face paint that decorated us on Mardi Gras day. We masked as a family and my mom made our costumes every year (face paint was all my dad though). One year, we went as the band KISS (I was maybe 3 or 4?)…another year as characters from Strawberry Shortcake…each year presented a new opportunity to get dressed up for a day and go have fun-together, as a family. There were parades where we were so cold it didn’t feel worth it, only to be greeted by hot food when we got home. There is all of the junk we carted home that felt necessary, vital even, in the moment and suddenly worthless when exposed by the harsh fluorescent light of the living room. There is a lifetime of memories that sing a harmony far sweeter than if this were really just a holiday about drunken debauchery.

Tomorrow, we will take our kids to one of the famous super-krewes, Endymion. We will pack sandwiches and snacks, and we will wait on the parade route for hours (though some have been there for days). We will probably throw the football and hopefully be able to walk to where they line up the Clydesdales. We will listen to our kids whine “how much longer till the parade gets here???” because this is what you do! And we will sit back in delight and watch the eyes of our children light up as they are dazzled by the magic that is Mardi Gras.

Because, when we allow it, magic is exactly what Mardi Gras creates.

(Day 55–four blogs away from king cake!)

wisdom of yesterday

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So, should you ever decide to venture into the realm of setting goals that can only be achieved through discipline (and I would say that is most goals), I strongly recommend prioritizing them and working toward them one at a time. Okay, so maybe this isn’t true in all cases. Maybe I’m just speaking about the predicament I have created for myself in both dedicating myself to a blog a day and to a healthier lifestyle. Those two objectives really should not complicate each other…except they do. Here’s why: In order to live this healthier lifestyle, exercising on a nearly daily basis is required. My work/family schedule mandates that take place in the darkness of early morning (before I work an often 12 hour school day). Conversely, in order to write daily, I have to wait until the day is essentially done…dinner has been cooked and the kids are in bed. This schedule means that I wake up at 4:30am and don’t get to write until somewhere around 9pm…when I am thoroughly exhausted and ready to just fall asleep on my couch while pretending to watch television!

The only thing making success possible isn’t the king cake prize at the end (shocking, I know). Rather, it is merely the determination to succeed. This is something I couldn’t have mustered even in small form last year at this time. I was so sick and spinning nearly everyday and was too weak to foster any sort of regular discipline. Writing was misery in those days because nothing stood still and because my brain was so focused on seeing straight that words were not so easy to recall and certainly didn’t flow into orderly sentences crafted with style and voice…so instead of persevering, I avoided. It seemed easier that way. To make all of this even worse, I also made a pretty conscious decision that since my body was being so antithetical, I would be disagreeable right back and proceeded to eat anything and everything that I wanted. I ate all the gluten, consumed all the sugar, sipped all the carbonated beverages. Did any of this make me feel better? Probably only in the moment where I fibbed myself into believing that I deserved the deceptively delicious nutritionally void delicacy. Beyond that, sugar and gluten simply are not my friends, but after learning to abide by the discomfort my inner ear brought, this food induced malaise paled.

This indulgence into the world of avoidance and emotional eating not only destroyed my once healthy habits, but also built new terrible ones. Which is partly why this challenge has been so important and partly why I’ve maintained it even when it would be so much more comfortable to quit and to attain a reasonable amount of sleep. Knowledge of what I was incapable of last year at this time…knowledge of how far I still had to go…knowledge that it could all come back in any given moment…brings a gratitude that drives me forward. I maintain my discipline because I can…because it is a gift…because no day should be taken for granted and what I actually deserve is to honor the parts of myself that need exercise–both my brain and my body. It would be selfish to do anything else and foolish to waste what I can do today.

Yesterday brings a clarity worth honoring.

(A poetic gift in honor of hard work… “To Be of Use” by Marge Piercy Here she writes these lines and more…

“The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.” )

 

(Day 48! Written after family movie night and still relatively coherent…writing everyday has made that possible…the discipline is worth the discomfort)

100 word challenge part two

Amy Clark1 Comment

Meet Gingersnap. Nine pounds of Terrier mischief & charm housing nothing but disdain for this blog challenge. Where she once spent her evenings lulled to sleep by scratches behind her ears, a computer has taken up residence. The hands that once offered her comfort, now frenetically strike keys instead. You would think that after 40 days, she would’ve given up…that she wouldn’t still be battering my arms, begging insistently for a redirection of my attention. You would think. Except, I think she is only more fervent now than she was in the beginning. A perfect example of a hope that perseveres.

(Day 40!! If only this were Lent, my challenge would be over!! Still many more blogs to write…hoping next week brings me more time and focus. This week has been tough!)